Clara

The world is burning. It must be.

You have no idea where you are, only that it's too hot and too cold and there's something wrapped around your legs and you can't get it off and you're kicking and kicking but it won't come off and fuck-

Fuck.

Something is wrong.

You manage to get the thing off. You vaguely register it as a blanket, but you can't get much further than that. The fabric still kind of rubs against your shins and the sides of your feet, but it's not so unbearable now. Good.

You want to scream. You want to get up and screech until someone finds you and makes this damn feeling stop, but you can't. So, you just lie there. 

The world fades away.

***************

You're going to throw up. You're absolutely sure of it, but you still don't have time to move before you puke up a concoction of bile and water onto the pillow beside you. Gross.

Your throat burns, and your stomach is churning. You fucking hate this. You're coherent enough now to know that you want something. You're craving it. You're craving the high and the emptiness and the feeling of all this being gone. Irrelevant. Something you can just ignore. 

But with that thought you also remember why you can't. You remember why you promised yourself that you wouldn't, never again. 

Fuck, you wish you could.

Your stomach starts cramping as waves of pain roll through you. You think you might throw up again, but when nothing happens after a second or two of waiting, you decide to just ignore it. That’s the only way you'll ever make it out of this hellhole anyways. 

So, instead of throwing up or getting a buzz (which is really all you want), you lie there, one hand clutching your stomach, and the other trembling on the pillow. If you moved it to the left a bit, it would be sitting in a pool of your own vomit. You don't really care.

***********

 You don't realise you've fallen asleep until you wake up, screaming. You've almost gotten used to it though. You can never remember the nightmares once you're awake, but you're sure that's for the best anyways.

The sheets around you are wet with sweat, and you're debating whether it's better to just sit in the wet sheets like the sad fuck you are or kick them off and brave the intense round of shivering that's about to come. 

You've just decided to keep them on (you can ignore the dampness, but once you start shivering you can never go back to sleep) when the door opens. (It’s amazing you’re coherent enough to register that).

It takes you a few more seconds than you would like but you register the woman who walks through it too. Man, you're on a roll today.

The woman - Julia. You should call her by her name (well you only just remembered she had one) – sits down and starts stroking your head. Soft fingers against your gross matted hair, slowly untangling the knots. You should be happy, grateful even. So, it's weird when you feel the fury bubbling up in your chest, like a pot of hot water or a rabid dog foaming at the mouth. 

"Why didn't you come earlier?" you hear yourself ask. Well, you say ask but it's really more of a rasp, or a barely-there croak. You're not even sure she heard it.

It's unfair to ask her that though, because she could respond with "why didn't you do this earlier?", or "why did you refuse professional help like an idiot?" or "why did you wait until I was halfway through birthing our baby to finally stop taking drugs?”- which are all valid responses really. 

Now you wish you hadn't asked her. Too late now.

You look up at her face, and there's a weird expression painted on it. You can't tell if it's hurt or anger or regret or sorrow, but you assume it's probably a mix of them all. A wonderful melting pot of suffering, and it's all your fault.

"I did." Her voice is louder than you remember it being, but maybe yours is just quieter. 

"Oh", you reply "mustn’t’ve been 'wake then". 

Well, it wasn't great, but you think she understood, because she gives a terse nod. She's not touching you anymore though, she's not even looking at you. 

"I'm glad you're awake now." Her words are sharp, even though she speaks them softly. It's confusing, you can't make sense of it, and goddamn you wish she'd just look at you. Jesus. You need to sleep. 

Your eyelids fall shut, even though you didn't want them to, but you decide to just leave them. Consider it a sign from the fucking universe. 

You're not sure if you ended your conversation or not, but Julia can probably deal with it if you didn't. She's been dealing with your shit for the last two years, surely, she can survive doing it one more time.

You figure you're probably right, because her hand returns. Not on your head but resting tentatively on your arm. You'll take it.

**************

The worst of it has passed, you think. Usually, you try to avoid saying things like that – you can’t even remember a time where that hasn’t been a lie – but this time is different. You can feel it (God, that’s so stupid, when did you become a person who could feel things?).

And anyways, it’s been a week now (according to Julia), so it’s not like it’ll get any worse from here, right?

Dear God.

You still feel like shit though.

It’s been a week, and you still feel so terrible that you don’t even feel real, because real life shouldn’t be this miserable. How anybody else has managed to do this without going back to it all the second no one was looking? God knows that’s what you want to do.

The craving is so bad, so powerful, that you swear you could reach out in front of you and just take some. You can almost feel the high.

But you can’t. You know that. For Julia. For the baby. Fuck you don’t even know her name yet. It’s been a week, and you haven’t even seen her. You don’t know if she has your eyes or your nose or if she smiles like her mother. Can she even smile yet?

You don’t know.

So, you can’t go back on this, even though you so desperately want to, because you want her more.

Besides, the worst of it must have passed.

************

This time, when Julia opens the door, you’ve made a decision. You want to see her. The baby. You have a million questions about her, and you need them answered. You need to commit her face to memory in case you never see it again, you need to hear her voice and hold her hand and talk with her for hours to make up for a week of silence. You need to remember why you’re doing this.

You can’t decode the look on Julia’s face when you ask her. It makes your chest hurt, remembering a time when you could guess her every thought just by looking at her. You hadn’t realised how much things had changed.

“No.” she says. Sternly. She’s a lot sterner than you remembered. “Not yet”.

The fury bubbles again.

“Why not, Julia?” The words are hard, rough, deliberate. You can feel them thumping against your chest like stones.

Julia swallows. She draws back slightly (it’s hard to notice, but you do). She’s scared. You can’t help but think, this is the most normal thing that’s happened this week. This is what you’re used to.

“I don’t want her to see you like this. She isn’t ready, and neither are you.” Her voice trembles, but not really. Maybe you’re just imagining that.

You know she’s right; you can understand where she’s coming from. But you don’t want to.

“Who are you to tell me when I’m ready?” The fury is spilling out, breaking through its weak restraints.

“You’ll be ready when you can speak to me without yelling Will!” Her words are scratchy, tight, accidental.

The fury dies.

Were you yelling? You can’t remember.

There are tears in Julia’s eyes – well, now you feel bad. Maybe you shouldn’t have done that. You look at her (your wife) properly. You look at how heavily she’s breathing now, her chest heaving and shoulders trembling. You look at how she won’t meet your eye.

“Sorry.” You all but whisper the word, but Julia hears it. She looks up, and she doesn’t smile, but she doesn’t cry either. You decide that you’re going to say that word more often.

Now it’s your turn to swallow, to display your fear.

One time, years and years ago, you broke a picture frame – one of your mum’s favourites. You tried to hide it, but she found it barely an hour later. You feel now how you felt back then.

“Can I-” you take a breath, “can I see a picture? Of her?”

Julia nods. She smiles. It’s small, but it’s definitely there. “Yeah.”

************

Your feet are on the floor, for the first time in ages. It’s cold and hard and wonderful, because your feet haven’t touched anything but blankets caked in sweat and grime for a week and a half. You’ve never been this happy.

You’re sitting up, back straighter than it’s ever been, eyes constantly flicking to the door as you wait for Julia to come in. You’ve realised that every day, without fail, she opens the door at one o’clock. Apparently, this is right after she puts Carla – the baby - down to sleep.

Today is the day, you’re sure of it. Today, you’re going to tell Julia not to close the door, because today, you’re leaving this stupid room. You’re going to get up and walk around and pick up Carla and it will all be easy and absolutely not a problem at all, because your feet are on the floor.

Julia opens the door.

You suck in a breath.

You have to do this perfectly. For once in your life, you have to be careful, deliberate with your words in a way you’ve never been before. You can’t be shot down this time – it might break you.

You start talking before Julia even sits down.

“Julia?”, you start, your fingers picking at the blanket.

“Hmm?” she seems almost worried, and you can’t tell if it pains you or infuriates you. You go to speak again, but before you can Julia’s eyes light up as she gasps, running over to your bed.

“Will! You’re out of bed!” You think this is the happiest you’ve seen her in months – years even. The smile you give her stretches so wide it feels unnatural, unpractised. But it feels good. It feels good to share joy with her, to be on the same side. It wakes up a distant memory of and old normal.

“I know!” Your words are leaking laughter as your nerves disappear. You touch her hand – just lightly at first, but when she doesn’t pull away, you grasp it. Your fingers slide between hers, desperately reaching for them like a drunk for the liquor bottle, or like an addict for their pills.

“I want to go outside” you say it like a secret only you two get to know. Julia stills. She purses her lips, silent. She’s going to say no.

“I- well, okay. Sure.” You might collapse in relief. “Right now?” She asks.

What a stupid question, why would you ever want to go later? Of course, you don’t tell her that. Instead, you just nod, maybe a little too excitedly, but at least it makes her smile.

“Okay then. Let’s go” Julia grabs your hand, and you almost tell her to let go, because you can do this on your own, but some part of you doesn’t want to. Maybe it’s the part that knows you’re not really as strong as you’re pretending you are, or maybe it’s the part that just wants to feel her hand in yours. Either way, it wins.

You haul yourself up, and it’s a little disheartening how tightly you have to squeeze Julia’s hand to keep your balance, but it’s probably fine. The two of you take small steps towards the door, as you become surer of yourself by the second. You’re halfway to the door when you start walking faster, taking strides instead of baby steps. It feels exhilarating. You look at Julia and smile, showing off rows of yellowing teeth. You’ve smiled more today than you feel you have in a lifetime.

You leave the room with your heart and chest on fire. In just one day you’ve gotten out of bed, walked around, and left your room. You’ve decided recovery is impossibly easy. As you and Julia walk through the hall that opens into the lounge, you turn to her again. You have one last request.

“Can I see Carla?” The question seems to take Julia by surprise when she falters, forcing you to stop. To be fair to her, you did ask pretty out of the blue. Although, if she was okay with you coming out here, surely, she’d be okay with this too. Surely.

But… she still looks conflicted.

“Will I’m- I’m not sure if that’s really the best idea right now.” She barely pauses before launching into her explanation.  “I mean, well you’ve still barely recovered, all things considering, and well, she’s still sleeping too so I don’t want to wake her. And- and you’re totally new to her so she might get fussy, and well I don’t want you to have to deal with that if you’re not at full strength and- “

You stop hearing her. The words tumble around in your mind and all you can think is that you’ve been turned down again. Twice now you’ve been denied the only thing you really want.

You want to scream. You want to yell in Julia’s stupid face, you want to break something, kick the wall behind you, you want to punch her.

But you don’t. Because that’s completely stupid and you goddam know it. You do. So instead, you clench your fists, tight enough that you know the imprints on your palms won’t fade for a good while. You breathe in through your nose, and you probably look weird right now, but at least the cool air smothers the fire coursing through your veins.

Julia is looking at you, worried, as seems to be her default emotion this week. You can’t really blame her.

“Okay” you say, and something in Julia’s body releases. Something tight and rigid falls apart in her, and she smiles.

“Okay?” She says it like she can’t believe it. Does that make you proud or guilty? You can’t decide.

“Okay.” You smile back.

However, any pride you did feel dissipates almost immediately when you start making your way down the hallway again, only to discover you can’t. The legs that felt so strong and so ready only five minutes ago now feel like gelatine. Julia must notice, because she catches most of your weight as you buckle and guides you down to the floor.

You can’t believe it. Here you were trying to act like a father, but you’re sitting cross-legged in the middle of your hallway like a goddam toddler. You kind of want to cry.

But then Julia starts playing with your hair, like she did that first day she came to see you.

“You did so good” She whispers.

You lean into her touch, and for the first time in a long time, you let yourself fall apart in her arms.

“You’ve done so, so good baby.”

**********

You’re crying – tears streaming down your face, snot dripping from your nose – and you’ve never been happier.

She’s beautiful.

She has your nose, but not your eyes, and she has your wild curly hair. She can’t smile yet apparently, but you bet she’ll smile like her mother. One of your hands is held tightly in hers, her fingers gripping one of yours, and the other is tracing circles on her arm. You marvel at how her smooth, soft skin feels against your rough fingertips.

Every so often she flutters her eyelids, or twitches her nose, and you can’t believe you get to see this. You can’t believe you get to be here, holding her hand, counting her tiny breaths.

“She likes you”, Julia smiles, cuddling against your side. There’s more light her eyes than you ever thought was possible. You smile back at her, and you wonder if you have that same look on your face – of love and pride and wonder. You probably do.

You wish you had been here from the beginning. You wish you could have given Carla a father who was always there, and Julia a husband instead of a responsibility. You wish you had been better.

There’s nothing you can do about that anymore – you made your bed and lied in it – but there’s plenty you can do about this.

The last few weeks have been hell on Earth, but considering where they got you, you think they were the best few weeks of your life. Nothing in the world could make you take them back.