I closed the doors and breathed in heavily. The home-made wine combined with antibiotics was messing up with my concentration so I can’t say I was fully aware of what had just happened. At some levels I suspected what I had just done, but it hadn’t really come to me. At least not yet.
I turned off the light in the corridor and came back to my room, where on the desk stood the unfinished bottle of the damned wine, with two empty glasses next to it. Damned, because I knew I would finish it on my own now, regardless of the antibiotics. Just to soothe my nerves; maybe to help me fall asleep later on.
Sure, it would have been wiser if I had waited with my confession until we were done with the bottle – it could have made things easier for both of us. But so it turned out that you can never really control those things, no matter how much time you had previously spent on planning them. The right moment comes always unannounced and then it’s now or never.
I sat down to the desk and poured myself a glass. And it was only then – when I took my first sip – when I realized the music was off: he had turned it off before he rushed out of the room. Of the flat. Of my life. Oh, if he only could, he would have jumped out of the window, just to get away from me quicker.
Silence started ringing in my ears. How unlikely, how bizarre! And how much did it actually take? A few minutes, only dozens of words and we were done. He was out, and out for good. It was hard to believe that I actually did it; did what I should have done long time ago. I finally put an end to my own misery. By adding some more misery, sure, but what did it matter, really? At least I had my closure now, and when things are final, it’s easier to deal with them – with no more excuses or elusive maybes.
I took another sip and his voice echoed in my mind. Immature and illogical. He called my wisest decision so far immature and illogical. And, after two years, he finally managed to notice – at the doors, putting his shoes on – that I am a hopeless idealist. I snorted, taking another sip of wine. And then, out of nowhere, tears came.
I emptied the glass in one go, refusing to go into sobbing.
I predicted it all so very well! I knew it wouldn’t be easy, I knew it would hurt and I knew it would crush me into pieces, which, later on, I would have to pick up and put together once again. Which, of course, would take an awful lot of time. I knew there would be a long way for me to stop caring. But that was the price I was ready to pay. Because I also knew it’s the right thing to do; that it actually is the only thing to do, if I want to stay true to myself. Those doors were ought to not only get closed but to stay closed.
I didn’t let the tears fall. Why should they? Why did I feel like crying anyway? I had no reason to cry, not really. I didn’t close the doors to every relation ever, I only closed them to the toxic one. It must have been wine’s or antibiotics’ fault. Or those two combined.
I poured myself another glass, took a sip and opened the music player. Browsing through my music collection in search for some more or less appropriate tunes, I suddenly realized that all the songs I used to listen to so passionately for the last few weeks became completely irrelevant: I was no longer in need of singing a “song to say goodbye”, because I already had said my goodbye. In fact, I didn’t have any tunes that would suit my new situation.
And then, all of a sudden, I felt extremely proud of myself. How could I be not? I thought I wouldn’t be able to do this. I thought I wouldn’t be strong enough to end it, and yet I did – however awkwardly and clumsily, I actually fucking did it, and that’s what counts. The only thing that should ever count. Who cares about silly songs, I can surely find new ones.
I took the second sip and turned off the computer. Maybe all I needed was a bit of silence.
But with the third sip from that glass, there came another, and this time rather bitter, realization: the only thing I could neither predict, nor handle properly, was the enormous misunderstanding that fell on me, and fell rather unexpectedly. It turned out I still, pretty naively, expected him to understand and accept my choice. Which, of course, he didn’t. And that was what brought the tears: silly hope that got crushed once again.
And to think that once I used to think we’re transmitting on the same wave-lengths!
I took the fourth sip of the wine, feeling all decisive again. Instead of sitting here and letting myself senselessly drown in this newly awaken misery, I should learn my lesson and simply do my best at moving on from it. Starting with a good night sleep.
But what if he was right? What if I had just made one hell of a mistake? I admit, I tried to block that thought out, but it was obvious that sooner or later it would come and intoxicate me, to the point when my reasonable self would find herself with no arguments at all.
That thought was at the beginning of the path down which I didn’t want to take.
I needed someone to reassure me that I did the right thing.
And yet there was no one there.
Only the last glass of the wine, to help me fall asleep.
Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as to be understood. – George Orwell
[the story was also published HERE]