The Weight Of The Silence
The sky was covered with thick grey clouds, and the cold wind blew hard, making the branches of the trees sway. From the window of Ivan’s bedroom, the faint light of a streetlamp filtered into the surrounding space.
Ivan suddenly woke up. His breathing was heavy, and his body was covered in sweat. His eyes were wide open, struggling to get used to the dark, his heart pounding hard in his chest.
After a few minutes, of staring in to the darkness, he got up trying to reach the bathroom. He switched on the light and stepped inside, still breathing hardly.
He turned on the water and rested his hands on the sink, letting his face slide under the freezing cold water, not caring as his hair slowly got soaked.
He stayed there for a while before slowly lifting his head and looking at himself in the mirror. Goosebumps covered his spine and his chest, he could feel them, see them in his reflection and he no longer knew if they came from despair or from the cold.
As he stared at himself, small drips ran down from his hair and wet face, trailing over his pale, hollow waist, other sliding along his wrists covered in scars made only the night before making them burn and throb with pain.
There was only one word to describe him: broken. So he passed his cold, trembling hands over his face and took a deep breath. He hadn’t been able to sleep for the past two weeks, every night the same dream, the same emotions, the same lights and sensations.
So there he was again, standing in front of the mirror like he had been for the last three days, staring at the dark circles under his eyes and at his completely exhausted gaze, trying not to cry.
He just couldn’t do it anymore.
The condensation from his breath in the cold mixed with the smoke of the cigarette. His light, long hair, still slightly damp, was moved by the freezing wind hitting his pale face.
It was late at night, but up there, in the dark sky, there were no stars, not even the moon. From the top of that abandoned building, he could see the same things as always: a few buildings, narrow streets leading out of the city, several houses including his own, a lot of trees and the near forest, and finally the antennas, their tips glowing red.
It was so late that there were no cars around, and the only things lighting the streets were a few streetlamps.
He stood there with his arms crossed against the rusty railing, the cigarette resting between his lips.
Everything was still in the same place as eight months ago, everything but him. He wasn’t..
He closed his eyes and tried to remember those now distant days, even knowing it was going to hurt. He tried to remember his laugh, his smell, his eyes and his voice, even though he was starting to forget.
