IN YOUR EYES (An unpublished novel)

The next morning, waking up in the silence of an empty apartment, he opened his eyes and, moving his head to the right, looked out the window and saw the gray sky. He noticed that some parts looked like they were cracked. And right there, on the weakest parts, the redness of the morning will appear, like blood on a wound. He smiled at the thought. It's the last day of February. Nothing but that. One month will end and another will begin, the page on the calendar will change but everything else will remain the same. If only in this way we could go away from sadness, some dear faces, and beautiful moments that we desperately want to forget, even at the cost of crippling everything inside us. It is a painful realization that good is not always good, sometimes it causes more suffering than evil itself.

Is this normal, he asked himself, that impulse as endless as the sea, that you miss someone indescribably much? When pain freezes you and impudently pushes you to sink to the bottom, hope frees you and brings you back to the surface. And so from the beginning: again, again, again… A perverted, completely upside-down feeling where you feel the hunger in your heart and longing in your stomach. Imperishable madness that heightens all five senses to such an extent that the smell of a body that is not there flows in the nostrils, whispers of words spoken long ago are repeated in the ears, and a smile that has been swallowed up by time rises before the eyes. How to get rid of all that, stop?

March began clumsily and confusedly, still very much like last month. The similarity was so great that only after a few days, when he happened to look at the calendar in the morning, he saw that it was March 5. Another day to survive. With that thought, Sorano got out of bed and headed for the bathroom. Something stronger than himself made him smile at all the irony of everyday life.

He even looked in the mirror. He was somewhat surprised to see his almost lifeless face and tired eyes. He stared dumbly at someone he didn't know. A stranger watched him with that well-known question: What are you doing here? Always the same question, no matter where he was, and at what time he was. Isn't that exactly how unwanted children feel, those who are not welcome anywhere?

But something spontaneous and somewhat strange happened. He began to pay attention to himself. Until now he had been completely occupied with sadness and thinking about Norman and now, after many lost days and nights, he stared at his reflection and noticed that his hair had become too long. He touched his still-warm cheeks with his fingertips, noticing that he had lost weight. To himself, he looked like the Snowman from his childhood whom he saw in the yard one late winter morning, melting and disappearing in the thick fog.

A wild sigh in a domesticated body always awakens restlessness. At the same time, he felt helpless because that's how he's been all this time. This time it wasn't others who broke him, it was him. He had come dangerously close to the brink of indifference which, if crossed, would swallow him up like quicksand.

The only thing that could still shake him and make him angry in this ill-tailored life story is the fact that no matter how much they abused, humiliated, and left him, they did not manage to destroy him, or turn him into dust. Make him someone or something that never existed. Why? Perhaps the main point of torture is to keep the victim alive and conscious for as long as possible before the body finally betrays the soul.

Squeezed in pain, they shamelessly looked directly into each other's eyes, breathed into each other's faces, and became a reflection in the mirror. He was caught, imprisoned in a stopped spasm, and the only thing left for him was to sink into himself, and recognize all the weaknesses that overcame him like a typhoon. He was still searching for those good qualities of his being. He was undeniably made up of a masochistic body and a bold, free spirit that never put up with what others tried to do to him. He protested, screamed, and hit the walls in protest like a wild animal eager only to be left alone. Was it resistance, defiance, awakening in him?

No doubt it's time to live again. The mourning period is over. No amount of suffering or tears will bring back what is irretrievably gone. J. R. R. Tolkien wisely wrote, “Grieve not for those whose time is past.” Maybe, but… An echo that is lost and disappears in the forest of yellow leaves that the wind has scattered in all directions with its cold fingers. And then the inevitable happened. From that day the little flame in the darkness existed longer and stronger, brighter. He would be lying if he said he was finally fine, but Sorano knew he was feeling better. He would wake up in the morning more ready to get out of bed, hurry to work, again participate in the conversation with all those who would open the door of the photo studio, and returning home, as before, he would curiously observe the city streets. He was ashamed to say it out loud, but it was as if a tiny hope for a better tomorrow was born.

Having opened the apartment door wide, he paused and like a detective looked carefully at every part of the room. What he saw made him purse his lips and furrow his brows. It reminded him of how much he had lost control of himself and his life in recent months. The apartment was quite messy. Atypical and unacceptable. Since childhood, Sorano was meticulous and constantly tried to keep everything in its place. He hated dirt and avoided messy people. It's true, everything you don't want to be you will become if you surrender to fate. At that thought, he sighed deeply and stepped into the corridor.

Autor: Raif Esmerović