Destructive Beauty

Even though her heart was still beating, Amy Dawson had died long ago. No one could tell when or where it happened, but those who were part of her death dwelled on the delusion that she was ever alive, to begin with. Yet her death itself was an illusion, for as I sat right in front of her, I couldn’t tell if I was speaking to her soul or her body. She gave no sign of my presence, except that she would rather not have me there. For a brief moment of silence, I considered listening to her heartbeat, to see if it were loitering in a world as fanatical as her mind was in, but reconsidering my thoughts, I knew that that was the way every other person and therapist thought of Amy Dawson. I lower my head, in hopes that she would lift hers high enough to peer at the dimming light coming from the window behind me. But like a paradoxical mechanism, her words fumble out as slight whispers as she overlooks the top of my head: “Whatever you are trying to do won’t work.”

No one was at home that evening, or at least it appeared to me. I tried thinking how crowded the house was in her mind, bustling with souls of people stuck in unwanted bodies. The truth was I really had no idea what I was doing. I wasn’t a therapist, or a doctor, or anyone of those nurses from the psychiatric hospital she visits every Saturday. More or less, I was just another neighborhood boy who passed by to deliver food to the Dawsons that Wednesday evening, only to realize that Amy was the only one home.

My head still lowered; I scanned her closely. Her feet are scrawny but young, showing no sign of fidgeting. Her ankles are solid and rigid as if chained with steel bars to her wheelchair. Her calves are thin and stubborn, thrust heavenly by her noir leggings that strode all the way up to her thighs. Her hips are narrow and fragile, fools comparing to her thoughts. I can tell that she was once a free young girl by the lean of her waist curving to the side of her body, only to puff up again at her chest. I couldn’t visually see her heart, but all I knew was that she herself couldn’t find it. I must say that her shoulders were rather broad for such a slender girl. Her pale neck held her face of no expression. In another dimension, she is a happy girl whose lips curve into nothing but a smile. But for the present time, her two black braids and dull face proved any other dimension to be impossible.

Now my head was lifted, and so was hers. If she didn’t have those deep blue eyes, I would have said that she truly wasn’t alive. But the way her pupils dilated when pondering into light, or the slight imperfections in her ocean irises, told me that she was here with me. Right now. Right here. I could tell that I was making a fool of myself by staring, but rubbing my eyes at the thought, I felt gravity soaring to the clouds, my blood rushing momentarily, and my eyes seeming meaningless. It was as if I was forcefully being held by the collar, and slightly lifted so that my toes barely touched the ground. I was pulled into the eyes of Amy Dawson, their azure blue hues condensing into sudden darkness.

I wait long in silence and manage to spare a glance at the darkness above. Unsurprisingly, it was the same midnight black as the gloom in front, to the side, and below me. The sin was the eerie sensation that lurked in her eyes’ inky pupils, that gave no answers no matter what question was asked. I should have appreciated the silence back then before a giant hammer, probably the size of the Empire State building, was banged millimeters before me. My god! Another deafening bang, this time somewhere in the distance. Uncontrollably, my forehead was condensing sweat with every bang, knowing that I might be drawn out of existence per second. And when the behemoth hammers thudding before my feet didn’t seem enough, the sky began sobbing tears. May God save me with rain! Or may darkness shower me with nails? Iron-bound nails, perfect for the monstrous hammers. They landed squarely at their tippy ends and stayed there till they were hammered solid into the ground. I made a run, not knowing where fearful that I would be hammered into such darkness. My fidgeting seemed of no use, for, in the end, I didn’t know if it was a nail or a hammer that had landed on me, except that the pain made death seem simpler.

I didn’t know what to expect when I opened my eyes, except that there was light instead of darkness, and a rush of colors flooded my vision. They were of brilliantly cheerful colors. They reminded me of summer days and cold iced cocktails, and they also reminded me of Amy Dawson. These were her eyes I was in, and seeing such colors reassured me that there was once happiness in her life. And before I knew it the rush of colors seemed to fabricate over space and time, and now I was in an urban garage, no one in sight except for a man, a nail, and a hammer.

I must have been surprised that the nail and hammer were of normal size, but otherwise thankful. I make to speak to the old man, who seemed not to have noticed me, when a young teenaged girl, no more than 13, walked in. I step towards her and put my hand on her shoulder, and she turns around with her deep blue eyes. They were beautiful, just like the way that she smiled at the old man. It took me no time to tell that that man was her father, only to be falling. Again, gravity seemed to have given up, as my weightless body plummeted into a small yellow box. Everything was wrong. The box was wrong. There were brown bottles in this box, and they fenced around me. The labels were hastily scribbled on, but I could make out just a few drug samples before their lids were popped off and I was drowned in an ocean of unpleasantly toxic liquid. Even if I held my breath oxygen would abandon me the moment I was drowned in the murky obnoxious liquid. My head felt light and dizzy, and with it, the ocean around me began whirling in circles. Very large circles. And the momentum was so exhilarating, surely I was dead. Thinking about that made me dead inside. Then I thought that that wasn’t the thing I wanted to think when I looked into the eyes of Amy Dawson.

And like a free sailor, I let the whirlpool suck me in, my ribs clashing against each other. I only opened my eyes when I could breathe, and my eyes must have been handicapped when they realized that I was floating in crystal clear water of a glass jar. And beyond the glass, I could make out the figure of a man lying supine on a poker table, his hands stained with the murky toxic liquid. A terrible thought stumbled upon me, but I had no time to go through that idea because a scream interrupted all of my senses. It was so deafening that it would have shaken the ground and caused the earth to fly off its orbit. I make to cover my ears when I am again standing in the darkness, this time not alone. The pretty teenaged girl in a white dress was crying an ocean of tears. How can something so beautiful be this destructive, this dangerous, this sad? And when she uncuffed her hands from her eyes she looked straight into mine. I wondered what she saw when she looked into them. They must have been rather dull considering that they probably didn’t have raining hammers and nails. But all I knew was that I couldn’t keep my eyes off hers, her deep blue eyes. Slowly but surely, she stands up and her arms embrace me into a hug. Empathy strikes me, not knowing what to do with my arms. Foolishly they lurk in mid-air for a while, as I feel the sensation of her chest against mine, so warm and loving. I put my arms around her, only for her to evaporate with the wind that hits. I fly with the wind too, and now I am at the bottom of a well. Voices from above echo, but I cannot seem to let any words trail out of my mouth. From the opening of the deep hole, all I see are people laughing, fathers hammering nails on wood, and the bright summer sun. While down here in the well, the darkness seemed to be a luxury.

Subconsciously, I feel all my dreams of ever laughing again wither, not knowing how overwhelming it felt on Amy. From down here the hole seemed like an opening to heaven, to all the good things that you wouldn’t seem worthy of. Then a storm. The wind huffs and puffs, swirling in the compact well, only to carry my legs and arms out of it. I am free. But this freedom is painful. I cannot move my legs nor speak how I feel. This freedom is a hammer, crushing all my dreams. But most importantly, this freedom is a crime.

The wind seemed to have been reading my thoughts as heat surges through my body. It grounds up to my fingertips and lassos my legs. Such an opening to heaven. Now I understand fully and completely that when Amy tries to seek happiness and love, she can only be proven worthy of lies. Then out of the momentous heat and light a voice screech, so high, that I forget about the soaring heat warming my chest and reddening my skin. The voice is blaring and thunderous, said between rivers of tears: “Who am I to hope when it abandoned me long ago?”

I try to answer, but my voice is drowned by the louder voice. “Who am I to love when love never did me good?”

The voice is a mixture of sorrow and deep pain. Amy did nothing to deserve this. “Who am I to live when I died long ago?”

I cannot take this anymore, I might as well have exploded in the pressuring heat of the surroundings and been stabbed by the voices. Amy wasn’t a lunatic for hearing these voices, for even I, free of such trauma, could hear them penetrate from her eyes. My heart pounds heavily as my breath becomes bucketloads of unwanted air. If the state I was stuck in presumed, I didn’t want to break out of her eyes’ trace knowing that I went there for nothing. I feel my lips, they quiver as the bitter taste of blood lurks on my tongue. I couldn’t make out what to say at first. What do you say to someone whose mind is mentally wired in a way that processes trauma and misery as welcomed? I had to do anything, say anything, as long as I knew what Amy was feeling, she must know how I felt. “You’re right!” I scream into the brightness and fire, my voice coming out as desperate as the voices in her head. “You’re absolutely right. Who are you to hope? Who are you to love? Who are you to live?” I can feel the heat evaporate from her eyes and disperse into my skin. “But also, who are you to suffer? Who are you to hate? And who are you to give up living?” I can feel the heat cool down a bit, but the voice seems lost, no sign of it. “Who are you to think that the delusions in your mind are reality? Who are you to believe that love is lost when I can see through your eyes? And who are you to give up on your dreams just because you lost the person who inspired you to pursue them?” The madness of the atmosphere seemed to intensify, but the heat made no promises. The voice suddenly erupted from below me, screeching ferociously: “And who are you to tell me who I can be? Who are you to tell me that there is hope and love and life when I’m living on a tightrope? Who are you to say that?”

I thought about this- about everything. What did I have that meant hope, love, and life? I thought of the monstrous hammers and nails that would thud in the sudden darkness, the same tools Amy’s father used to use. The same tools he taught his 13-year-old adolescent daughter to handle. Then I remembered the colors, her dreams. Her love for her father, the way she saw light and colors, her father as an inspiration that she dreamt of becoming. She had never thought that such a vowing carpenter would show his work to the world and his drug addiction to the deathbed. Then the drowning well and the frolicking wind. Only to be harnessed by fire and be left to burn. Yet no matter how much it seemed to hurt, in those flames I saw myself, my father locked behind bars and my mother working blood and sweat from dusk till dawn. In those flames, I saw myself relentless, without any potential. Most greatly, in those flames, I saw myself dying knowing that I had been of no use.

The voice thundered again: “Who are you boy, why do you tell me so?”

“Because I died long ago, Amy Dawson, even though my heart was still beating. No one understood how painful it was to live such a broken past, and then expect to go on with a future pretending like nothing happened. And I am scared. God, I’m scared! Frightened that I’ll wake up tomorrow and lose what’s left of what I have, my ill mother’s love, and my father’s sign of living, even though behind prison bars. And I’m lost, what a crowded world to be lost in when all I have are my thoughts to talk to. Yet my soul is alive, it’s free because I still love. I love the way that when I look into your eyes I know you share my feelings. I see hope, love, and life in your eyes, Amy Dawson, and even the voices in my head can’t prove me wrong of life.” Darkness. Utter gloom. My eyelids were shut viciously, and I felt my body cool down steadily.

I didn’t know what to expect when I opened my eyes but definitely did I not expect to see tears rushing out of the eyes of Amy sitting right in front of me. How can something so beautiful be so sad?

The sun had set, and I had to go help my mother pack up the vegetable stall. Reluctantly I stood up, brushed my hands on my crumpling pants, and stepped towards the young girl in front of me. Her eyes told a thousand stories, many that she had lived a million times. She rubbed her hands against her sobbing eyes, and before I could take my eyes off hers she gently stands up from her wheelchair and her arms embrace me into a hug. Empathy strikes me, not knowing what to do with my arms. Foolishly they lurk in midair for a while, as I feel the sensation of her chest against mine, so warm and loving. I put my arms around her and this time I don’t disintegrate or evaporate or disappear. This time I hear Amy’s voice mumble between heavy breaths: “Thank you, thank you.”

“Only a matter of time,” I mumble back.

Because in reality, she was who I had to thank. Besides hope, love, and life, I saw the world when I looked into the eyes of Amy Dawson.