pleonasm

This one is actually pretty important to me right now. 

During these past few weeks, months, I was sure I wasn’t able to produce any kind of somewhat valuable piece of writing. And I didn’t; no inspiration came, no ideas, nothing. I’ve been completely dry. But then today I sat down after re-reading a shitty poem of mine I’d written months ago, and I wrote this in one sitting. I was truly surprised. Even more so when I realized it wasn’t a complete and utter pile of shit. 

Sure, it could be better, more meaningful, could have a deeper message, or could just simply be longer, but honestly, I’m pretty glad this happened at all, and that it happened this way. (It has a message anyway, though, but it is all pretty vague, as you can see. Interpret it however you wish.)

I’m almost proud. It’s not one of my better writings by far, don’t be fooled, but it is certainly… something. 

And something I cherish, at that.

So yes, read it with reservations,

but read it like you have never read anything more beautiful.

[ 1661 words ]

translation: { magyarul }

music: { spotify / yt } and { spotify / yt }

When you came to me that night, you were covered in bruises and scratches and scars. But most importantly: you were covered in tears. The evidence on the body doesn’t matter as long as the soul attached to it is doing fine.

You were not doing fine. You were hurt; you’d been crying.

I invited you in, gently but hurriedly, as I would’ve done with any woman in that state. We have to stand united was my message.

Who did this?

Maybe there were more important questions to be asked, but I was always acting from masculine energy when it came to women who’ve been hurt. For me, it all came down to an eye for an eye; violence for violence.

You looked up at me with pleading eyes, and you didn’t say anything.

That was the worst. I stood by your side, at least I thought I did, with my hands in fists, and you didn’t give me a clue.

You noticed ‒ you softly said: “You should be asking ‘what do you need?’” You paused, searching my face for signs of understanding.

I didn’t understand. Not completely, not at all. I heard you, sure, so I asked a slurred “what d’ya need” in a rush. I was fueled by adrenaline.

You looked down at your hands in your lap, and you didn’t say anything. Maybe you were even sadder at that point than when you knocked at my door.

I didn’t realize. I looked at you, waiting, while my blood was boiling and my vision was quickly reddening.

You whispered, “A cup of tea would be nice.” because you had to say something, you realized.

So I went to the kitchen, put a kettle on the stove, and listened impatiently to the water boiling and the kettle whistling. I felt like it was the perfect amplification of everything that was going on inside me.

I handed you your cup of tea ‒ “Careful, it’s hot” ‒ and I sat down next to you on the couch. I think it must have been the adrenaline ‒ it was wearing off by then, allowing for my more feminine energies to take the stage, for me to listen to you; to want to hear and understand you.

“It’s okay,” you said, “I’m not mad,” and I wasn’t sure if you meant me or the man that hurt you.

Now that I was sitting beside you, paying more and more real attention, you went on telling me about everything you felt was worth telling.

“I’m okay,” you said, “I won’t hold a grudge.” And you said: “But I won’t go back there.” And: “I won’t let him touch me anymore.” You also said: “But I forgive him.”

I sat there and listened to you telling me everything you felt was worth mentioning, and I found myself learning everything I needed to know. 

In hindsight, I still don’t know who he was or what he did. What I know though is that she was hurt ‒ she had been hurting for a long time then ‒ and that that was the point her ever-lasting patience finally wore out. She put her foot down that night, and she sought refuge at my home.

So our home it became. It was a tight fit since my small apartment was intended to be a one-person shelter, but it was fine because she didn’t need a lot of space ‒ she’d learned how to make herself small ‒, plus she didn’t want to sleep alone at the beginning, so we shared my cheap twin mattress.

Eventually, she got herself together. I made sure she didn’t feel rushed, I gave her a ton of space and time to do it, but she didn’t need half of it. She got over it in a blink of an eye, and I was worried because she shouldn’t have been fine by the time she seemed like she was.

        I asked about it. I got a soft, forgiving smile as a response. “I’m a quick healer.”

So that was that. As soon as she got to her feet, she moved out to the sofa and promised she would be out of my hair in no time now.

I didn’t want you out of my hair. I liked you in my hair.

I didn’t dare to tell her that, though. It wasn’t like I was afraid; in any other circumstances, I would’ve told her right there and then, but to be honest, I wasn’t sure about her mental health at the time. Yes, she told me she was fine, told me multiple times ‒ she would even reassure me sometimes when I hadn’t said anything, only upon seeing my worried expression. And I did believe her, it’s just… I was worried that she might not be as fine as she claimed to be and that if I told her, she would cling to me, would become too dependent on me, which, in the long run, would be awful for her.

So I kept my mouth shut as she looked for a job, as she slept on the couch at night, as she started working… 

In hindsight, I see how quick she really was at gathering her broken pieces and putting them back together; she found a job almost overnight, and it was clear to see that it was draining her energies in every way, but she kept showing up there because ‒ her words exactly: ‒ she wanted to earn her keep.

So she went to work almost every day, took a lot of shifts, came home exhausted ‒ all just to ‘earn her keep.’ One day each month she sat herself down on the sofa, placed a fresh sheet of white paper on the crooked coffee table, marked the date in the corner with a blue-ink pen, and calculated her finances for the coming month. And it was all there, laid out in a few hours, broken down into categories and columns; how much rent was, utilities, how much she needed for food and other necessities, and how much she was to earn that month. When she was done, she put the paper with the blue columns on it in a black folder with all the rest. But she kept taking it out and looking at it throughout the month, when she thought I wasn’t watching, often with a worried expression on her delicate face.

You paid less than half of rent and utilities for the first month. I had lied it was half, exactly because of the disturbing number of shifts you were taking to earn only that amount of money. But I was nowhere near being rich either, of course, so I was away at work a lot too… On one of your days off, when I was at work, you wanted to run some errands so I didn’t have to, and you went to pay the bills. When I got home in the evening, you confronted me. 

I remember that night vividly; it was our first fight and I was so very scared that it would remind you of your abuser that I kept speaking quietly and softly, and I kept nodding and agreeing with every word you yelled at me. After you let out your accusations, you stopped and said, “It’s not you.”

And I froze and realized that you were right, it wasn’t me. I wasn’t ‒ and still am not ‒ the noddy, agreeable type. 

So I answered, honestly and straightforwardly: “The last thing I want to do is hurt you.” And it was an explanation for everything I’d been doing for that past month or so.

You nodded and sat down. “Okay. Now I can tell you how it made me feel.”

For a moment, I didn’t understand. Then I realized: so far you’ve only been yelling at me everything you thought I did wrong, not your emotions about those deeds.

At your side, I was becoming better and better at recognizing impulsiveness and avoiding acting out of it, of masculine energies.

        I sat down and looked in your eyes that have always had a grounding effect on me. “I want to be the only person not ever hurting you.” That was how I felt. That’s still how I feel.

You looked at me like I was but a child yet to learn the ways of the world. It was a funny look on you, you know, because your face has always had this strong base of softness, a sort of delicateness, which was slowly fading under the years of hurt piling up and shadowing over it.

You didn’t say anything, though; you didn’t have to. I understood.

She told me how she felt about me lying to her, about me trying to go easy on her all the time. She’d noticed, and she didn’t like it, not one bit. I said I understood ‒ and I did, I really did, but I was concerned about her anyway.

I voiced my opinion. She smiled and thanked me for telling her, but she reassured me, softly but confidently, that she was truly fine.

“You need to lay this ‘protective parent’ thing off,” you snapped at me, half-jokingly. “It’s weird with,” here you stopped, I remember, and gulped before continuing, much more insecurely, “uhm, with all the feelings I have. For you.”

I stared at her for what felt like long minutes. 

And that’s how she ended up not moving away but moving back in my bed instead.

Months later she asked me, “Wasn’t it suspicious? I thought you saw right through me.” I had no idea what she was referring to. “You told me I was very quick with everything, getting a job and stuff, and I told you I was looking for a place to live too, but I never moved away in the end.”

I grinned at her.

“You’re one hella smart cookie, you know.”