Ink Stains 2

Deux

Some days, I couldn’t climb out of my bed. I spent many days crying, which is what you do, when there is nothing else, not a single thing in the world that you seem to like or care about. Those days I didn’t eat, I didn’t drink; I barely managed to climb out of my bed to use the bathroom. Those days were more frequent then many knew. And worst were the ones when I had to actually get up and go somewhere. Depressed people are often seen in black. During the days I was feeling depressed more than usually, I wore the brightest of colours. Because those days I didn’t care. I wore whatever was on the top of the shelf, not caring a tiny bit about matching it. People who didn’t know me always thought me crazy and happy one. The days following my depressed ones I laughed about it.

One thing that depression never made me was stupid. Many unhappy people often stop thinking, not caring what mistakes they make, since they’re sure there’s no way of making things worse. However, there is one thing that could make me feel worse and that’s people with annoying questions, thinking they were actually helping me. The last thing I needed was being send to some sort of so called doctor. So I made sure I was careful in a way that requested nothing of me. When you see someone hating people, dressing all in black with their sleeves always past wrists, you know. Or suspect at least. My wrists used to be cut in so many places, red lines crossing them like a net, yet no one ever suspected. Instead of long sleeved black hoodies, I always wore my sleeves short and my wrists were covered in friendship bracelets and lucky charms. No one would look for cut marks under them.

Once in a while, I got sent to a psychiatrist anyway. Because when you are dying, they suddenly pretend to care. I told the doctors same things every time. That I don’t need them, because everyone is dying and if anyone needs help, it’s the rest of the world, since those like me, who are told the fact by doctors, have the chance to realise it and get used to it. The ones who don’t know they are dying need their help, not us who know. Then I would ask them, how they feel about the fact that they are dying as well. They never replied. A got asked how I felt and I said that I felt alive, knowing the time I’ve been given and the best way to use it, even though what I haven’t thought about was the hours I’d be stolen when being made sit there and talk to them. I got asked about my love life and I said it was my cat and books I loved. I signed a paper, assured the doctor I’d call if I needed anything and left. On my way home I stopped for a cup of tea. During those days I drank green tea. It was the only thing that could make me warm inside during the bad days.

But there were good days as well. Days when I woke up to sun shining or a steady beat of raindrops on my window. Those days I began with a cup of hot cocoa and Minerva, the huge grey cat by my side. I spent those mornings in my bed, drinking the cocoa and listening Minerva’s soft purring, thinking about the day’s writing. Every day I wrote something, no matter that it sucked or that I deleted it later. The soft pounding of keyboard or scratching of pen on a piece of paper were most soothing sounds I knew.

For years my life was like a huge picture made of only two colours, mixed together so confusingly that one couldn’t tell for sure where one ended and the other began. Those colours were the only two types of days I knew, the bad and the good ones. There was never anything unexpected or exciting, the life went by like a sad slow song, overlooked and forgotten. It was simple, silent and I liked it. I liked being alone with only Minerva to give me company. I loved living by a coast with no neighbours for miles and often rainy weather that was made for staying inside, drinking hot tea or cocoa, sitting by a fireplace and reading, writing or drawing. There were no people in my life, save occasional calls from family to check on me.

Then one day there came knocking on the front door, followed by tiny rocks bumping from a window when I refused to get up and open the door. I expected to find a postman by the door, which was why I decided to pretend not to be at home, but the rocks felt more intimate, something coming only from a person I knew. Slowly I peeked from behind a curtain to find soft brown eyes looking at me with shy smile spread on lips. There was something calming and familiar about the face, even though I couldn’t remember the name. Opening the door was the best decision I have made so far.        

He never told me how he found me, or why he had decided to do so. He just knocked on my door almost ten years after I last saw him, the best and only friend of my childhood, and soon to become the best and only friend of my adulthood as well. In less than a month he made my spare bedroom his, and he often stayed for weeks. There were days when we didn’t say a single word to each other. Days when the first one to wake up made tea, started fire in fireplace and sat by it with a book in their lap. The other one would join them, not saying a single word not wishing to disturb the peaceful silence. Minerva often sat or slept next to us, her soft purring making the atmosphere perfect.

Since we met again, the bad and good days started coming in some sort of order. The days when he was near were the happy ones, the ones I was alone were the bad ones. The days he left in morning with a note and cup of cocoa were sweet, as long as he came in the evening. If he couldn’t make it, I often went to sleep with no wish to wake up again in the morning, and the night was full of nightmares. Sometimes, he arrived late in night, and found me wrapped in my sheets, restlessly moving in my bed. I could feel him laying next to me, holding me tight so I stopped kicking, and whispering soothing words into my ear. First few times he did that, I thought it was a dream, when in the morning I woke up all alone. But then, after a few months, I woke up into a rainy morning and he was there, peacefully sleeping with his arm around me. I watched him sleep, taking all his features in, so later, when he left again, I could paint him.