Facing the music

Beauty, in its essence is a delightful thought, ever flowing, like the Clair de Lune by Claude Debussy. But there was nothing left of beautiful here. No, it was all bones, blood, vomit, pain and doubt. Though she could recall her strong resolve, as someone who has yet to appreciate the gift of life, reveling in the stubborn certainty of youth, she wondered if this hadn’t all been a rather monumental mistake.

She couldn’t bear opening her eyes, facing failure. She could feel the light, the aching glow filtering its way underneath her skin. That was enough to tell her she was alive. Panic burst into her lungs like sharp fragments of shattered glass, and she gasped for air. A prickling confusion flooded her soul, and she could hear The Campanella blaring in her brain, that much suited her present state of mind. What now? The endless procession of psychiatrist, the big show.. A Talia in the making once more she would become, a true Lady Lazarus.

Her candid arrogance, the perpetual bewilderment of a young soul, fighting to come to terms with ones beliefs and lack of hope, made her vulnerable, an easy prey to recklessness.

Everything in her body ached, screaming for relief, begging for a pill. Those little bits of heaven, that could cast away the wickedest of spells: those little bits of hell.

She sat up, and graced her surroundings with a jaded look. White, green.. but the white wasn’t really white, more of a greyish beige, and the green had a tint of yellow, sick yellow. A nurse glided through the door, and checked her drip, she gave her a pitiful smile. Something that was meant to be kind and helpful, but was neither.

Being underage, the parents would’ve been alerted by now, and these were probably the last minutes she would have to herself for quite some time.

Being beautiful wasn’t a blessing, but more of a curse. And, despite the fact she was at what is known to be the sweetest age, she only felt a sickening repulsion. Her head was crammed with discarded dreams, riven between something that resembled Lotr and a premature education in debauchery. She already had a Masters degree in cocaine, Smirnoff, and Marlboro lights, though she hadn’t even finished school yet. But at the end of the day, did it all really matter? It most definitely wouldn’t have, if only she had gobbled enough Valium, that she had so carefully sneaked from her father’s pharmacy cabinet. If only she had a few left now..

She got up, and swallowed the melted unease, the bitter acid taste of her sick burning holes into her throat. Her vision was obstructed by what looked like bright, tiny rainbow coloured particles of dust. Out of balance and numb, she staggered, dragging the intravenous solution stand behind her. After what felt like a strenuous expedition, she finally reached a chair, on which her belongings had been neatly deposited. She gingerly reached out for her black leather bag, the needle of the drip digging alarmingly deeper into flesh.

Nothing. She gazed absently at her phone, scrolling down the messages. A single one from her only friend at school, an other from a ‘friend’ coming to terms with his overdeveloped libido, and her mother, her constant and graceful, peach coloured bathrobe mother. They all seemed to be from a former life.

The door was all of a sudden propelled open, and in walked the troops, frantically determined. She smiled carelessly, humming along to the Overture of the Marriage of Figaro. Glorious.

Another refraction in her kaleidoscope life.

 

Tomris Kutluoglu