Flashes of blue, green, and white peered through half-open windows—colorful light reflecting off the faded paint on the walls and casting the bedroom in a dreamy haze. The resounding booms of firecrackers and pyrotechnics lit up the midnight sky. The loud banging of pots and pans, yells, and laughter all greet the new year—cheeky grins and grateful sighs for time passing, for newfound opportunities, for a cycle that repeats over and over.
Yet, as celebrations filled the streets with lively spirits—she remained in her room, seated at the edge of her bed. Her eyes stared languidly at her open hands, following the heartlines. Despite the loud noises of the world outside her bubble, it felt muted—distant somehow, foreign. The sound is ever-lingering, but it doesn't quite reach her enough for her mind to register it. One breath after the other, slowly building up to short gasps, soon, the pulse follows like soldiers marching around the encampment. It appears she had dived in too far, retreating into the dark, into safety—strongly persisting against the instinct to rise back to the surface. And then, the undercurrent hits, a hand clutched to her chest like a small voice—one that beckoned her to live.
Calm down, calm down.
Reach in.
With a shaky breath, she pressed her fingertips against the warm skin of her chest. There remained a steady beating, familiar and present—a reminder that blood still ran through her veins, carrying life that would never abandon. The pads of her fingers passed through flesh, reaching deeper within and past the bones of her ribcage. Soft creaking and lazy gushes emanated from the layers of tendon and tissue that parted to make way. The heated dark red blood slowly but surely dripped onto baby pink bed sheets, matting the fluffy hairs of the blanket on her lap.
The brunette remained unblinking. Her unwavering gaze remained on the moonlight streaming in through white linen curtains as they fluttered in the gentle breeze—a stark contrast to the bleeding mess that she was. Inching ever closer, her hands finally brush against a mass of muscle. The thrum grew quicker as fingers wrapped around it. There was a brief moment of panic, of labored breathing, of bile rising to her throat—of death by drowning.
Brief silence.
Spluttering coughs bounced off the walls, then a deep gasp of breath. Big brown eyes looked down at her palms as blood dripped from between her fingers. She leaned in and pressed her forehead against the still-beating heart—a strange comfort washing over her shaking form. A memory of a time when she was but a baby, held against her mother’s bosom while lullabies filled her restless days and darkest nights. She blinked once, then twice—vision progressively getting blurred with tears.
This constant and calm pattern dictated her days, months, and years. This wonder of human creation had carried her for so long and never faltered, even as it raced wildly. When she stood at the foot of her childhood home—urging her to go in despite all her hesitation and reservations about returning. Whichever stage welcomed her with maddening throes of doubt, the sound of the audience clapping elicited bile from the depths of her throat—yet, the heart remained a lingering touch. A quiet symphony of certainties in the changing roads that life took her on.
How lucky you are to be alive.
With touch as gentle as the effervescent light of the darling moon, she slowly pushes her heart back within the safety of her ribcage and past the gaping chasm of skin and frayed nerves. It happened quietly. It came about like second nature. For one to have examined one’s heart with their own eyes, with sharp hearing—to have understood the loss of it for a second, to have spoken silent conversations of gratitude. It left as quickly as it had arrived, with only the unwavering thrum of the muscle that nestled between her lungs—a memento of trials, a monument that served as proof of a life persevering.
And with everything else happening outside the four walls of her room, the parties, the songs sung, and calls to dance in the streets. A scene that she would often find overwhelming and loud now provided her with a tenderness and aching nostalgia—like a lullaby once nightly sang but had slowly been forgotten to time. With a heavy sigh, she leaned back. The mattress welcomed her into its arms, the depression on it carved out of years of comfort—of laying in the same spot and position. Tired arms tugged previously bloodied covers over her contented form, head resting upon the softness of the pillow and lulling her to well-deserved sleep.
Rest, most ardent heart, for there is newfound hope in our veins.
Sleep, for there are still eclipses to fathom and equinoxes to conquer.
