hoplesness
I could foresee my whole life as if I had already lived it; a succession of masts, convex, yacht tours and pole games. Always with the same limited people and bland conversations.
I felt like I was on the edge of a cliff, with no one to pull me. No one who cared. No one who even noticed.
My footsteps echo on the deck, but there is no living soul there to hear my silent despair. I run away from chairs and other obstacles. The night wind strikes directly against my face, whipping the orange strands behind my shoulders, rebelling against the clasp. I barely notice that I cry, because the tears, as soon as they fall, are carried by the wind, as if they wanted to fly.
I twist my foot. My foot stuck in this uncomfortable red thing, a smaller number than I actually wear.
Beauty hurts, I’ve always been told.
You need to look pretty, my mother would say, squeezing the corset so much that I felt as if my organs were about to jump out of my mouth.
Swearing, I take the heels off and throw them on the portside without paying any attention to whether they had reached their destination. I hear the sinking noise in response, and I am satisfied.
Now barefoot, I open the little gate that led into the third class space and I run again, pulling the bar of the formal dress up, preventing me from stepping on it and falling with my face on the floor.
As I ran, I thought of my mother, her dumb label manual, Cal, and of all that farce my life had suddenly become.
My stomach clenched.
I wanted to kneel and vomit, but I succeeded in changing the course of my thoughts, and nausea gradually subsided.
I could not bear the thought of becoming like her, with her courteous but closed face; hair tied on the top of her head and her reproachful eyes. If I ever became like her, I would point the barrel of a loaded gun against the side of the skull and blow my brains out. That was the size of my fear of being boring and ignorant.
So I ran with all my might. I ran away from her, away from that dinner with empty people, laughing at some banality, trying to satisfy their own inflated egos. Nothing displeased me more than egocentric souls.
I would rather die than becoming one.
Soon I found myself on the stern of the ship, breathing loudly, muffled, clutching at the metal bars with sweaty hands. It was night, so it was impossible to see anything beyond. For a moment I was fearful, wondering how we would divert from an iceberg in time before it was just under our noses.
I am distracted by the salty smell of the ocean.
How much deep would it be? If someone jumped, how long would it take to drown? Would the person die with the impact? Would it hurt?
If I jumped ... would that be the best decision?
