64’800 breaths
🥀 64’800 BREATHS
Three days. That’s how long it took for the real authorities to find them.
Three days.
Long and interminable, they dragged along her bones and broke each one of them until she felt like nothing more than the personification of damage. And yet, in the grand scheme of things, or even “just” in the scheme of things pertaining the Island, three days is nothing. It’s as irrelevant as a single drop of rain in a monsoon. Three days is seventy-two hours; it’s playing Bach’s Prelude one thousand five hundred and seventy times; it’s four thousand three-hundred and twenty minutes.
Roughly sixty-four thousand eight hundred breaths, even though Fatin knows she didn’t breathe nearly as many.
And for some sadistic reason, for some mystery of Fate, her mind keeps going back to those three days, to their heaviness, the claustrophobic feeling that crushed her shoulders during the entire two hundred-fifty-nine thousand and two hundred seconds that slowly crawled by on her skin. Back to her fogged mind and the cloud that obscured it, making it slow and hard to operate. Back to her body that couldn’t find a position to rest, a body inside of which she had never felt so uncomfortable before. Back to her hands, that had nothing to do but hold on to fingers that kept shaking, hands that ran through silky black hair tirelessly, hands that begged to be held back.
Even now, now that she simply sits on the abnormally large couch of her parents’ house, belly full of safe and healthy food, with her bothers resting against both her sides and her mother chatting gently on the phone; even now, the feeling comes back, slithering through the veins beneath her skin. And a cold feeling creeps in, the fabric under her legs becomes too soft, the cheeriness of her brothers too warm, the voice of her mother too delicate. And she’s back at not being able to breathe again, because all of this was taken from her once already, because she knows so much more can disappear in the time it takes for her to blink. And she’s up, so abruptly that Kemar tumbles over, so violently that her mother startles, so unfairly that her head spins; but everything around her is too tender and she needs to stand, barefoot on the marble floor, searching desperately for something hard. But the pavement is way too consistent, its materials way too fucking smooth, and the callouses under her heels are making her restless and she needs more, she needs more, she needs something crude and harsh to remind her that what’s around her won’t disappear if she breathes, that the house won’t turn grey and squared, that her room won’t shrink into a bunker cell, that the bodies of her family won’t dissolve into ghosts she’s forced to just remember. That her freedom to decide when to breathe, won’t be stolen again. And when she’s outside on the grass, when the fresh evening air hits her reddened face, when her toes dig in the dirt and the green blades are tickling the skin of her soles, her lungs open up and oxygen comes in. And so she breathes, reluctantly, she inhales and exhale standing barefoot on a backyard that is still too nice to the touch, still too gentle on the eyes to feel real, but at least loosely resembles the nature she was trapped in not too long ago.
The silhouette of her mother appears on the large French doors, that apology she has yet to speak still draped all over her features. Ahmad and Kemar then emerge behind Rana looking just as insecure, and everything becomes too much again. Fatin’s not sure when she started being so fucking aware of everything happening in her body, but lately it seems like she can feel every emotion on a physical level. And she hates it. She abhors it for right now she can indeed breathe and it’s the crippling anger that overtakes her. It’s the sheer resentment, the outraged fury that tickles the skin at her nape and makes her jaw clench. She can’t stand her mother. She can’t stand the pity looks and the noncommittal words, the tender worry and the blameless convictions. She can’t stand to see her brothers scared for her. Scared of her.
Just as quickly as she got outside, she’s gone from her family’s view again, rounding the house and going in from the side door reserved for the maintenance staff and Fatin herself, when she sneaks back-in. She grabs her keys and her phone and heads outside, car waiting in the driveway. Unlike the first time she exited the property so brusquely and almost caused a search party to scout the entire Bay looking for her, tonight nobody follows her, nobody asks, nobody worries. Not too much at least. Not out loud.
The engine turns on, roaring, and the music explodes from the speakers, way too loud to be deemed appropriate for such a respectable residential area, but Fatin couldn’t give less than a fuck. There’s too much silence in her mind and all the bitterness she feels towards her mother is free to run around in there and destroy her slowly. She just needs to get away.
She drives recklessly for hours, going nowhere and mapping all the roads of her area by memory just to feel a sliver of control. When she slows down and her shoulders fall losing all the tension she can still perceive in her neck, her face is stained by salty streams, and her lower lip tortured by nervous bites. She’s alone in the car and the music has been so loud she succeeded in not hearing her own thoughts for a while: stopping now feels like being reborn. But a new birth, with no one to hold her now that she’s here again, is terrifying. Newborns need warmth to welcome them, love to protect them, others to keep them alive. That’s why not thinking is fine, because when everything gets like this, she doesn’t like her thoughts and where they take her. So loud music and mindless driving and nervous crying are fine. Being alone is fine. And being isolated in her car is fine too. Reborn or not, she’s alone anyway, at least in there she has control.
She parks on top of the hill that has become herspot, takes out her phone, ignoring all the notifications and simply opening her call log. One name only occupies the screen, making the list of incoming and outgoing calls monotone and slightly co-dependent. But she doesn’t really care, there’s a reason if her call log looks like this, and it’s not her fault.
Two rings are all it takes, two rings and the most reassuringly familiar voice fills the compartment of her car just after a grumpy huff: – Bitch, you’re aware it’s almost midnight here, right? You might be out partying, but I was about to go to bed.
The voice is familiar, but the words take Fatin by surprise; she blinks into the night and looks outside, as if the lamplight could ever draw a calendar on the curb. Her voice is hoarse, the delivery uncertain: – It’s Friday already?
Dot’s breath gets caught in her throat, the happy bite of before completely gone, replaced by a gentle caring that makes the Jadmani’s skin crawl: – Fatin… – There’s ruffling on her end of the line, and she speaks urgently. – Switch to FaceTime.
When her best friend’s messy face appears on her screen, Dot doesn’t speak, just waits and keeps the exasperated sigh to herself: this is not an unknown occurrence; it’s starting to happen more and more often, though, and Dot misses the first days back, when all Fatin could talk about was useless, private High School gossip, idiotic hospital check-ups and the food her family’s chef cooked. Fatin would call and go into details about the personal lives of kids Dot won’t even ever meet, but she listened anyway, offering a joke or some smart-ass comment here and there. And the Texan could see through that charade too, but at least there were no tears involved back then. She liked it so much more.
– I hate it here. – Fatin’s voice is so feeble it almost sounds like the echo of a memory in Dot’s mind. – I feel so goddamn small all the time.
So Dot exhales, threads lightly: – What happened?
– Nothing. Abso-fucking-lutely nothing, Dorothy. – Fatin shakes her head, bitter, as she gets out of the car and sits on the hood, the warmth of the engine reaching the skin of her bare feet through the bonnet. – I was at the house, been there all day no problem, and then after dinner something switched... – Dot never misses how Fatin can’t seem to bring herself to just say home: it’s always “house” or “my mom’s place”, but Dot never asks. Fatin will tell her once she’s ready. Or maybe she just won’t ever talk about it, as she does far too many things. – Everything seemed too nice, you know? – Fatin is working herself up again, running her free hand through her hair and frowning deeply. – And my mother had thatfuckinglook on her face, and everything around me seemed fake, and I kept thinking back at the bunker and… – She stops herself, shakes her head, exhales defeated.
Dot is gentle when she responds, her voice warm in Fatin’s ears: – Why didn’t you call earlier?
She looks up at the screen, surprised, the bags under her eyes evident in the streetlights: – I didn’t think about it. – She surrenders.
And Dot can’t keep this question to herself, she can’t not ask and underline, because Fatin is really struggling and she shouldn’t be this lonely: – You know you haven’t said her name in almost two weeks, right? – Her best friend decides to play dumb, so Dot spells it out for her without even feeling guilty about it. – Where is Leah, Fatin?
The girl leans back, lets herself hit the windshield and lay on her car completely: – Her parents took her to an inpatient facility. They’re staying there with her, it’s… – Her eyes are dark and evasive, moving too quickly to let Dot read them. – It was the right thing to do, Dorothy.
Right or wrong, if there was one thing TheBitch had done that wasn’t serving her own selfish motives, was having brought the girls in, all of them, in pairs. Fatin doesn’t have that anymore, and it must be so devastatingly hard: – I’m sorry you’re alone. – She mutters, voice dripping with guilt.
Fatin looks positively taken aback by the statement: – I’m not alone, I have you.
And it’s so matter-of-factly, Dot almost resents having brought up anything in the first place: – Of course, but it’s not the same as the rest of us.
Fatin hums, pensive, the cloud that fogs her gaze still too thick for Dot to feel at ease. But then the Bay girl speaks again, pushing their exchange in another direction, one that’s safe and comforting, one that doesn’t involve dealing with things. At least not her own: – How’s our pageant queen doing? – She smirks, moving her hair from her face.
Dot chews at the inside of her cheek and looks somewhere beyond the phone in her hand: – She’s already asleep in the other room, I think. – Her hazelnut eyes go back to the screen, and she studies carefully her best friend’s reaction to what she’s about to say. – But yeah, nervous… you know, for school next week.
Fatin almost invisibly winches, another thing she had completely forgotten about: – Right. – She’s quick to recompose herself, and to someone else it might have even looked like a simple involuntary movement. But not Dot; for some unspoken, celestial reason, they can read each other like words on parchment paper, and they both know it. But Fatin is good at avoiding whatever makes her feel anything, and lately, it’s starting to become her favourite thing to do. – What about the dad situation?
– Social services are handling it. – Dot huffs out. – Her father is not allowed here anyway, and she’ll turn eighteen in a week. – She shrugs again, watching the line between Fatin’s eyebrows start to disappear. – It’s just a question of holding our stance for a little while longer now.
Fatin nods quickly, the new question burning on the tip of her tongue: – All good with Toni?
Dot smirks, sits up straight and moves the covers away, shaking her head: – You know I know what you’re doing, right?
Fatin throws a sly side-glance her way: – Yes, just as I know you’ll let me keep doing it too.
– You can’t keep deflecting like this, Fatin. – Dot’s voice is hard; Fatin can see her worried features turn stoic in the dim light. – Are you going to therapy?
Her comeback is biting, the tone almost as harsh as her features: – Are you?
Dot nods, eyes soft and voice gentle: – I never thought I’d say this, but it’s helping. – And Fatin hates the care that’s dripping from her words, hates the tingling tears it solicits, hates that what is working for Dot, is doing absolutely nothing for her, if not making everything worse. – I had to switch therapists a couple of times, but it helps now.
– I’m going. – She cleans her face roughly with the back of her hand even if she knows Dot has already seen the tears falling slowly. – I just don’t think it’s beneficial.
And in the face of Fatin’s defeated frown, Dot gives in: – Toni’s fine, I don’t know what her and Shelby are doing, but Blondie said Shalifoe will probably be able to get back into the basketball team if she wants.
Fatin perks up: – And does she?
Dot snorts, keeping the laugh to herself: – I don’t think Toni herself knows. – After a beat of silence, when she sees Fatin’s eyes turn pensive again, she adds. – Martha feels optimistic about it though, which tells me Toni will probably go back to basketball after all. – They all had something to go back to, something to pick back up or reinvent after the Island, everyone but Dot. Her dad is dead, Mateo dissolved into thin air, and she only has Shelby to think about now. But the others can all reclaim their lives as they see fit, and stubborn, angry Toni will shine on the court now that she has all this controlled rage to channel. – You know, deep down it’ll help her.
Fatin nods, seeming all too concentrated on the empty road in front of her. Then her voice gets shaky, and her head tilts in apprehension: – Martha’s still not dancing?
– Still nothing. – Dot won’t hit Fatin back with the same question, she knows her best friend hasn’t touched the cello yet, not even to simply move it. It’s written all over her, in the hands she needs to keep cracking, in the way she moves so stiffly, in the unconscious, nervous tapping of her fingers. So Dot indulges her, tells her that despite everything, all the others are doing okay. That somehow they keep going, that somehow they are rediscovering themselves and what’s around them. And Dot talks about all of them, all of them but one, the one Fatin is itching the most to know about but won’t dare ask. And the reason behind that, is the only thing that evades Dot, bothers her to exhaustion because it could be thatsimple. Not that Dot knows anything about Leah anyway, but simply spelling out her needs would take Fatin a long way. Still, Dot won’t ask, won’t poke, won’t comment on it, not yet at least, she’ll just maintain the topic on herself and the girls, all the while trying to ease Fatin’s spiralling mind. – But I spoke with Bernice this morning, she wanted to send a food basket or something, and she said Martha has been going to an animal shelter every couple of days. It’s helping. – Fatin’s shoulders relax, and with them even Dot’s heart rate slows exponentially. – Oh, and Rachel got back in the pool. Nora said it was empty, not even their parents there, but they both floated in the water for a while and that was that. Rachel looked happy.
Fatin looks at her through the screen as if she was the most absurd thing she had ever seen: – I think you’re the only one who talks to her.
Dot frowns, confused: – Rachel?
– Nora. – The lines that run along Fatin’s forehead are hard, but there’s no sign of the panic that stained her symmetric features just minutes ago. Dot is relieved, she understands this kind of Fatin much more clearly than the previous one. She can read that erratic version of her best friend just like every other, but it’s the conclusions that she never quite knows how to draw. Panicked Fatin is unpredictable, and Dot is too far away for comfort. – I still can’t think of her without boiling up with rage. – Fatin finally confesses. And out of everything they’ve discussed, it should be the most cathartic sentence of the night. It should bring Fatin to a better place of understanding of herself; of everything around her; of all the things that are stuck in her head and tearing her down. But Fatin doesn’t realise it. She’s too far gone to understand it.
– It’s different for you. – And Dot doesn’t think that Fatin is aware of the why of it all either, the reasoning behind this difficulty and this enraging sentiment she arbours towards anything Nora-related. But it’s not vital now, Fatin is opening back up. – You’ll get there.
From the hood of her car, Fatin nods, humming silently. Her head has been resting on her knees for a while now, eyes wandering around her. She likes this hill, likes the parking spot that’s always unoccupied, it offers a nice view of the town below, and if she squints her eyes hard enough, she can even see the ocean: – And what about you, Dorothy? – She asks, turning her brown eyes to the screen, a sea of uneasiness now washed away.
There is no more fog around them, Dot can see clearly through them, through the calm rhythm of Fatin’s breathing, and she knows this is her opening: – Well… – She smirks, cheeky. – Considering my main activity pre-Island was selling drugs, I think maybe I’m glad I haven’t gone back to it yet.
Fatin snorts, smile overcoming the fabricated smirk of before: – Are you telling me I won’t have a personal dealer on speed dial, Dorothy?
And Dot is laughing now, the cigarette she had tucked behind her ear falling disgracefully on her shoulder: – Sorry to disappoint, princess.
– Then what on Earth are you using all that storage space for!? – Fatin stands up, tall on the hood and spinning around, Dot can see everything around her, even in the dark. – ‘Cause it just looks gayer if it’s empty, you know that, right?
Dot exhales, faking exasperation, hiding the insurmountable amount of relief she actually feels: – And she’s back, ladies and gentlemen!
Fatin chuckles, exaggerates a curtsy, murmurs something unintelligible, then she stops moving, gets off of the car and shoots a sincere look at her best friend: – Thank you.
– Anytime. – Dot nods. And it’s true: she won’t be able to rest if she’s not completely certain that Fatin knows she can reach out, that she knows she’s not a burden, that she’s aware she’s not entirely alone. – You’ll text me once you’re in bed?
– Yes. – And to that Fatin gets back behind the wheel, rolls her eyes, but gives in easily anyway. – Goodnight, Dorothy.
– Night Fatin.
The call closes and Dot remains on her bed with just the lamplight sending shadows against the almost entirely bare walls of her room. But there is a lingering gloom in her mind, it’s a buzzing feeling that doesn’t leave her alone: Fatin’s not well. She’s the one that’s worst-off out of all of them; including Rachel and Martha. Including Leah. And Dot doesn’t know what to do. She rolls the cigarette in her hand, pensive. She doesn’t even smoke that much anymore, the Island kicked the habit for her, whether she wanted it or not; but she enjoys always having a cigarette around, to play with and to take the tobacco’s smell in. And she’s aware it sounds like some bullshit from The Faults in Our Stars, but she doesn’t particularly cares. Chewing on unburnt cigarettes calms her, so that’s it.
A not-so-bald head appears on Dorothy’s door, lingering in uncertainty, waiting for a formal invitation, one that Shelby knows full well won’t come: if the door is open, she’s always welcome. But some of Shelby’s old habits seem harder to kick and at Dot’s raised eyebrow the blonde surrenders, going to sit at the foot of the bed, offering a cup of water to her friend: – How’s she doin’?
Since they came back, for some stupid reason, Shelby’s accent has gotten more intense, and Dot is not sure how to take that development: – Not well. – She huffs, forgetting the cigarette and grabbing the glass. – She’s having all these small breakdowns she doesn’t know how to handle and doesn’t even recognise. – She drinks the water in one gulp, puts the glass on her bedside table and turns back to Shelby, blue-eyed, spirit-always-high Shelby, and smiles sadly. – And she’s not processing a thing. At all. Not the Island, not the fact that we’re back, not all of this mess…
Shelby reaches ahead, squeezes her hand: – And with Leah gone, she’s alone.
– Wait. – Dot frowns. – How’d you know Leah’s not home?
Shelby shrugs, nonchalantly: – Rachel told me. – And what follows really shouldn’t be as surprising as it is. – They text, I think. – But they both share a slightly incredulous look, right before recomposing themselves and going back to worrying.
When Shelby’s with her in her room, the world doesn’t feel so empty to Dorothy. Things don’t seem so unsurmountable. Dot will always say she’s glad the other girl’s here with her because her family is nasty; but the real reason is that she would have been so fucking alone without her. Just like Fatin is: – I’m worried about her.
– I know, me too. – Shelby stands, straightening the hoodie she stole from the bunker in secret. It’s not hers, after all, better if not too many people know about it. – But try to keep it at a reasonable level, Dottie, there’s not much we can do from here, and I don’t want you to run yourself to madness.
Dot’s smirk grows: – Will do, mom.
– Mock me all you want, I’m not about to lose you too.
There’s bite in Shelby’s voice, there always is as of late, but Dot doesn’t blame her for it. Shelby’s home life has blown up entirely, she just came back from a deeply traumatic experience, and became the talk of town for moving out of that nightmare house. And they have yet to go back to school on Monday. So Dot will be patient with her too, she knows Shelby doesn’t really feel the harshness she displays, and as soon as her inner turmoil settles, Dot will be there to point out that being rude served her no good in the first place.
Her phone pings, taking both hers and Shelby’s attention to the washed-up bedside table. Dot unlocks her cell, looks down and smiles.
PRINCESS💅:
📷: [image attachment]
Want one with less clothes?
– She got home safe. – Dot mutters as she looks up, finding Shelby nodding at her satisfied. – Emergency subsided, I guess.
The blonde smirks, cooks her head to the side: – I’m glad. I’ll leave you to it, Dottie. I’ve got the early shift at the café tomorrow.
– Oh, yeah, yeah… that’s right. – Dot remains silent for a moment, ponders what to say to the friend in front of her and to the one on the other side of the phone. She thinks about the café, about how Ms. Marshal took them both on without too many questions, how they have already managed to work out a schedule that pairs well with their school commitments. She never thought she’d say this, but she’s pretty optimistic about what’s to come, with school, and Shelby, and the job. As absurd as it is, it seems to her that she has more support than ever; maybe she’ll survive this year after all.
When her dad died, Dot never even thought about finishing high school: she’d go on the fucking retreat (just because it was her dad’s last wish – pretty fucking ironic, by the way) and then she’d find something stupid to do with her life. Low-level jobs for an all-around non-special kind of person. And that was the plan even after the Island. But Shelby Goodkind came crushing right through those plans, when she stormed crying through the door. With a ton of family drama and a whole lot more determination than Dot remembered her having, Shelby used her father’s connection against him and got them both a decent gig. Not that they can afford fancy stuff, or going on trips, but they won’t have to worry about food, which is much more than they could say about their situation barely a month ago. So Dot will fight to hold her future self to a higher standard: she won’t go to Stanford, or Harvard, or Columbia, but maybe she’ll get her own little college degree, and it’ll be enough. Or at least that’s what she dares to think now.
And when she finally comes back to Earth, Dot finds that Shelby is still carefully watching her with the same look that convinced her to at least try it out, and Dot is simply grateful: – Goodnight Shelbs.
And the former Pageant Queen exhales, lets her head fall to look at the apron she’s so stubbornly (needlessly) smoothing out: – Sweet dreams, Dottie. – And she disappears into Tim’s old room, the one Dot still can’t get inside, the one Shelby was so reluctant to accept she almost tried to flee the place altogether. That girl’s just so fucking stubborn.
Dot snorts, drives her attention back to the phone in her hands and the open chat that awaits her.
ME:
No need bitch.
Still str8.
PRINCESS💅:
Ur loss anyway.
ME:
Just try to get some sleep.
PRINCESS💅:
❣️
I’ll get u one day.
U know I’m both incredibly stubborn and unbelievably irresistible.
And the usual sassiness, the familiar smugness, does ease a little bit of Dot’s worries. But it’s not enough; she knows it’s just a matter of time, she knows Fatin has somehow managed to get herself cut out from their safe little circle all the while still giving the illusion of being right in the centre of it. And Dot’s in Texas, and Fatin’s in California, and it shouldn’t worry her like it does because in theory Fatin has a whole squadron of people willing to help her at her fingertips, but in practice Dot knows her best friend and she’s certain Fatin has carefully pushed all of them away too. And they haven’t survived literal hell, to die like this, caught up in their own fucked up psyches, whether it is a metaphorical death or not. Because for some reason she can’t exactly pin-point, Dot has started to fear that too. It’s a tingling that goes down her spine and confuses her: she needs to stay more alert, for what, she’s not sure.
But she’s sure it’s too early for her to jump to conclusions, too early to raise her concerns to anyone else but Shelby, who has promised to keep them close to her heart. If she doesn’t, Shelby might just as well have gotten Dot cut out of Fatin’s life too; they both know it, and neither of them wants it. And it’s not like Dot has real, hard, undeniable evidence, the so menacing tingling on her nape is too little to go on with. It’s just a feeling, one that runs slowly through her spine whenever she hears her best friend’s voice, one that makes her hair stand up high when she sees her restless face, one that manifests in the sick grip that enslaves her stomach when she perceives the evasiveness of Fatin’s tormented gaze. So Dot will keep her eyes wide open, will keep all her channels privileged towards Fatin, her ear on the ground through the other girls and just wait. Intervening too soon will only get Fatin to shut down anyway.
She shoots her best friend final text and turns off the lamplight: Shelby might have the first shift tomorrow morning, but Dot has a fuck-ton of things to do around their place. She needs her rest.
DOROTHY:
🖕
Fatin frowns when the message finally comes through: – Well that was anticlimactic as fuck. – She laments. – All this time to respond, and just a middle finger, that bitch.
She tosses the phone aside and looks out the window; she’s not sure when it happened exactly, but she has started to look for constellations into the night sky. She can’t really see anything from her mom’s place in the middle of The Bay though, everything and everywhere seems too light-polluted for its own good.
But she doesn’t need to see the stars to know where they are. She stared at that same sky for so long, she can draw out its map behind her closed eyes. The problem is she doesn’t really want to close her eyes, she doesn’t like the flashes of memories that overtake them, the clenching on her heart that makes it hard for her to breathe all over again. So she groans, decides she’ll just lay there for tonight too, as mindlessly as she can, listening to the silence outside. She always ends up drifting uncomfortably to sleep anyway, even if it’s a restless, nervous slumber.
She’s pondering if she should get changed into her pyjamas or leave that for a subsequent agitated moment, when a gentle knock startles her. Her door is only semi-closed, so she composes herself as quickly as she can while whomever is outside reveals themselves: – May I?
Fatin stutters, clears her throat as the feminine voice comes through: – Y-yeah… – To be honest, she thought it would have been one of her brothers coming to show her some new Minecraft trick, but it’s way past their bedtime and they haven’t done much of that since she’s been back. Her eyes snap around the room to ponder if she’ll get in trouble for the mess, but she decides that her face is the only thing she has the time to fix, and the most important one too. – Come in, mom.
She’s still rubbing the dry streams of tears from her cheeks when she feels the mattress dip beside her. She looks up, and for a moment she’s sure her mother wasn’t expecting her to do it so soon: Rana’s usual, stoic mask is cracked right in the middle, and for what feels like the first time in her life, Fatin sees the fatigue in her eyes, reads the crease on her forehead as worry, the frown on her lips as irreparable brokenness. But her mother is rapid in scolding her features back to their solid neutrality, and what could have been something cathartic for them both regresses back to their cold, toxic dynamic: – Were you asleep?
Fatin pulls her legs against her chest, shakes her head slowly: – No, not yet.
She watches her mother move her hand to reach for her only to stop mid-air; Fatin tries to fight away the pain that scraps against her chest at the millionth failure to cross that demolished bridge that is their relationship. But Rana has stopped, and Fatin sure as hell is in no condition to meet her halfway, so she just looks at her mother swallow uncomfortably: – Did uhm… – The woman clears her throat, uncertain. – Did the drive help you calm?
Fatin nods, glad the conversation has vetted to a topic she can more or less control: – Yeah, a little… Dorothy too.
– I’m glad you two stayed in touch.
She looks at her mother’s hand, still purposelessly laying on the duvet: – Me too.
– Do you… – An other unnecessary clearing of her throat, her eyes escaping once more. – Would you like me to schedule you further commitments with Doctor Nicholls?
Fatin snorts, bitter towards the stuffy, formal way her mother has ended up talking to her: – You are aware she is the British one, right?
– Fatin… – And Fatin hates that tone, she despises it. It’s the way her father always used to drag the vowels of her name around in warning, as if they didn’t matter. She guesses he’s gone, but the bad habits have stayed behind.
– Sorry mom, it’s just… you keep beating around the bushes instead of just saying things, and that phrase sounded really posh, even without the accent.
A smirk appears on her mother’s features, one Fatin rarely ever sees: – I’ll let you know I’m very good at accents, my darling.
Fatin opens her mouth, completely taken aback by the playfulness: – Please never do that again. – She chuckles softly and shakes her head: this is nice. – I already see her twice a week, mom, I don’t want more.
Rana Jadmani lowers her head, careful: – Well, it’s not like you use those session or anything.
– Wow. – And the gentle feeling Fatin was just basking in has already faded. – So much for the sacred privacy of therapy.
– Don’t backchat, Fatin. – And the playfulness of before is gone, her mom is back at being stoic, with that little undertone of caring worry. – She doesn’t say anything to me, only that you’re still not comfortable enough to talk to her. She suggested… – Rana takes a pause, and Fatin watches as her mother’s eyes roam around the room: they stop on the pile of discarded clothes in the corner, the cello case against the wall, the empty school bag. And Fatin would lie if she said she saw disappointment in her pupils: there’s a sliver of pain amidst a storm of insecurity. Her mother exhales and brings her focus back on Fatin, – Do you maybe want to try someone else?
– No, mom. – She shakes her head, hides her own gaze away. – I like Doctor Nicholls.
– Then why aren’t you talking to her?
– Because I get enough psychoanalysis here, I have no idea why I even go there. – Fatin’s snaps her head up immediately, finds her mother’s eyebrow knitted together. – Sorry, I’m sorry. It’s just… I like her, I promise, I don’t want a new one.
– Okay, okay, I’ll back off, but please… – This time Rana’s hand almost grazes her fingers. – …please let her try? – And Fatin’s heart breaks a little less loudly. – And let me know if I can help you in any other way. – Fatin nods, and Rana stands, slowly but surely, she moves away. – Try to get some sleep, okay?
Fatin forces a smile, keeps the snarky remark to herself: – I’ll do my best, mom.
Rana closes the door behind her, and Fatin gets up to change into some pyjamas. She knows simply wishing for things with her mother to be different is not enough to change them, but she would really like for something to be simple like that. And yet nothing is. Not that she expects life to be uncomplicated, but it sucks that it hurts so much. Everything hurts. Even breathing.
Her head is hitting the pillow before the lights are off, eyes attached to the window. The pool is lit up, reflecting off on the garden and illuminating the deck chairs. Tomorrow she’ll turn the pool lighting off; it messes with the sky.
She looks up to the fast-travelling clouds, searches for the constellations she barely recognises, and a familiar, husky voice echoes in her head:
“The hills step off into whiteness.
People or stars
Regard me sadly, I disappoint them.”
Maybe tonight her mind will end up being too tired to keep running away from her. Maybe she'll just be stuck on repeating a warm memory instead. And maybe, just maybe, that will be enough for her to stop counting every breath.