Scars of Desire: When Love Burns

Present Day...

I heard the noise again outside the gray aluminum gate. It was like déjà vu, that soft crackle, repeated over and over, like the sound of a bell reminding me he was there. I walked through the narrow hallway, with white baseboards and walls in soft shades of yellow, going from the living room to the kitchen. Pictures of my old life flooded the walls, mocking me in apathetic shades of black and white. I looked at the security camera by the gate, and there he was, with a carton of eggs, smashing them right at the entrance to my house. Julia was sleeping, letting out small snores with her head resting on my right shoulder. I stroked her blonde hair, her bangs lightly brushing my jawline. I smelled her head; it exuded a scent of strawberries. I had no idea what paradise was like, but if it existed, it would smell like my baby.

I held back tears as I watched Josiah empty the arsenal of eggs on my facade, cradling my daughter closer in my arms. When would this end? Which of us would destroy the other more in this process? I was sure I would end up more broken because I didn't fight back, because I swallowed everything like shards of glass sliding down my throat, nesting in my stomach.

When he finally threw the last egg, my damned neighbor stared at the camera, with those intense eyes that seemed like they could see me, devour every inch of my body, and consume my fear. Startled, I stumbled back, causing the little one to stir in my arms. Heavy, I stared into those giant green eyes that glared at me, swearing revenge, more than he usually did.

The next moment, I felt immense dizziness as I noticed what he was doing. I collapsed onto the iron-armored chair with a cushioned seat under the kitchen's granite-topped table. I kept staring at the gray-toned monitor on the wall-mounted TV stand, watching the tiny version of Josiah punch the camera until only a black screen remained. Even as my ears fell silent, I didn't cry. I knew he was done for the day. Julia woke up, seemingly sensing my distress. She looked at me with the massive emeralds she had in place of eyes, stroked my face, and smiled, showing her tiny white teeth.

"Tete..." she whispered, still sleepy.

I pulled out my breast, gazing at her little face in that moment of perfect connection, and let her squeeze my finger as she sucked. I allowed the lightness of the breastfeeding moment to touch me, to flood my chest, and sweep away the tension that damned man caused in me.

The day passed as it always did on Thursdays. I watched the six o'clock soap opera nestled on the living room couch, listening to the cicadas singing, clinging to some branch of my jamun tree. I drank my third cup of coffee for the day, with my baby playing with stacking blocks on the living room rug. Then I dedicated myself to the task of preparing our dinner.

I observed my right hand gripping the handle of the water-filled pot. My hand shook, trembling under the weight of the pot. Even the simplest tasks became complex; after all, after the accident, the bones in three of my fingers shattered in some places. My movements were never the same, lacking both flexibility and strength... I tried not to cry, thinking about how I could never write perfectly again. Not even a small poem about motherhood, about anything... Let alone the novels that popped up out of nowhere in my mind. Sometimes, I'd be filled with incredible ideas for new projects, but as soon as I started touching the computer, my eyes would go straight to the hand that brought me the feeling of defectiveness, and I'd give up...

I felt so defeated. Sometimes, I'd log into my author page, reread the enthusiastic comments from readers, the reviews of the books I'd released in my life, and smile with a mixture of longing and sadness.

I cooked some pasta in white sauce for myself, made some homemade baby food with meat and vegetables for the little glutton I had given birth to, then left her watching Masha and the Bear in the kitchen's high chair while I worked on tidying everything up. Sleeping with a clean house was a rule for me. Not that I liked it, that I was a supermom, but I liked taking care of the temple we built together, the place where the man who cared for the two of us once lived...

When at last my granite sink was shining, smelling of degreasing spray, and with all the utensils in place, I turned off the kitchen TV, ignoring Julia's tantrum. I held her chubby little arms while she squirmed and tried to cling to the white high chair.

"No... Noooooo!" she screamed.

"Enough!" I muttered, squeezing her in my arms. "If you stay quiet and go to bed, Mommy promises to play a video on the phone."

Finally, the little beast calmed down. I used to think I was a very lenient mom, avoiding the small groups the moms formed outside the daycare. They loved gossiping or criticizing each other's parenting. Rarely could anyone catch me for a chat when I picked up Julia. Precisely because I wouldn't let them criticize the way I raised her, because God and I knew how hard it was to keep going, how hard it was to be a single mom with all that weight on my shoulders.

I lay on the enormous bed, my body turned to the side, with Julia clinging to my breast, while a troupe of cartoon chickens sang non-stop. I already knew all those songs by heart, but my baby never got tired of them. When she finally fell asleep, I pulled my breast away and laid her down on the pillow next to me. I popped the pacifier into her lips at lightning speed, before she could wake up whining, and slid out of the bed that could easily fit three adults.

I went through my nightly routine of suffering: trying to write. It was no surprise that I would end up frustrated, staring at the window bathed in crimson light across from mine. I could have thousands of ideas, but I couldn’t bring them out. The words sank deep into me, burrowing down, refusing to emerge.

Resigned, I drank chamomile tea, snuggled under the covers, spooning with my baby, and let the day finally come to an end, hoping my subconscious would stop throwing past memories at me in the form of dreams. And between dreams and reality, I had the eerie impression of seeing those terrifying green eyes in the dark, staring deeply at me.