Cruelty Of Love

There have always been a hell of a lot of memories, but what about dreams?

I closed the big metal button of my black shorts. When I turned my dim eyes to the full-length mirror standing in front of me, I came across my pale face that I was not happy to see; my face, which informed the state of my soul, was beyond expressionless. That strange numbness mixed with sadness had replaced the most innocent expressions, like tearing a heart out. I seldom smiled, like a rare and elusive flower.

I put my dark blonde hair in a tight ponytail on the top of my head. I hated both letting my hair loose and having it fall out on my back. My posture was always upright, paying particular attention to my posture; I needed to prove to myself first that I could stand upright. The outer contours of my sea-colored eyes were pale, not as a sign of insomnia or any disease, but as a visual indication of my addiction. But I had learned to cover them up with dark, smoky makeup.

Lavin.

Lavin Pole...

That's the name my ironic personality got when he was born, who, despite being afraid of the dark, feels like he belongs in the dark.

My mother wished I had not been born.

My mom says I nearly bled to death during and after the birth. Before I was born, my heart stopped in my mother's womb, and for forty minutes I refused to leave the body I grew up in, as if I knew what was going to happen to me. While the passing seconds continued to increase the risk of my mother's death, at the end of forty minutes, the doctors who decided to take my body piece by piece from my mother's blood-vomited womb noticed that my heart started beating at that time; when they ignored me, I stubbornly existed.

My heart should never have beaten, and my heart beating should never have been noticed.

I owe nothing to anyone in this life, but my mother always says I owe her for carrying her to the edge of death and turning her womb into a dry land where a new baby cannot be born. Unfortunately, I can't give her what I got, and she didn't want the love I was so eager to give when I was a little girl.

The feeling of boredom that was constantly accumulating inside me was embedded in the layers of my exhaled breath; sometimes I got tired of my own words, my own sleep, my own room, my own bed, and my own habits for no apparent reason. I even got tired of my own boredom. I was not making friends with anyone, avoiding talking, and withdrawing into my shell a little more every day.

Do you hear the screams?

Fragmented comment.

Do you hear the silence?

I'm dying.

Even though I have a watch on my arm, my eyes shifted to the clock on the nightstand; the hour and minute hands were making their circular rotations idly. I thought the clock was back a few minutes, then I rolled my eyes at the thought: What an important detail.

Then I suddenly remembered what day it was; it was the sixteenth today, and it was Wednesday. Oh no, I can't have forgotten. I could meet my father today. I walked over to the nightstand and opened the first drawer.

I still had time, so I sat on the edge of my bed with a sigh. My eye fell on the snow globe on the nightstand, a gift from my father. Maybe that's why I had a special weakness for snow globes. I pressed the little button on the side of the orb; the little snow inside it started to move with the colorful lights. As if the snow were falling softly on my face, peace overcame me.

I put my arms on the nightstand and continued to watch.

I turned it off by pressing the button on the side of the snow globe a second time. The sound crackled, giving the news that it was now deteriorating.

I took the phone and earphones on the side of the nightstand and decided to listen to music.

The right earpiece was pulled hard from my ear. I turned my head to the right, trying to understand; the face I saw was my mother's angry face. When the flames of anger rose in the eyes of both of us, it was inevitable that we would fight each other by hurting each other. Fortunately, I was sure of one thing: that my mother would never talk to me at length, or maybe I should have said she couldn't bear to keep any conversation long unless it was about herself.

My mother was a remarkable woman in every environment she entered; she would appear at all imaginable invitations. There was no one who didn't know him or didn't talk about him. Even seven years after he broke up with my brother, he married another man, and even when he was being mentioned, he wasn't meant by his own name but as Sevgül Hanım's husband.

My mother was cold-blooded; he had no greater pleasure than to set people against each other, to bring down one with the help of the other, and to enjoy forced good manners and smiles, behind which he felt a resisting hatred. The people around him changed from day to day, but the majority was always by his side.

Unlike my dry loneliness, that was my mother's vivid talent.

The ability to always keep people by his side.

My mother said, "Get up, Lavin!" "Today September is coming; I will give an invitation in honor of her arrival at the house, and everything is ready, except you." He took a deep breath. "The driver went to pick up your sister from the airport."

So my dear sister was coming at the end of September. He called me several times yesterday, but I did not answer his calls. They were probably calling to let you know that he was coming. The September session, which proceeds in the same monotony every month...

"What's that to me?" I hissed.