Part One- The Fabricated Beginning
Chapter One- Numb
It's a Sunday night, cold, rainy, dismal. Our living room is dark, a heavy air hanging in chilling tension. Usually I come home to find it empty. Usually the house is so quiet a feather hitting the floor could be heard. Usually all that haunts me are the mirrors.
Tonight, however, I stumble in from the rain to find the radio blaring and my mother pacing back and forth. She looks ready to collapse, frazzled, out of bed for the first time in weeks. No, months, but who's counting?
I’m too tired to be shocked.
I stand awkwardly, wet and matted and shivering, as she stops to look at me. It's one of those looks that make my blood run cold. I bit my lip, will myself to shrink out of sight, out of mind.
I know what she's thinking, what she mulls over in her mind day after day after day. Icy blue eyes find their mark, never lie.
Why couldn't it have been you?
Sometimes I wonder the same thing.
Her stare continues to linger on me, cold and hard. I crumble under it, retreat into detached safety, focus on the floor.
She's wearing pink fuzzy slippers.
I conjure a hysterical laugh, fall onto the couch, hold my stomach. My mother narrows her eyes accusingly.
"Are you stoned?"
I laugh again and, ignoring the question, stare at her amused. "So has the mourning period ceased? You've decided to join the living? Tell me, did your precious Lauren cry when you left her rotting side?"
The sting from her cold hand is harsh, bitter.
She shrieks, "You little fucking bitch!" She yanks me up from my pathetic slump, sends shooting pain through my arm. My face melds easily to the practiced grin of deception, commencing my routine.
I smile.
I laugh.
I say, "Dad wants me to move back to
We both know I have no father.
I watch my mothers face intently, her grip on me still strong. All traces of anger have vanished, though, the wild rage transformed into wrinkles of exhaustion, of desperate sorrow. Her blue eyes blur, water, make my insides melt.
Bewildered grief, disappointment, hopelessness.
I wish I could tell her how sorry I am that I put those there. I wish I could tell her I forgive her for never having been there for me. I wish I could tell her it's not her fault that she loathes me. I wish I could in turn hate her for wanting me dead.
I can only love her more.
"Mama," I tell her, swiping her tears away, "Mama he's coming in two minutes, and I’m going with him." I whisper, again, to myself, "I'm going with him."
She slaps me again, crying harder. "Get a fucking grip of yourself Juliana. Why are you doing this? Stop lying. Stop acting so insane!"
My eyes widen at the contradiction. She doesn't understand, never will. The lies are what keep me sane.
"Mama, I'm not lying. Dad says I can help him on the site, learn archeology."
I fall back slightly when she lets go of me, covers her ears, shaking her head, shrieks at me, "Stop Juliana, stop it!"
She sits, crying, an endless flow of tears cascading down her cheeks. I go and get my duffel bag, stuff it with belongings and a few minutes later return to her side.
"Mama," I cup her face in my hands, "Don't cry. It's okay. It's okay that you wish it had been me, I understand."
I drop my hands. Her eyes bulge unnaturally, her mouth opens and closes, speechless. I smile reassuringly, sling my bag over my shoulder, and turn to leave, without a second thought.
When I step onto the street it's away from warm shelter and into the freezing rain, pelting fiercely on my face. The sting that should be present on my skin isn't, the ache in my legs, too, nonexistent.
I walk numbly down the street.
People stop me, frown, ask if I'm lost.
Lost? Lost, I wonder, who isn't?
I look at them oddly, sniff, say, "No more than you," Continue on.
Blocks upon blocks later I'm sitting on the curb, legs tucked underneath me.
It's at times like there where you're neither physically or mentally present. And rightly so. Inside and out, don't register. Do, and the shell you've transformed into would be crushed. Don't think, don't remember, don't know.
Sit, watch, detach blissfully.
Hurried feet land hard in dirty puddles, already gone, abandoning their inevitable splash. Street lights flicker, spitting out oscillating shadows. People cry, yell, fall. Cars honk, screech, crash.
Sit, blink, marvel as your skin soaks in the polluted water.
It's all just another movie.
Ignore the voices echoing in your head, listen blankly to the ones swirling around, lost, outside.
"Miss...Miss, are you alright?"
Snap the fuck out of it.
"Huh?" I blink. Blink away the blur before me, blink to my awakening.
A tall man crouches before me, repeats, "Are you alright?" He touches my hand, jerks back, whispers, "Fuck."
I smile, "I'm fine."
He frowns, "You are shaking."
I blink and don't answer. I try to stuff my trembling hands between my legs but it's too hard. I can't feel them, can't move them. I wonder how long I've been sitting in the wet cold.
I realize I don't really care.
He stares, "Come on."
Warm arms wrap around me, effortlessly hull me upwards. A bad idea because my legs sink, dead weight. I slump weakly against him, grin apologetically. It doesn't seem to faze him. He just easily supports me, peals off his jacket and wraps it around me tight.
"Where are you taking me?" He could say jail and I wouldn't care.
"To my flat."
So a block later I find myself in dry clothes, sitting on a huge couch, sipping hot chocolate. I don't have the care to shift uncomfortably, as I normally would, under the brown eyes peering at me in reserved curiosity.
"I take it you've no place to stay."
I open my mouth to respond quickly, to lie, to tell him that I've only just moved to town, but something stops me. Something in those eyes. I feel guilty for even considering anything but the truth.
"I did but I left," I tell him vaguely. He nods, seems to understand and questions me no more.
Silence falls.
I try not to stare at him, try to look away and observe the grandeur of the apartment around me. It doesn't work, foreign warmth conquering. The soulful eyes draw me back in, smiling at me sadly, before shifting away.
He gets up, disappearing down the hall, and returns seconds later with an armful of blankets and a pillow, motioning for me to get up.
I don't move, blink up at him, waves of confusion bouncing off the white walls around me.
He smiles softly, motions again, jokes, "You want me to make the couch while you're in it?"
I stare at him blankly, stand without thinking, comment foolishly, "You...want me to stay here?"
"Well, unless you want to go back out in the rain." He starts placing sheets and blankets on the couch. I watch, swooping back into reality.
"You don't even know me! I...I could be some psycho killer!" An eyebrow lifts, amused.
"So? I could be too." He turns to me, eyes soft and serious. "My name's
I take his hand, whisper, "Juliana."
"Okay then, now we know each other." He pauses for a moment, regarding me with an unreadable expression before smiling slightly. "Goodnight Juliana." And he strides off, down the hall, leaving me in bafflement.
The lights flicker out, the black curtain of night falling heavily around me, interrupted only by the metallic glow of his stereo system.
Immediately, the silence shouts out angrily, infiltrating my mind. Lies and laughter dissipate, emptiness filled by tears, sleep evading me until my eyes are too swollen to stay open.
