Chapter Text
“We accept the love we think we deserve.”
Blood, tears, sweat. That’s the smell you sense as the rain drains through the street in this late evening, in the middle of a relatively cold September. This side of the city, this street, holds dear memories for many people—both good and bad. It’s strange how a place tied to such horrid moments can still evoke a heartwarming feeling of nostalgia and closeness. Outsiders will never be able to feel the stability this side of town provides, the sense of closure it carries. However tragic and treacherous it may seem, it is home.
Every day, I notice people—young and old—walking down the street. It’s funny how the same species can hold so many different stories and feelings. At first, all you see is what they choose to show. Some have dark hair, some light; some have dark skin, some don’t. I see people who are tall and short. When I pay closer attention, I notice other things, like the expressions on their faces. Some wear smiles—big, wide smiles accompanied by loud laughter. Others have sunken faces and hollow cheeks, with all the colour washed away.
That leads me to the most interesting part of humans—what lives underneath. As intriguing as it is, it is also the most puzzling. I can never quite piece together what is happening in someone’s mind. That is the most fascinating thing—a straight face can mask a million emotions, a million thoughts, a million fears. But people are not born that way. As infants and children, they do not feel the need to hide themselves. Yet the world, especially its crueler parts, shapes them into being afraid of themselves—afraid to be vulnerable, even in an empty room with no one but themselves listening. The disguise becomes a weapon, or rather, a shield. When the world is out to get you, you simply do not let it near you—the real you.
It sounds like a great plan, but what humans fail to take into account is that living behind a mask changes you, and not for the better. They think they are clever, protecting their dignity by hiding, until reality strikes and they are left with nothing more than a stranger staring back from the other side of the mirror. It is hard to climb out once you have been thrown to the bottom, although it is not impossible—especially with help. But can another really endure the pressure to piece you back together, or will you both tumble back into the depths?
It’s stupid how they try to fit themselves into these small concrete boxes when their existence is so much more complicated and complex, so much so that no one can be placed—at least not accurately. The moment they realise it’s not important what you are, but how you are, is the moment they will be free.
Now, looking back on the street, I see someone approaching. Dark, short hair buzzed at the sides, light blue eyes that set a sharp contrast against the grim face, with cheeks either dark with dirt or burned by the sun. He is not really tall, but rather of average height, although it doesn’t really matter. The way he walks, the way he presents himself, makes up for his height; he seems intimidating, dangerous even. His arms are strong and broad, hanging at his sides, and his legs move fast, firmly stomping in front of him. The ground almost seems to shake if you pay attention. He has a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips, showing how little he cares about it—or anything, really. He is smoking Marlboro Reds. He thinks it makes him tough, like his father. He doesn’t really like him—he rather resents him—but the toughness is not debatable. He is walking towards me, through the gate in front, past the poorly mowed lawn, and up the front porch. He is not bothered to knock, effortlessly kicking the door open and entering, but not without looking both ways down the street first, checking if anybody saw him.