here lies a coward [berry+maria]

I’ve only ever had my picture taken one or two times since my mother’s death. Before she died she loved to take photos, and even though she was an absent mother with high standards, and even though she was a woman that worked and really attended her own daughters birthday parties let alone the days when she did plays, or entered contests her mother still liked to take photos. Thinking back on it now all I can say is that she tried to care, but back in those days it was as though she was trying to fill the gaps between her absence with a fake family. She pretended everything was okay, that there weren’t cracks in this china doll; she was oblivious to the ships and broken bits, because she was ever so good at faking it. Take a photo here, snap one there, slap them into the badged of a worn out photo album and there you had it. Evidence that our family was anything but dysfunctional.

That was the viewpoint I had adopted before her death, but now that she is gone and I am left to carry the entire burden of her freak accident I see it in another light. I have to picture every photo a moment I had to cherish with her. As I flip through those torn pages, the faded scribble of her messy writing signalling some tale she had created I was reminded of a woman my father loved, not of the woman that had done little more then tolerate me. No, she had loved me. Yes, yes she had, she had loved me.

(She had, she had, she had).

There’s a fine line between a chant filled with lies and the truth hinges on desperation. I crossed that line long ago, the songs I sing, of stringed words, the same words that are echoed to me daily by pale-faced servants. I see the way they say it, lips trembling as though every word they say is a forced lie. I know they’re lying to me, and yet I can do little more then believe them because my heart is so broken it wants to be mended. Thus, these lies that fill my mind have become my truths and I hear the wail of my soul telling me I’m wrong, oh how wrong I am you’re being fooled. I know it’s my father’s voice I hear when those words slide into the emptiness of my mind. It’s his voice telling me that their lies are just that and that the cry of my soul is the agony of knowing that deep down I believe it, but I’m forcing myself not to.

I don’t want to be responsible for her death, but if I weren’t father would be by my side and the picture in that album wouldn’t be filled with fake smiles, fake tears. You can see it in the eyes, where a child smiles with only her lips, or a mother laughs and there are no lines, or when the father hugs the child and there is no warmth. You can see the words that aren’t spoken; you can see the emotions that aren’t written on there.

There is a boy. He’s dancing down the street where I stand, dressed in a suit as dark as the grey of a storm. The dress I wear is of a similar tone; the colours of mourning the servants say, because even after this many years I am not allowed to forget. The shades of grey and black only help hide me in the shadows, but they do nothing but make sure the world can clearly see the sickly white of my skin. Sometimes I wish I could just disappear, sink into the stone, float away in the wind with the leaves, but I cannot. I’m anchored down by every memory I carry.

He walks past me, twisting and turning, a camera clasped between his fingers, he snaps and clicks as though every memory is as precious as life and I can’t help, but wonder what that would be like. What it would look like to look through the lens he carries with himself. Would I see only emptiness? Or would there be a smile that brightens at the eyes, and warmth that one can actually feel? I can’t see his face properly, the camera covering it, but my heart picks up as he moves past me, as though I am not there, there is some joy, some form of pleasure radiating from him that makes my stomach tighten, but not with pain, but with excitement.

I reach forwards.

Then suddenly I’m stumbling after him, mouth gaping open as my tiny fingers wrap around the fabric of his suit, and it’s warm. That spark of warmth spurs my reckless action on and I pull myself forwards to stand by him, hand still clinging pitifully to the back of his jacket. My eyes widen as I truly realise what I have done and even as that realisation dawns, and the faintest of pinks flows onto my cheeks I do not let go.

”Do you know where the masquerade party is being held?” I mumble softly, looking away from his face, before slowly letting my hand slip back into the coldness.

I didn’t expect to bother anyone at all today. I didn’t expect to become a nuisance or to annoy anyone whatsoever, the thought hadn’t even entered my mind, this morning, that I might, in fact, create trouble for another. Generally I avoid it at all costs, seeing as my father had made it clear that by avoiding me you avoided trouble. So now, I try to simply avoid everyone I may come across, save him or her from some disaster I shall surely cause them. When I woke up this morning I had simply intended to go about business as usual, to get up, get dressed, clean a bit, read a book and sit by myself. Continue on with the studies my mother had left me with, to become the lady she had always wanted me to be. I had not intended to slip into this dress or to head outside with a shitty excuse for a mask for a masquerade party I had been invited to. None of those had been part of the plan.

I had not expected to reach out and grab onto someone as though they were the lifeline I had been searching for (I cannot deny that my own emotions had hindered that decision, mother would be furious at my unseemly behaviour). You want to know why I had expected none of this? Because that wasn’t me. I was the timid child that sat in a corner because that was expected of her, I was the child that studied and read and did exactly what she was told to the letter because I was told to. I obeyed, like the obedient little dog I had been raised as and I stuck to it like it was the edge of a cliff because my father would not even scold me if he thought I was worth nothing. I listened to lie after lie after lie and accepted them because I was told to.

So when I stepped up and grabbed that letter and showed it to one of the house servants I had expected nothing. Instead they came back in and dressed me and suggested I attend. It was the first time I hadn’t been told to do something, but instead I was given the option to refuse. Some part of me liked to believe that I am currently standing in this street staring at this man because someone told me to do it. That would be the easy thing to think. But that isn’t true. Every part of me knows the sensible girl that carries herself with the weight of her burden would have politely refused before turning back to the gloomy corner of her room, picking up a worn old book to spend the night reading.

But I didn’t.

Instead I allowed myself some measure of hope for change, and I stepped outside.

I took a step into the world, like a kitten opening its eyes for the first time, because for the first time a leash was not grounding me. My wings weren’t clipped and I could test myself, because no one had told me I couldn’t, and look where that freedom had gotten me.

Here I am, standing in front of some clueless boy. Yet, the blush that had crept along my cheeks did not fade, if anything it only blossomed further, drawing itself until I could almost feel warmth. Yes, this boy was warm; I had felt the warmth even with that limited contact. How foolish I felt for doing something so stupid, for grabbing a complete stranger and asking him in a soft mumble. A lady did no such things, if my mother were here should scold me. She’d tell me how I had failed and demand that I do it again, but when I open my mouth to apologise for my rudeness there’s a dull click.

Click, click, click.

My lips form into a soft ‘o’ as surprise washes the words that had almost escaped into the spoken realm, instead I swallow them in my shock and I take a step backwards, uncertain. The boy seems just as flustered as my now racing heart, for he drops his camera and it slams painfully onto his chest. He doesn’t stop staring at me, rather he starts walking, eyes glued to my face, I stare at him, eyes glued to his face. I don’t want to be the one that looks away and I can feel my cheeks burning, and I like it, I can feel the warmth that it brings to my body, I can feel it racing into my veins and nudging at the ice that had filled me.

My mother told me to never laugh at another’s suffering. When the boy walks into the pole my first reaction is alarm, concern quickly making me tear my gaze away and reach forwards to grab him once more, but then he speaks his words a riddle, before telling me that he had intended to walk into the pole. I can’t help myself, a soft laugh spills past my lips and I quickly clap a hand to my mouth, trying my best to cut the sound off before it can be heard. The last time I laughed it hadn’t been real, it had been a fake laugh forced out by my mother as she had raised her camera and pleaded for one of her fake stories. When I look at that picture I can see it all over my face. In fact, I can’t even remember the last time I had genuinely laughed.

"Fudge. I-I-I me-mean you-you distracted m-me."

When he says that my laughter stops, and my hand slips from his shirt once more, I take a step backwards, wrapping my arms around my stomach in a tight hug. ”I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it.” I look away. Father had always called me a distraction. He said I had distracted mother, and she had died. I don’t want this nice boy to die.

”You’re not going to die, are you?” I ask, and I cannot fathom why I do so. I step closer, eyes widening with alarm at the realisation, he can’t die, not like my mother; I can’t be responsible for someone else’s death. I’m not strong enough to carry that kind of burden, I'll break if I have to carry more. This is why I stay inside; this is why I do as I’m told, so I don’t hurt anyone anymore. ”Please don’t.”

When he laughs he looks like some of the pain goes away. I don’t know why, but when he laughs it looks as though not only the pain from the injury fades, but the pain of something else. It’s difficult to resist the urge to stare at him and I don’t. I stare at him as he laughs, unable to make myself look away, because it’s a beautiful thing to watch. When someone else is happy it’s like there is a light blossoming around them and if you reach upwards you can touch it and some of that beautiful warmth can shine within you. I think seeing someone laugh is like being caught in his or her world of joy and you can’t do anything at all to stop yourself from being touched by it. Laughing makes everyone around you happy, perhaps that is why there is no happiness in my house. There is no instance of this kind of thing occurring, in fact, I cannot recall the last time I heard laughter in that old house.

This is definitely one of those scenes mother would have tried to capture, where there is real joy. I know this is true, if I had a camera in my hands right now I’d snap a picture, because that kind of happiness can be captured in a frame and you can look back on it years from now and see it. It’s not the type that looks real at a first glance, but fades with every look, it’s the type that lasts forever. I don’t have a camera, though. So instead I stare at him, trying my best to capture this moment, maybe it’ll lift me up on the days I feel down. It’s making me happy now, a smile tugging at the corners of my lips, momentarily washing away the concern I had felt as though it had never truly been there in the first place.

When he speaks his voice is cracked by his unending laughter and the happiness I had felt vanishes as quickly as it had come as I am reminded of the reason behind this incident. Before I know it tears have filled my eyes and I nod my head as he continues, I could have killed him.

You’re a distraction. You distract people and they die. Get away from me. Father had told me that after mother's death.

He could have died because I had distracted him. Even though he tells me he is going to be alright it does little to ease my aching heart and the blame I must carry for my actions. This was why I did not go out, this was why I stayed home. I didn’t want to hurt people, I didn’t like making people hurt because of the things I did. I didn’t want anyone else to die because I had asked them to see me, or I had spoken to them.

It’s not possible to stop the tears as they pool at my eyes, instead they overflow and fall down my cheeks, carving their way into my skin. I make no sound; anything I had wanted to say is caught in my throat behind whatever sob would find its way to the front. Yet I can’t help, but feel relived, so undeniably happy that this beautiful man wasn’t going to die. I didn’t want him to; I truly meant that, I didn’t want him to die, especially not after hearing that laugh. I want to hear it again and again, I want it embedded into my memory so I can be happy just like that. A sob finally works its way up my throat and it escapes past my lips, and now I’m really crying, I’m really crying because this nice boy isn’t going to die, I hadn’t killed him.

He offers me his hand, his name is Berry. I look down at it, but my visions all blurry, so I slap my hand against his, using my other one to wipe at my eyes and face, to try and stop this flow of tears, but it just won’t end. ”I’m-m-m… I’m Ma-ma-maria.” I stuttered out, through the sobs and the tears. Through it all I can feel the warmth of his hand against my cold ones. Is this what that joy feels like? The one that comes down to all those when others are laughing? The warmth that rules your veins and keeps you happy? I hoped so, because I liked this warmth, it felt reassuring and it felt safe.

”I’m really glad you’re going to be alright.” I said. Something spurs me to move and after wiping the tears from my face, I move my hand upwards. I look at his face, and the flush on his cheek and my hand hesitates and then I'm reminded of the warmth of his hand and that laugh and I uncurl my thin fingers before gently placing my hand softly against the area he had hit into the pole. I want to know what I have done, I want to know what sin has stained my heart. And some part of me wants my touch to fix it, some part of me wants me to be able to fix it all up in one touch. There are stories where heroes fix it all with one kiss or one action and I wonder if I can do it. I'm no a hero, though, so I doubt it, but I still want to try. I can feel the lump, and my eyes widen filling up with more tears. I did this. I bite my lip, biting back a sob. I open my mouth to apologies, screwing my eyes up tight to hold the tears in when her voice cuts through my mind-

Useless. You’re a lady, not a baby.

Drawing my hand away from his face I take a step backwards, straightening myself up. Taking a deep breath I hold my hands tightly in front of me. Ladies don’t act like that. My father would have told me I was embarrassing, probably. The servants would have screamed at me, mother would have probably slapped me and told me to get a grip. Mother was strong, I wasn’t. I looked at the bo- Berry, his name was Berry, and I give him a weak smile.

”It’s a pleasure to meet you, Berry.” Straight back, hands in, polite tone. Hold yourself like a woman, speak like a lady. Men hate weak woman, men take advantage of weak woman. You can’t be weak, Maria. I’m a woman. He is Berry.

I liked that name. It was sweet and short. It was a word I’d associate with the warmth of his touch from now on.

I liked that name. Mother wouldn’t have.

It feels like the touch of the first rays as the sun rises. Those first few moments of absolute bliss, mingled with the shock of the sensation that comes with that gentle caress of the suns first kiss. The way your eyes widen when something soft and warm and safe grazes your skin. That was what his arms felt like. And even though I did not know him I felt safe in those arms, I felt the warmth and the calmness and the realness of it all and i just wanted to bury my face in his chest. Thinking back, I hadn't had anyone embrace me for over ten years, no one had hugged me or held me or touched me with anything other then detachment. This was the first time in a long time that I'd felt the touch of another when it was kind and soft and gentle.

I liked it. I liked it a lot. In all honesty I wasn't sure I had ever missed it, but feeling it now I know I truly missed this kind of attention. My skin had craved the warmth of someone like him. So after he asks that one simple question I find the words forming on my lips before I know them myself, "because your warm, and I haven't felt safe for a long time." I close my eyes, biting my lip, and yet I hug him back, wrapping my own arms around him. "I didn't even know I could miss this."

There are so many different ways to make someone feel unsafe, and the ways in which I have come to learn that the world around me means me harm haven't come from acts of violence. The fear that lays hidden within my eyes comes from a less obvious choice of pain, it comes from my father's actions. It comes from his venom laced words, and acts of coldness and detachment. It comes from his honeyed words, his lack of love and his verbal punishments. The fear comes from having to constantly look over my shoulder to see if I am being watched by a family servant, having to constantly pray to a dead mother that she will no longer hate me.

It's having to relive day and night again and again the simple fact that I am solely responsible for my mother's death and my father hates me for it. I don't feel safe knowing everyone in my home loathes, that I am to still be that perfect china doll, without a single crack. I am expected to be flawless, no breaks, no damage, nothing, and on the outside I am exactly how I should be. On the inside it's crumbling.

Then he asks to help me and I don't know how to respond. I don't know how to reject the offer, because I don't want to, but every instinct within my body is awakening as though this moment of safety pushed it away and I know I have to leave. I cannot stay here any longer. I am breaking every thread my mother weaved to create me. So after he pulls away I finish the job, tearing myself from his warm touch. It takes all I have to not go back into that embrace. "You've already helped enough, Mr Berry." I whisper, wrapping my arms around myself. The heats faded and I'm cold again.

Oh so very cold.