The Stretch of Seconds

The Stretch of Seconds

It was one of those nights; one of those gloomy, dark nights when time seems to stand still, when your breathing clouds your vision and echoes in the trees’ whispers. A refrain. A song you once knew belts in the distance. You imagine the fireplace crackling, dancing in the kitchen, laughing at pointless jokes. It was simple. Life was simple. You lived it fast, trying to enjoy every moment God had given to you on this Earth. You didn’t believe in God, but you pretended you did. You felt like you should. You weren’t forced into that belief, but you wanted peace and apparently that was where you were supposed to find it: in the reams of stories about prophets, in the tinted sunlight of the cathedral. You prayed. For what, you did not know, but the feeling of your knees on cold stone brought you comfort as verses parted your lips. You were young. You sinned, both worlds were open to you and you treaded one foot in each. Naivety. “You are naïve”. Why is the word so heavy? So judgemental and full of lost meaning? Isn’t it fun to be young and make mistakes you will later cry about, promise not to repeat, but as soon as the pain subsides, redo all over again? Naivety is love. A promise; a promise that you are meant to break. You contortion yourself into positions you would rather not be in to please, to serve a purpose. You love, to be loved. Give what you want to receive. The older you get, the more the word becomes synonymous with pain. “Pleasure is pain”, they say. But the truth is, that in pain there is pleasure. You like pain. You like being hurt, because for an instant it lets you forget all the harm you have brought onto others and wallow in self-pity. For a few minutes you get to hate the world and blame others for all the hardship they have caused you. That is your escape. You don’t like to blame yourself. You blame the weather, your financial situation, your city… but you never blame yourself. Why? Because you are selfish. That’s the tough pill you need to swallow. On every human, greed is tattooed in capital crimson letters. The true, disgusting blurry image of yourself in the mirror. You close your eyes not to see, yelling at your reflection and it yells back. Jealousy follows you like a shadow in mid-day. Invisible, subtle, but present. You were jealous of everything and everyone. You want what you cannot have. That is human nature. Another scapegoat you provide yourself with. In some was jealousy is attractive. It brings out emotions in you which you didn’t know existed. A murderous smile. Possessiveness. You want to be craved, radiating sweet poison like a bonbon in a candy store. You prey on the weak. They are an easy target. You manipulate them, lure them in, giving them a new addiction. Add one to your collection. Tell me about your childhood. How did that one argument you had with your mum when you were twelve over what you wanted to wear to the park affect you in the long run? Do you remember the screams ricocheting off the walls when your dad tried to teach you maths when you were five? Your therapist made you talk about it. Said it will help you form more meaningful connections. It did not, but you didn’t really try. All you wanted was to be perfect, for them more than for yourself. You craved praise. You wanted to make someone proud, anyone, to validate your existence, to tell you that you are not worthless. That you deserve to live. That you deserve to be joyful. That you have a purpose. We love you. “You can be the next Einstein”. You wanted to be Einstein - to be acknowledged. You wanted to be remembered. You were bored of being average like a jack in a deck of cards. You never got to be Einstein. You finished school with above average grades, did well in university, graduated with an honour. Your degree was useless. Nobody cares about your passions. As an adult you realise, you are not meant to love your job. For the next three years you were unemployed. Nobody wanted you. You wandered from one interview to the next, trying to find purpose in life. A meaning.

You took up drinking. A drink when you felt sad, a drink when you were bored to help pass the lonely, monotone ticking of the clock, a drink on the rare occasions when you were happy to celebrate. All this followed by a cigarette, then another. One before breakfast, one after lunch, and one right before dinner and bed. To calm your nerves. You told everyone you were a ‘social smoker’, crumpling the third receipt from the corner shop in your pocket. You felt guilty. Embarrassed. It was a way of hurting yourself indirectly. You couldn’t be conscious, it required too many guts, you needed to be brave, and you were not. So you killed yourself from the inside first. You met someone, on a beautiful night just like this in the early hours of the morning at one of those fancy clubs you went to. You went there for attention. You wanted people to notice you. You wanted to feel real. Skin on skin. Feeding off the hungry stares given by strangers. Want. Ownership. You danced alone, in the middle of a sea of couples, you put on a show for anyone watching. Teasing. You knew exactly what you were doing. Until you saw him. It wasn’t love at first sight. That doesn’t exist. Yet you approached him, not the other way round. You bought him a drink. You ordered him one of those colourful cocktails that women were supposed to drink, for a laugh, to see his reaction. He accepted. He understood your joke. The thumping of the music made your conversation inaudible, voice hoarse from screaming, he bent down to hear you better making you feel small. Lights flashed. A strobe like pulse matching the rhythm of the night. Blue, green, red. A mirage of colours. The shot of confidence raced through your blood unleashing the inner you. The you that you didn’t let people see. You were nearly happy. It had been a long time since you had felt present in a conversation. He was like you. You didn’t like that. You didn’t want to be understood because you didn’t want to be vulnerable. But he set you free. You spent a year or two with him. It didn’t work out. He shape-shifted, ended up being controlling, manipulative, a fraud. These layers were revealed slowly like the shedding of skin. You locked yourself in the bathroom to get away from the constant criticism. But he said he was sorry. He said he loved you. He said he would change. It’s funny, because even though you could see through all his lies, you chose to believe him, you decided to give him a second chance, and a third, and a fourth. You stopped counting after the fifth. You tried to see how long you could hold your breath for in the bathtub to drown out your thoughts. Water blurring the sound. You liked the euphoric high given from a lack of oxygen. You liked the feeling of blood thumping against your skin. Gnawing of the inside, about to burst. That rhythmic thump. A lullaby. The only proof you had that you were still alive. You murdered someone. In your mind of course. You were too scared to kill a person in real life however you had it all planned out. You probably would have gotten away with it. God would have helped you. He helps everyone, He helps the bad people more than good. You didn’t sleep. You got very good at covering the signs of that. Your thoughts frightened you. They were too loud. Although sometimes they were silent, and that was even more terrifying. Empty. A void. You wondered if that was the silence you would be greeted with after death. Lethal. Eternal. Damnation. You sucked in life and spat it out again, recycling your varying personalities. A new mask for each ‘special’ occasion. You made sure they were pretty. You took care of yourself because you were scared of being ugly. Without your charming looks you would be useless, just like all the other women who had been thrown away. Your mum told you men wouldn’t like your attitude. You were scared of aging. You didn’t want to die. Mostly because you hadn’t lived yet. You lived a life of pretence, lust and paranoia. A never ending cycle which made you curse the world. You never asked to be here. Privileged. A waste of space.

Now, you take time to appreciate things. Especially the night. Imperfections cannot be seen in the dark. You can blend in with all the lovely things on this world and pretend you belong

there for a bit. You are a guest, but you cannot stay long. Your visit is timed. Your presence troubles everyone else. The night envelops you, a type of physical contact which brings you back to reality, you observe the synchronised dance of the trees. Their bare hands shivering in the bitter cold. You feel sorry for them but there is nothing you can do. Like them you are helpless. A pawn in a game. Replaceable. Only moving one step at a time. You are the next sacrifice. You drag in a breath, letting it out melancholic melody through pursed lips. A call. Or is it a cry?

Zlata Lankina