#ahhhhhhh i am not 100% happy with the structure

[takivvatanga]

She had the dream again.

The dream that has been haunting her all her life. The dream that wakes her drenched in sweat, her heart in her throat, her mouth dry as the desert. The black and gold dream, the war dream, the death dream. The dream that she is never quite able to recall, even though Assire knows in her bones that it is always, always the same.

She opens her eyes.

The bedroom lies in complete darkness, cool and calm and quiet. She can hear her husband breathing quietly beside her, and she is acutely aware of how very, very much she wishes she could wake him like she always used to. But sleep does not come easy to him anymore, these days. It is as if he crosses a threshold as soon as night begins to fall, frantically searching for something, for someone – for her, in spite of the fact that she is right here, right here with him. Some nights, he cannot settle at all. Others, he sinks like a stone. No, she does not dare disturb him.

Assire sits up. Doing so is an effort. There is an aching in her bones, a heaviness across her chest, her head is pounding, the afterimages of her nightmare still flickering across her mind like ghosts.

Her mouth is so dry.

Her mouth is dry, and her body is so tired, so old, she’s falling to pieces, crushed under the weight of the decades. Her mind, however, is wide awake, as sharp as ever. 

I’m going to go get a drink of water. Sit out in the garden for a while. Yes, that’s what I’ll do.

When did it get so hard to stand up?

Sometimes she can’t remember a time when she wasn’t old. Other times it feels as if it was only yesterday that she was young, that she was strong. Assire is not sure which one is worse.

She should really take her walking stick.

I’m only going to the kitchen, what’s the worst that can happen?

Her steps are small, shuffling, unsteady. The dull pounding headache behind her eyes rises in intensity, a red hot pain that makes her vision swim. Unceasing. Nauseating.

Assire shakes her head and pushes on, all parchment-like skin and brittle bones and steely determination, grateful for being able to hold onto the hallway cabinet for balance.

The light is still on in Stella’s room, a thin sliver of brightness spilling through the door. She never closes the door anymore. Assire knows that her daughter worries, that she, too finds sleep difficult to attain since she’s been back home. Stella has always taken on too much responsibility, has always been a little too concerned about the wellbeing of others – her parents included.

She grew up too fast. Was it my fault? What if –

Assire does not get the chance to complete the thought. Her foot catches the edge of the hallway rug. She grasps at the cabinet with all the strength that she still has, trying desperately to find her balance, to stay on her feet. It is no use. She falls to the ground, one hand stretched out in an instinctive attempt to break her own fall. The impact knocks the air from her lungs, there is a sickening organic sound as something snaps somewhere between her elbow and her shoulder. Assire bites down on her lower lip to stifle her scream. 

“Mum! What the fuck, Mum? I told you a million times, just call out if you need anything!”

Assire manages a smile, despite the pain. Her arm feels like it is on fire, she can hardly feel her fingers. She is proud of her daughter. Her tall, swift, noisy daughter. Her energetic, headstrong, rebellious daughter. Her caring, empathetic, conscientious daughter who, without being asked, has put her whole entire life on hold for her. For them.

“I didn’t want to wake you, sweetheart. I just wanted to get a drink of water. Your father is fast asleep.”

She tries to push herself up, her face twisting with pain. What she can manage, however, is to hold her uninjured arm out to her daughter.

She remembers Stella reaching up just like this when she was very small, a wordless demand to be picked up and carried. Happy little thing, with bright blue eyes and a head of dark curls, endlessly inquisitive, always looking for contact, for interaction.

I used to pretend I didn’t know what you wanted. Because I was so scared. Scared that I’d do something wrong, that I’d drop you, that you’d get hurt. Scared that holding you would leave me overwhelmed with love for you. You’re the best thing I ever did, do you know that?

Stella pushes her hair off her face. There’s grey creeping in around her temples, there are dark circles under her eyes, fine lines etched around her eyes, around the corners of her mouth. She has never been traditionally beautiful, has always had an uncomfortable sharpness to her, but she has aged well – so she keeps getting told. People don’t usually believe her when she says that she’s well into her fifties. Not like she cares about that, anyway. Stella has never put much stock in appearances. She sighs, crouches down, catching her mother’s hand in hers as she does so. It’s small and cool and fragile, like porcelain covered with parchment, dappled with sunspots.

“You should have called for me, Mum. Are you… are you hurt?” Her voice is low, calm, reassuring. Stella has always known how to pretend.

Assire shakes her head, shrugs her shoulders, winces as she does so.

“My arm… I’m not sure. That was quite the tumble, you know?”

“Can you move it? Your arm, I mean.”

“I’m not sure, sweetheart. I’ll… I’ll be okay, I’m sure it’s fine. I’m just thirsty. And my head hurts.”

“I’m taking you to A&E. Can you hold on to me? We’ve got to get you off the floor.”

“Stella, don’t fuss.”

“I’m not fussing, Mum. I’m trying to look after you.”

Like I always have.

“Just… get me back to bed with a drink and some panadol. It’ll be fine by morning, and if it isn’t, well, you can take me then. Why, we can even take your father along for the ride if we end up going. I’m sure he’d be delighted to pay a visit to his old haunts.”

Assire chuckles, her eyes bright with both mirth and pain.

“Not like the family outings we used to have, huh?”

Stella can’t help but smile. She remembers their day trips, riding in the back seat of the car, her father driving, her mother completely absorbed in the scenery rushing past, a faraway look in her eyes.

“Hold onto me, Mum.”

“Be careful, Stella. I’m heavy.”

“No you’re not.”

Not to me. Not anymore.

She lifts her up as if she was indeed weightless, holding her mother’s frail body cradled tightly against her own.

“Stella. Sweetheart. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, Mum. You don’t have to be sorry. Shit happens, yeah? Just… don’t get up by yourself next time, okay?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Stella carries Assire into the lounge, flicking the lightswitch with the back of her hand.

“You… you’ve carried me all your life, haven’t you?” Assire leans her head against her daughter’s shoulder, closes her eyes. It is the truth. The whole, raw, ugly truth that she has never been brave enough to address before. She’s always relied on Stella. How many times has she dragged her back into reality, forced her to connect, reminded her that she is real, that others depend on her, that she has a duty – as a mother, as a wife, as a friend, as a human being. Assire is a riddle, one that Stella had to find the answer to all on her own. Parents shouldn’t be riddles for their children to solve.Parents should be responsible for their children, not the other way around.

I tried. I tried and I tried and I tried, but I didn’t try hard enough, did I? You spent your whole life carrying me, carrying my burdens, and I couldn’t see it. Half the time I couldn’t even see you, because I was so busy trying to figure myself out. I’m so, so sorry. You deserved better.

“Mum, I- alright, real talk. Yes I did. Yes I did and yes I still do. But I don’t mind. Not anymore. Not like I used to. I mean, you’re my Mum. I’m supposed to carry you, aren’t I?”

Assire shakes her head.

“No. My burden – my trouble with myself, I never should have let you witness that. And believe me, I tried. I just… I should have tried harder. Stella, I’m so sorry. And I know that sorry doesn’t make it right. But i wanted you to know. I didn’t understand, then. I didn’t understand for a long time. But now I do, and i am so very sorry.”

Stella doesn’t know what to say. She doesn’t want to hurt her mother’s feelings by agreeing with her. Besides, it’s not as straightforward as that. Stella knows she wasn’t exactly an easy child – climbing out the window, getting picked up spraying graffiti in the middle of the night, caught in an endless circle of rebellion and defiance, wanting so desperately to be seen. To be loved.

But she did love her, didn’t she? She’s said as much just now.

When you love someone, you try. To be better. For them.

Stella can feel her eyes starting to burn, her breath catching in her throat. Something has opened, deep in her chest, no, in her soul.

Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry. Fuck.

“Mum?”

Her voice is small again, almost childlike. She remembers calling for her just in that tone, her little hands tugging at the sleeves of her mother’s cardigan, desperate to bring her back, to make her real, to force her to connect.

“Stella.”

“Do you… do you love me, Mum?”

Stella’s face is wet with tears. She doesn’t care about trying to stop them. She is overflowing, with grief, with love, with connection.

“More than anything, sweetheart. More than anything.”

@bloodwoes gets tagged in this for reasons