Reawakening - Grace Collins
The evening is heavy with the dreaded anticipation of yet another corporate function. The drinks are flowing, glasses clinking and snatches of conversation drift and linger in the air. I am imprisoned, standing in the shadow of my husband who grows larger and larger as he is continuously praised for his recent software development. Technological jargon rises above my head as I feel myself sink lower into the ground, wishing the heavily patterned carpet would swallow me whole.
I feel inadequate; a feeling that always hounds me, especially during these events. I will have people smile in my direction, ask the same questions over and over, not really listening to my answers. Leaving me in the gloom, useless to their conversation and insignificant to the wider picture.
I slug back the flute of champagne in my hand and look across the room. Everyone who is anyone in this company is here, the women in floor length dresses that catch the light and sparkle, and the men in freshly pressed tuxedos, their hair slicked back and shining. I fiddle with the strap of my own dress, feeling ostentatious and uncomfortable for it. The sea foam silk dress skims my body and pools on the floor around my feet. It makes me feel as though I am beacon of light, signalling to those around me that I want to be heard and seen. Nothing could be further from the truth, but it was a gift from my husband. He was so proud the day he presented me with this dress, a ridiculously old fashioned notion, yet I couldn’t say no to his request. His eyes were pleading with me, wishing I was just a little more like the other wives.
Searching for a passing waiter to deposit my empty glass and gain a refill, I spot her across the room. Barely visible amongst the towering men. There she is, holding her own, a circle of men gathering around her, laughing at her animated story, her hands fluttering in the air.
1
My breath stuck in my throat and my hands instantly start to sweat. Her blonde hair, lightened over the years with exposure to the sun, shines brightly under the artificial lights. Her skin is illuminous and radiant, her eyes sparkling. She looks ethereal, untamed in amongst these suits. I am instantly transported to another time where another version of myself was untroubled, happy, free.
The air around me swirls, my vision blurs, heart racing. My hand clutches at the fragile flute with a force that causes the stem to snap and the glass to shatter, clattering to the floor. Eyes swivel towards me, smirks playing on their lips. My husband’s brow furrowed. She looks up at the commotion and sees me standing there, shaking. The blood starts to slowly seep down my fingers, dripping silently onto the hem of my dress, the pain pulsating in my fingertips. Its own heartbeat.
She makes her way across the dance floor, never taking her eyes off me, her lips trembling slightly. She takes my bleeding hand gently and leads me away from the surrounding crowd, proclaiming that she is first aid trained. Her hand, soft in my own, feels like a homecoming.
We go to the bathroom and I lean against the sinks as she busies herself with a wad of tissue, keeping her head lowered. I can see gulps of air travelling down her throat, her eyes flickering back and forth, too uncertain to give me direct eye contact. She wets the tissue and passes it over to me. I place it on the cut, and watch as the blood mixes with the water, lightening and blooming against the porcelain sink. I try to think of something to say; a million words fog my brain but I can’t get anything substantial out. This woman was my everything, many years ago now. She was my light, my safe place, my home. I reach out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, but my hand freezes in mid-air. The guilt I feel cannot be replaced by a simple touch.
2
The night I met her, the student union was crowed, dimly lit and as always, slightly grimy. The surfaces were sticky, my feet coated in a layer of beer, and hair wet with perspiration. It was the night of the pyjama social. Hordes of girls dressed in baggy, large t-shirts and gym shorts. Boys were clad in their check bottoms and vests. Felt tip pens were tossed around as everyone signed each other’s top or skin. The alcohol was following, confidence gaining ]traction with every shot we downed and every pub we set foot in. The music was blaring as we danced around each other, laughing as we sang our hearts out to each song, bouncing on the balls of our feet.
I was making my way to the bar, swaying slightly as I forced my tiny frame through the crowds of people, when I saw her. She was standing completely still, in amongst the chaos, the noise and the throbbing crowd. She was tall and her body lean, dressed in a nightshirt and cycling shorts, with her hair in a loose plait that fell over one shoulder. I felt the world slowly come to a halt as I stared at her. The air thick and heavy pressing down on my head, my hands clenched. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest as our eyes locked. I was confused. I had never had this reaction to anyone before; this earth shattering clarification that I was destined to know her.
My breathing became constricted, the bodies crushing me as they continued on, blissfully unaware that my world had altered forever. The heat became oppressive and I ran for the exit, desperate to be out in the night sky, to feel the November air blow against my skin. She followed me as I held my face to the darkness, the cool air circulating in my lungs. Illuminated in the moonlight, her skin appeared to glow. Her hair was translucent. Her movements slow. She was the epitome of being free. All my life I had the expectations of others weighing me down. I was told what to do, when to do it and how to do it. University had been the first tentative step towards the life I wanted to lead. It gave me the beginnings of freedom away from the prying eyes of my parents and the secretive whispers of my small town. I was finding my place amongst like minded people and when I stumbled upon her, I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be. She took a step forward and smiled at me.
3
She takes the first step, her hand cups under my chin as she tells me that I look well. I can’t help but roll my eyes at this lie. I feel small in comparison to her. Washed out and discarded. Her hand starts to make its way to the back of my neck, an old habit resurfacing. My body stiffens as a shockwave of pleasure shoots down my spine. My head inches closer to her fingertips; a movement that feels natural even after all these years. My breath is short and sharp as our bodies align, both of us connected to this moment.
I break away slightly and her face loses that dreamy expression, her eyes snapping back to the present before we are both swallowed by the past. I smile at her, laughing a little to cover my embarrassment, the heat radiating in my body. To be in her presence, even after all these years, I simply feel alive. I can feel my body reawakening with all five senses on high alert. The world seems brighter somehow, the air cleaner, every touch is magnified as her voice rings in my ears. I feel more like myself. I think back to the last ten years, how I have moulded and fit into whatever shape was expected of me. I became the perfect wife to someone who had big ambitions. I put my dreams in a box and buried them. I allowed someone else to step into the light. Never once complaining, as I truly believed that this is what I deserved after I broke her heart.
She leans back against the floor length mirror, stretching her long limbs, her head gently knocking on contact. She reminds me of our cat, a gorgeous tabby feline who likes nothing more than stretching out in the morning sun, her eyes closed and face tilted towards the light. I say her name and feel her eyes boring into mine. I can sense that she is studying my face, noticing the lines around my tired eyes, the dark shadows that lay under them, and my skin slightly grey with exhaustion.
4
I ask her how she is doing. But I know the answer to that. For years I have religiously followed her career and personal life through social media. I have watched her work appear on countless news articles, taped her documentaries and watched them over and over again, cried when she announced her engagement to a local news reporter. Her life was everything I wish mine could have been. What hurts the most is that I had the opportunity to lead that life. She willed me to follow her, to peruse my dreams of becoming a writer, to travel with her, to be with her.
After three years together at university, with our youthful selves itching to the take the next step, I pulled back. Gone was the girl who ran into the woods at dusk to chase the erasing light. Gone was the girl who auditioned for the main roles in every drama society on campus. Gone was the girl who loved open water swimming, risking the danger to feel the cold-water wash over her. I became scared. Scared of what was expected of me, scared of what I faced going home, scared of what my life would be if I followed her. The day I told her no is a day that is carved in my mind forever. The memory still springs from seemingly nowhere and I find my whole body aching with the pain of remembering the look on her face.
We were in our shared bedroom, the double bed rumpled with sleep, photos hanging on the wall and vintage records, collected from numerous charity shops proudly on display. The beginnings of a life together. She sat with her laptop balanced on her knees, checking the flight prices to Bali, her forehead creased in concentration. I remember looking at her, as if it was the last time, I would see her. Watching her fingers tapping on the keyboard, I realised that there would never be anyone as beautiful as her in this moment. Her hair, shorter now, was tangled from sleep.
5
She was wearing one of my old concert t-shirts, her legs bare. Her cup of coffee stood empty on the bedside cabinet that overflowed with receipts, scrunched up post-it notes and loose change - the debris of student life. The seconds it took for me to fathom the courage to say that I would not be following her across the world, but instead taking up a position as a paralegal at my fathers’ firm, were the longest seconds of my life. As these rehearsed words spilt out, I felt myself becoming caged, hemmed into a space so small that there was no way for me to turn around and change my mind. I was allowing myself to be tamed by what society expected of me, and being with her was not what was expected. I was trapped. Looking back, I see that I was the one with the key to set myself free - and on that day, I threw it away.
The bleeding has stopped now, wads of blue paper towels litter the sink. I start to collect them and look for a bin. Her hand pulls at my wrist so I am forced to stop what I am doing and face her once more. She can see my pain, the life in which I have become a shadow, the exhaustion of being perfect taking its toll on me. Not only was she my partner, she was my best friend. The only person who could comfort me, calm me and soothe me. The only person I wanted to laugh out loud with until my stomach cramped with pain. The only person who I whispered my greatest desires to, knowing that they would not be mocked, but supported. This woman who I should have shared my life with, who would have gone to the ends of the earth to make me happy. I gave it all up to be someone else’s wife. Another cog in a machine that would wear me down and spit me out when it was done.
I turn to go, to re-join the party, but before I can make it to the door, she grabs me and spins me around. Her lips are on mine, fleetingly, but the indent lingers. She tells me that I was the most alive person she had ever met. That I was free, wild and untamed. That I was beautiful. I was confident. I was everything that she had ever wanted.
6
My eyes fill with tears of regret as she pulls my chin up to look at her, her face serious. She tells me that I am still all of these things before leaving me alone in the bathroom. I take a deep breath and face myself in the mirror, my hair ruffled, my make up slightly smudged. My hands clasp tightly on to the sink; knuckles white with the pressure I am applying. She believes in me. An old flame of determination flickers in the pit of my stomach. It is barely there, yet it has not gone.
Written by Grace Collins
I work in HR and a part time MA student in English Literature. Avid reader and writes book reviews on Instagram @thecwtchbookclub when not walking the puppy.
