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a b l e n k u n g
{ brauchen }

[German]: To need, seek, or provide oneself with a distraction.

I HATED TO admit it, but on some days, it felt like I was suffocating. As though in an instant, a cosmic black hole had all the oxygen sucked out of the atmosphere, draining it all and just leaving me stuck here. Senses warped, body stiffening, lungs collapsing. Like an iron fist was vengefully wrapped around my throat, sharp fingernails digging into tender flesh.

And I could feel the choking. The asphyxiation.

The stench of impending death.

Still, I knew it was all my own delusion. My mind going haywire, as usual. Because, of course, there was still air left in the world. Perhaps even more than enough to go around.

It was just for everyone else but me.

Many times, I wondered, and I hated to. I wondered if I had been walking on hot coals my entire life, and I didn't even realize it until much later. Until the sole of my feet had been burned so badly, it was all just numb. So, so numb. And now, the embers against my skin had become so well accustomed, it was simply ash meets ash.

Too late, either way.

April 10th, 2002.

My eyes remained fixed on the date. The time marking that had been ingrained in my memory, ever since I learned what it signified. I figured it almost seemed ludicrous, because I was so young. But still, nothing had been able to erase April 10th from my memory. It was there. I didn't even need to waste my time, staring at its carved form lodged into the back of the picture frame. It was there.

With a rusted nail, I remembered engraving those symbols into the ramin wood. Digging each letter, and every figure with strong intent. I wanted it to be marked there. A semblance to my own brain tattoo.

The picture frame in my grasp always seemed so much heavier. Especially around this time of year. The simple wooden piece would weigh on my hands like it was suddenly a hardened cement block; pushing down, and becoming so unbearably heavy, I couldn't hold it anymore.

Slowly, I felt the pendant that had rather become an extension of my neck, and I blinked. My eyes were dry. Only the fleeting movements of the hair strands obscuring my face, assured me I was even breathing properly. Let me know I was even breathing at all.

Still, I knew that despite the fact that I had oxygen, I was suffocating.

Because this room was suffocating me. My thoughts were suffocating me.

She was suffocating me.

As though I had been wired, I slammed the picture frame on my bedside table. Faced down, but where it always was. Not now. I couldn't bear to look at her now.

To have her look at me.

Although like the desperate little girl I reckoned I still was, I hurriedly picked it up again. My fingers frantically glided over the sleek surface, as I searched for any cracks—a split. Any signs that I had broken her in my fucked up state.

Finding everything the same as it was before, I heaved a sigh of relief.

You're safe.

I put the object back down. But more carefully this time.

And then, in a seemingly rushed daze, I tossed a large hoodie over my tank top and sweats. Afterwards, I shoved my cellphone and keys into deep pockets, and all but raced out of the apartment. I needed something to drown out the deafening chaos in my head.

Something to make me forget the stranger of a woman I loved most in the world.

__________

Clovers. The old, wooden sign fixed above was like a breath of fresh air to my lungs. Especially considering they were recuperating from my quick sprint.

Still breathing heavily, I tried to compose myself as best as I could, before making my way in.

The bell jingled above my head, and I nearly smiled at the familiarity. To be honest, I didn't come here as often as I should; work, and other factors in consideration. Nevertheless, I always felt this way when I did. This light-hearted flutter in my chest. No matter how small, it was a much more appreciated relief than I got from any medicine.

After all, what better way to escape your life than a bookstore?

"Cass, mo stór!"

Abruptly back in focus, I beamed as the woman behind the counter rushed toward me. Her short, ginger red hair bounced off her shoulders, and her bright green eyes almost twinkled with excitement.

Her arms were wrapped around me in an instant, and I chuckled when she squeezed before pulling away.

"I've missed you too, Nini."

Niamh O'Connor was the beloved owner of Clovers. The quaint little bookstore, with its rustic and nature themed interior all made sense upon meeting her. Granted, the influx wasn't massive yet, but more than eighty percent of the people who came here were regulars, or were going to be. And it was all because of Nini and her golden sunshine of a personality.

Speaking of which, she feigned a look of hurt and pursed her lips. "Not nearly. You haven't been here in over two months now. That's hardly fair." Just as I was about to apologize, she stared at me in confusion. "Maitheas, did you run all the way here? Look at all that sweat."

I laughed. "I'm sorry, Nini." Absentmindedly, I tried to wipe some of the sheen off my forehead, the tendrils matting my skin shifting as a result. "And yeah, I needed the run."

Nini clicked her tongue before waving me off. "Enough with the apologies, you can say sorry to me by having dessert. I've got shortbread and cream brownies. Oh, and some delicious tea too." She paused, and with a wink, she added, "Don't worry, I could add a dash of whiskey if you'd like."

Shaking my head, I succumbed to her walking around to push me further in from behind.

While I acted as though I could care less about the food, I was secretly looking forward to eating. Nini was an Irish immigrant, and along with her accent—as well as other factors—every treat she made was infused with the traditional taste of her home. I loved it.

Well, she also did try to sneak alcohol into everything she fed me.

"Alright. You go pick your reads, and I'll meet you in your corner with the treats." She bumped my hip, before proceeding to walk away. "And don't be shy to take off that hoodie, love. Hardly anyone's in here, anyway. You can cool down."

I nodded, and Nini strutted off. Although I did glance around once more, just to make sure. I could only spot a pregnant woman and her daughter a couple of aisles down.

Taking off my hoodie, I tied the sleeves around my waist and made my way over to the shelves. I grinned, satisfied, when I realized Nini had stocked up on some more classics.

Hypocritical enough though, and true to my nature, my fingers languidly skimmed over the panels. Always straying away from fresh starts, as they led me to the stories I had read, and the lives I had lived many times before.

The Catcher in the Rye. Making up my mind, I picked it out immediately.

I walked towards the back of the bookstore. It was a section adequately secluded from any prying eyes. And although Nini had a small area where people could purchase edibles to snack on, I always preferred to read and eat here.

It was my corner, after all.

But I actually stopped short when I slipped behind the last bookshelf.

An unfamiliar pair of brown eyes met my own, and the girl they belonged to stared at me in surprise. Her dark curls framed her round face in an afro, and for a few moments, the both of us just stopped short, saying absolutely nothing.

But that was before she looked back down and continued reading.

A good number of awkward seconds passed, and growing a little uneasy, I decided to be the first to speak. More accurately put: attempt to be the grown-up. "Um, hi."

The girl didn't look at me; she didn't say anything back at all, even. Her eyes remained on the page, but she simply curled into herself all the more, as though she wanted to become a part of the bean bag. My gaze strayed to the empty cup beside her, alongside a saucer with a single shortbread. It looked like what was left.

I couldn't help but arch a brow, but then I shrugged. She could just be shy. I, for one, at least knew that feeling.

"Here you are."

Nini made her way in with a plate of shortbreads and two cream brownies, my glass of iced tea not exempt.

"Thank you." I smiled, taking the mini tray from her hands. Although I gave her a questioning look once my back was turned, as though to ask: what's up? She hardly ever let anyone in here for the mere sake of.

Still, the woman only gave a nod, and her tone was a mere murmur when she spoke next. "Come."

We both left and went to the counter, where Nini instinctively put some items in order. I slung an arm over the smooth top while I waited for her.

"That was Cameron," she started after a while. "She's been coming here everyday for nearly two months now."

I spared a momentary glance in the opposite direction. "She's a little shy, isn't she?"

Nini sighed. "Well, yes. Something like that." I didn't bat an eyelid, urging her to continue, "She reminds me of you, actually."

"What happened?"

Her green eyes found my face, as though she was a little surprised I didn't beat around the bush. There were only a few things that could have struck something so familiar between myself, and the silent girl in the back room. "What happened to Cameron?"

An unmistakable sadness washed over her features. "Gang raped a year ago. Filthy bastards murdered her dad, too." Almost on instinct, my fists clenched, but Nini only went on. Her voice dropped to a shaky whisper, like uttering her next words would form a monster capable of poisoning the entire room. "R-race crime."

My heart immediately broke for someone else. I swallowed, feeling a lump grow in my throat, as I experienced a hurt that wasn't even my own.

It was a monster. And the room had been poisoned.

But the kind in people's hearts—it didn't even measure up; it didn't even come close to that.

For a few moments, neither of us said anything more.

"I'm going back," I said to Nini, breaking the silence after a little while. "I'll see you before I leave."

The truth was, I had no idea what I was going to do, or say. Because wasn't a time to say, I'm sorry you were raped. Neither was it a time to say, oh, and I'm sorry about your father's death, too.

I'm sorry humanity's gone.

So, I really had no idea how the words were going to form. But surprisingly, I knew I wanted to talk. It was a chaotic combination.

Shifting past the last bookshelf and back into the cozy little space, I spotted Cameron still reading. As expected, she showed no signs of acknowledging my presence.

Although I thought I did see her shoulders tense just a little.

What could I say to someone whose wounds had cut so, so deep?

What would I have had someone maybe say to me?

I stayed quiet, as I plopped myself down on the bean bag opposite Cameron, and I asked myself the same question over and over. I hated talking about my feelings, so perhaps I would have preferred for nothing to have been said to me.

But Cameron wasn't me.

Still in thought, I sipped on the iced tea, and I fought the urge to roll my eyes once I tasted the unmistakable hint of whiskey. Of course, she knew I would say yes.

With another indulgent sip, my eyes strayed all over the room. Then, like a surreptitious hint, they finally landed on the book Cameron was reading.

To Kill a Mockingbird.

I felt my heart hurt a little more.

"I've always believed Maudie was right," I spoke up, not wasting another second to think. She didn't look, or spare a glance at me yet, but I wasn't expecting her to. "Trusting a man to do what's right, is the biggest tribute anyone can do to anyone." It was then I observed Cameron's pointer finger that had been gliding over the book cover so far, suddenly come to a stop. "Because all we can expect is wrong, anyway."

She finally looked up at me; eyes a little wide, lips slightly parted.

"I just read that two pages ago."

I shrugged. "Guess I've got a good eye."

The sun rays from the windows suddenly increased in brightness, and the light reflected on her brown skin. All the shine gave her a beautiful, golden glow.

She looked like an earthen angel.

Only her wings weren't up anymore.

Cameron glanced down at the book before speaking up again. Her voice was soft, tentative, and if I wasn't listening hard enough, I might not have even heard the words she muttered next.

"But why?" she asked, as though she was simply speaking to the air. Simply asking anything that could give her an answer. "Sometimes I wonder—even then, why was it so goddamn hard to treat people as people?" She turned to look at me. "Why is it still so difficult?"

"I wish I knew," I said to her. Slowly, I moved to the floor, and then balanced my elbows on my knees. "But I still don't have the answer either. And I guess we'll never find it."

"What?"

"We'll never find it because there's no rational reason not to treat a person, as a person," I continued. "There is no reason. And I've decided that the lack of one, is my answer."

I could see her take a deep breath, and her eyes—her dark eyes looked weighed down with all the unimaginable sadness she carried. The hurt, loss. The flames of justified anger licking at her shoulders.

"He...All he did was exist," she whispered. "All he was, was my dad, and they killed him. They killed him because he wasn't light enough. Because he wasn't fucking white." Her tone had sufficiently hardened, and with a sharp intake of breath, the girl paused. "Do you know how that feels?"

"Cameron, I—"

"I know Nini told you."

"Then, no. I don't know how it feels," I answered her honestly. "All I do know, is that no matter what, someone who treats another person in a way that's inhumane, simply because his skin—because he looks different," I pushed on. The air in the room seemed to be getting thicker, but Cameron's eyes hadn't left my face, and I was glad. "All I know is that a racist is nothing but utter trash."

That a rapist is nothing but utter trash.

She stayed silent for a long while. "It doesn't take a genius to know Tom's gonna die anyway," she said at last, adding a humorless laugh as she closed the book in her hands. "And even if you already know it, the name's Cameron. What's yours?"

I faltered, a little taken aback at her sudden shift in mood. The hollowness accompanying the unshed tears in her eyes when she spoke about her father, was nowhere to be found. The deep set resentment when she intentionally avoided the other thing.

It took a while before I saw through her coping mechanism.

Everything before that was a slip.

"Cassidy," I said at last.

She nodded. "I knew you were the one. Nini's told me a little about you." She gently patted her hair down, and I simply continued to watch her. "I don't mean to be weird, but how old are you?"

I offered her a small smile. "Twenty one. You?"

"Fifteen."

I felt a sharp twinge in my gut. 

Fourteen. 

You were freaking fourteen.

Cameron dropped the book, and leaned forward to grab her last shortbread. Her stare had shifted from cold to indifferent now, face impassive as though she'd totally switched off. I couldn't help but wonder: was this what I looked like?

Still, she only ate the biscuit, before lightly brushing the crumbs off her fingers. "You just might leave your eyes on me if you keep staring." Just when I thought she would retreat, or even get upset, her lips quirked up. And then she let out another chuckle, much to my surprise.

"So you got any embarrassing stories, Cass?" she asked, arms folded as she faced me squarely. With a snap of her fingers, Cameron looked at ease now, her stance calm. "Because I've got a ton."

And I didn't know for sure how much time passed, or how fast the clock ticked. All I knew was that my stay drifted into hours of light conversation, amicable silence, and a promise to come by the book store a lot more often, as requested by a certain curly haired girl.

I couldn't have spent my day a better way.

__________

The pressure still weighed on my chest, but I figured I had a little more air now. My head also wasn't quite as loud. The noise wasn't as unbearable, or as deafening as it was before.

It still felt heavy, but I held the picture frame in my hands, and I allowed myself look at her this time. How her name was neatly scrawled at the bottom left corner, the cursive letters spelling her out.

Claire Matthews.

Gabby was asleep, but that was fine, because she wouldn't hear me regardless. The tears spilled over as I stared into the blue eyes that mirrored my own. Honey blonde hair blowing wildly in the wind.

You looked happy.

And I let the familiar feeling overtake me, as I was stuck here once again. Bordering on the thin, white line separating love and loathing. Both equal sentiments I held toward my mother. Toward the woman I barely even remembered, hardly even looked like.

There were still so many things I wanted to ask her. So many things I didn't get the chance to say.

The frustrating tears dropped from my eyes, and onto her face. And I already knew she could only ever be this way now; frozen, mute, buried six feet underground. Unable to reach for me no matter how hard I reached for her.

It was a nightmare I had woken up from, one too many times.

But still, that didn't stop me from wishing that for once—even if just one time—Claire Matthews' hands could brush away these tears instead of my own.

__________

Translations | Irish to English

Mo stór » "My dear." / "My darling."

Maitheas » "Goodness."