Dum Spiro, Spero
      Chapter 1  - Esse Quam Videri
 

Cold gray slate. The legs of the bench arch outwards, like they'd taken all the strain they could stand in one lifetime. But they'd always been that way, on the precipice of falling apart, the illusion is what gave them their gamely shape. It looked precious from afar, but withstood battering weather conditions and a thousand different occupants, and the blood that stained the foot. Apparently it was hard to wash blood off of concrete, she'd tried enough times to scrub it off, to no avail. No one else saw it, they insisted the stain was only in her imagination, but she knew better. It poured blood sometimes, when she was so tired, her eyes filled with tears at every yawn. Perhaps the concentration of her stare in the darkness, or a glare from the window did create imaginary images, when it got like this, she could no longer be sure.

Her heavy lids no longer able to shut of their own volition, she stands, slumped against the doorframe, staring into her once peaceful garden, the place her mother planted daisies every year, letting her pick one bunch for her room when they finally came to life before her very eyes. It never failed to amaze her, how one day there was nothing but dirt and mulch and her impatient adolescent self, would stomp away in frustration, only to come back a few days later to a garden full of daisies. It was magic. "It's not magic, it's patience and diligence," her mother would tell her every year, with a sly smile. Of course she was right, but Mother Nature and the beauty of the universe surely held some slight tricks of magic up its sleeve, of that she was keenly sure.

It had wilted in the first couple of years following her mother's death, until the fortuitous meeting of her big toe and a tiny shovel, had made her mad enough to finally open her eyes to the tiny messes she no longer noticed, right in front of her. She'd spent weeks on her hands and knees rebuilding the patches of daisies, with the paltry knowledge she recalled from watching her mother's hands make them appear, every year.

And still the cold, gray slate sat in the same spot, year after year. It had never seemed ugly until recently, amongst all the beautiful colors and fragrant smells, but the hard slab was dull and heavy in a world meant only for beauty. It didn't have to be that way, a hand carved piece of stone could be a piece of art in most people's eyes, but it had become the stumbling block of her dreams, the miserable reminder of the unmovable weight of her problems. Why she would stare at it endlessly, night after sleepless night, she could no longer fathom, her mental prowess, being what it was with next to no sleep could no more move it with her mind, than her soft hands could scrub it free of imaginary stains. She was not crazy.

She covers her eyes with both hands, turning her back on the dreaded fixture of her nightmares, swallowing the inevitable lump of disillusionment that would soon follow. She was tired of this, tired of being tired all the time and spending half the night, creeping around her own kitchen in the dark, playing with utensils, eating food that would surely catch up with her when she was forty, reading a book, whose page never seemed to change, and watching the moon fade into the pitch black sky. After the first few nights, of unsuccessful phone calls, to Abby (away on a conference), Drew (busy with her new life in NY), Bridget (fishing somewhere in a stream she couldn't pronounce), her father ("I'm sorry there's no doctor by that name registered"), even Pilar on some freakish whim (uncomfortable and short) she'd simply stopped dialing. If they cared, they'd call back, she no longer had the energy to push buttons into oblivion, her hopes dashed when the line would just ring and ring into an empty silence.

It was comfortable, at first, the notion of being contemplative and quiet in her emotion. She simply kept it to herself and her daily life continued undeterred no one the wiser, save for weekly run-in's with Danny. Her stomach drops an inch, everytime the name enters her nightly ruminations, she was lucky it didn't drag on the ground by the time she finally left the kitchen, night after night. The nobility in being the strong one got way too old, way too quickly. But it was expected of her, and Michelle Bauer always does what is expected of her.

That kitchen had become her sanctuary, the one solid thing in a house full of unsteady foundation. She could not stay in that room, for long periods of time, it had become nearly impossible. Every wall and every inch of that bed were too painful to look at. The living room was too communal in the middle of the night, when Rick would come home from a late shift, or Meta would walk through on her way to the bathroom, even the doorbell ringing was too much of a disturbance. The garden, was completely out of the question. At three in the morning, while the rest of the house was at rest, the kitchen was undisturbed. And mostly what she needed was peace of mind, whatever little shred she could find. In the chaos of her tears and exhaustion, she found the hollow place to perch her unsteady feet, in a quiet corner of the darkened room, every night, focusing all her energy on that cold, gray slate.

This night was different though, she'd opened the door, to walk in the garden, watching her feet take her to a place, she wasn't aware she was walking towards, if not for the fact that she was actually moving, she would have no idea how she got there. The dirt imbedded itself in her toes, as she crouched down low, to examine the legs of the bench, and the pores in the cement with specks of tiny red coloring them. The blood had flowed down the walkway that June night, to her feet at the bench. It was the first time she'd noticed the tiny spots of blood soaking the material of her dress, near her inner thigh. At the time she'd thought that perhaps Carmen's blood had splattered and hit her, it wasn't until later, after she'd removed the dress and saw the other spots of blood, that she'd know that was not the case.

So much blood, on that bench, in that peaceful garden. Why could no one else see it? She'd only, ever seen, that much blood on the beach that night...

Her open palm massaged the ground this night, where Carmen had lay, dying and whispering bitter nothings into her ear, assuring her of a lifetime memory of the events, happening before her very eyes. It was cold from the chilly late October air, a most appropriate finale. Mostly though, it was dirty, and try as she might to wipe her hands clean in the kitchen sink, the only thing that washed away was the surface grime. She cried so hard between scrubs, she was sure she was going to wake both Meta and Rick with her sobs. Somehow it was no longer Carmen who haunted her dreams, it was some unfathomable shadow that loomed over every moment. She was not crazy.

She gathers herself from the doorframe, slowly making her way towards the surreal room where love and happiness once coexisted peacefully in her, in that bed, in every thread of the carpet her bare feet tread. It no longer looked familiar, it was simply a place for what little rest she could give herself over to.

She lays calmly on the hard floor, her head atop the pile of leftover clothes she'd flung off hangers at some point, a few weeks ago and never bothered to return to their proper place. Her heavy lids close, beneath the weight... she was not crazy.

He turns from the suite, shutting the lights as carefully as he'd turned them on, every night, sitting on the edge of the bed and taking stock of the preciseness in every piece of furniture. The room was as beautiful as ever... for a picture, perhaps. The beauty had left a long time ago.

He'd close the door, waiting for the quiet click of the lock setting in place, before retiring back to his childhood room. It was on the other side of that particular wing, fifteen quick footsteps and the room was but a distant memory, he'd counted.

He retreats, closing the door behind him, looking at the slightly outdated furnishings of a lifetime ago. The cracked mug from SFU, on the mahogany bookshelf, still holding the pencils he'd chew in the middle of some all nighter in college. Everything as it should be... except for it's occupant, who'd grown up and moved out long ago.

He turns the desk lamp off, finding his way in the dark, laying carefully on top of the blanket, his eyes heavy... closing under the weight.

Fissures, that's what they call them. Barely noticeable on the outset, deeply imbedded, when you stepped close and really looked...



*Dum Spiro, Spero= While I Breathe, I Hope  
*Esse quam videri= To be rather than to seem