Imprints

Distant church bells murmur their way into my mind. I blink back into the present and look out at the white garden. A robin dances into my vision, flitting between the rotting bird house and jagged greenhouse window. A weird pang of jealousy knots in my gut. She’s free, unencumbered by weighty bouts of misery or relentlessly tethered to memories. The bird flies from the garden, as if it could sense my negativity like a predator. I slide back into my hollow place and let her face pour into my vision. 

*** 

“It’s a bit dire isn’t it” Her face crinkles against the reflection of the evening sun in the stained glass window. 

“Yea. They look pretty miserable.”

She cocks her head to one side and tends to her ice cream thoughtfully, her pointed tongue darting over it in a series of little licks . “Why do the children in these things always look like they are begging for mercy? What a god-awful time to be living in.”

The child in the ancient image looks afraid, kneeling at the feet of a robed man. He stands looming, solom. His eyes are cold, meeting mine with a steely confidence. A shudder ripples through my shoulders. I’m happy now. We’re happy. She’s here with me. 

She nudges her hip against mine. “Can we stop pretending to be grown-ups who’re here for a cultural experience and actually enjoy our city break now?” 

I tear my eyes away from the saint and loop my arm around her waist, planting a kiss on her head. Sweet vanilla shampoo, intermingled with suncream-y cheeks. “Let’s get a cocktail.”

We turn and walk away from the ancient Spanish church. The skin on the back of my neck prickles, cold and damp despite the balmy heat. 

*** 

She taps her foot absentmindedly against the table leg, the spoon in her tea twirling in a gentle motion as she begins to absorb herself into the morning newspaper. She’ll read anything and everything in front of her, able to lose her mind in print in an instant. Her lips part a little and the spoon stops, her whole self now absent from the busy cafe. Nausea barrel-rolls through my gut, and my quivering hand places the coffee down and reaches for the water. The regret that encapsulates me every time I drink too much is a feeling so familiar that I don’t remember life before it. Survive another day, battle with Depression, smother Depression with alcohol, - momentary respite! - then the regret/hangover/shame combination. 

“I love you.” My voice cracks a little. 

She smiles, still reading, then tears her eyes away from the page to meet mine. Soft, warm, genuine. Tiny slivers of white from the edges of her eyes trail across her bronzed skin; years of throw-your-head-back laughter and carefree days under sunbeams across the globe. 

“I love you too.” 

I reach out for her hand and hold it carefully in both of mine. The electrical charge in my nerve endings makes my heart thud.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know. It’s okay.” She gives my hand a friendly squeeze and pulls it away to turn the page. 

“It’s not. We’re on holiday and should be having a break from everything we go through normally. You deserve not to have this happen. You deserve more.” 

More words go to exit my mouth then shrivel up and try retreat back down my throat. 

“I… I should be coping fine right now. I’m not at work, and I’m in a beautiful city with the most beautiful woman.” It explodes in a breathless garble. 

She sucks in a breath and folds the newspaper closed, placing it face-down under her saucer as if to stop herself from being tempted to continue looking at it. 

“There’s that word again. Stop.” She raises a hand as if speaking to a child. 

“Should be having a break. Should be coping. You can’t keep bullying yourself with this kind of language - three therapists have mentioned this so you know it’s not garbage. I agree with them actually. I live my days by ‘could’. I ‘could’ do this. Or I bloody well ‘could’ do that instead, if I so choose. Stop piling pressure on. Live life how you please.” She presses two fingers to her forehead as if to rub the frown lines away.

I hang my head, a fresh swathe of shame engulfing me. The same conversations on rotation, the same format - her coddling me. A frequent low point is when I remember that she probably has down-days too but I’m too consumed in my own story to ever ask.

I force a thin smile. “I’ll get more help. I know I’m making progress. It’ll all be fine soon”

They’re fake words that hang in the air in front of us above the cafetiere of cold coffee. The holiday was supposed to fix everything. Fix me. 

*** 

Her suitcase is faded florals of fuchsia and mauve, a battered yet robust piece of her that’s been in action since she was twenty one. A thick wad of airline luggage stickers on the handle proudly showcase her adventurous spirit, like trophies from all her travels. Her colourful scarves are spilling from the strained zip, ensnared by its teeth in the haste. On the door mat, next to the suitcase, is the straw hat I bought her from the Spanish market last year. 

I’ve heard none of the words that she’s spoken in the past few minutes. Or it could have been hours. I feel like I’m underwater - a knot of air is trapped in my lungs and blood is rushing through a maze of tunnels in my ears. 

I’m suddenly aware I’m on my knees. My palms are clammy against the wooden floor and all I can think about is the scuff of dirt swimming in and out of my view. 

“I can’t do this anymore!” She stomps her boot and the vibration through my fingers seems to wake me up. 

I look up. Her hands are outstretched, gesturing toward my crumbling form a few metres away. There are no tears in her eyes, and she doesn’t look as sick as I feel. This is a traumatising situation; is she not here with me? The room is pulsating with panic but it’s only me who can see it humming around the walls. Her cheeks are flushed and she looks… exasperated.

Her shoulders sag as she expels a long, deep breath. “Goodbye.” 

*** 

I breathe out fully and touch my hands to the window pane. The cold is refreshing, and I instinctively press my cool palms lightly onto my eyes and forehead. I inhale the scent of my mint tea and congratulate myself once again for the shift in my habits. I’m clean of the hangovers, the rut of misery and brutal repetition. I open my eyes. The snow is untouched, unscathed and such a pure, brilliant white. There’s no history, no imprint on it yet. The robin flutters onto the window ledge outside, and I freeze where I am so he doesn’t notice me. He skips along, his tiny talons leaving the faintest marks in the snow, then flits over to the bird house. I could be leaving my mark right now too. I could be living my life however I please. 

I toss on my shoes and throw open the front door, stepping tentatively onto the frozen patio. In one springing motion, I leap onto the snow, and begin my life again.