Plate

Naturally, I’ve always hated my birthday. The loud family members for those few hours waiting for the cake to make the quick getaway they’ve wanted since walking in. The condescending conversations of ‘’so… what are you doing now?’’ pretending they care. The silence from cousins that clearly singles you out, politely pretending you don't see it, for reasons they’ll never actually say. It’s been seven long years, and I’m finally doing something for myself. Sky-diving!! I mean, sure, it’ll be scary, but it’ll be worth it, right?! I mean, what’s scarier is the two people who claim to love you the most, who only want the best for you, hurt you.

I make a getaway to my room of sanctuary. ‘’It’s never going to change, is it?’’ Gentle tears down my face, my eyes reaching the ceiling, with a hardened and aching heart… agonised with skin-ripping pain to the chest. Your face, a soft and yet disappointing expression, appeared to my mind as though in a dream within a nightmare. I shuddered and cringed at the shame and guilt it brings to have the memory of your words burned in my life, as though it lives in my flesh. I went about living, to the best of my abilities, to feel normal.

Although with him, I always felt invincible.

-FOUR YEARS AGO-

​ ‘’Why?!’’, he yelled. ‘’You always do this… You turn your face away from me when I tell you what you’re doing is going to hurt you’’. I sighed and looked intently into his eyes. ‘’They’re my family… You can’t expect me not to grieve for them just because they abused me’’. We had spoken on this before multiple times, since I had moved away from my family to pursue our relationship. Things were great at first. We did everything together. But it seemed reality had stepped in to haunt us. A few months went by, and again, we argued this case. I wanted to see my family since they invited me to a birthday dinner, but it seemed he was the only one who knew the consequences it would bear. I was blindsided by how good it would be to see them. Without realising how much hurt my family has brought me, I snuck out to be with them for a little while.

I ask my parents to return me to the station from which they picked me up. Naive and stupid, I trust their word.

I dozed off in the back seat—a good meal and lies will do that to you. I woke up to bright blue toll lights. “Where the heck are we going?”. Filled with rage, regret, and panic, I realised there was nothing I could do in a moving car. I had been taken; I was back in the cycle that almost killed me. The only thing I could do before logically calling for reinforcements was frantically texting Lucas what had happened, apologising for my decision. To my amazement, Lucas’ father is on the scene and to my rescue. Once again, shadowed with red and blue lights, I am dropped off to safety. I returned to our home, unfortunately, to no consoling hug, to no answer. I called out. ‘’Lucas, I’m home… where are you?’’. To my horror, on the bedside table, I saw a note that read… ‘’Dear Gemma, I can’t see you continue to be manipulated into this’’. At this point, I felt an unexplainable dread in my chest. I continued to read. ‘’I love you, but I can’t do it any longer’’. My mind frantic, and my pulse is rising. Again for reinforcements his father answers the phone, and I immediately blurted, ‘’Do you know where he is!? Lucas! Do you know!?’’ With no answer from him but ‘’I haven’t heard from him, but he knows I went to help lovely… maybe he went for a walk’’. A few hours go by, and still no call, no text back. I called his father again, and we rushed to meet me to go in search of him.

Hours passed, and still no sign or word from him. Nothing taken as luggage or identification, he was just gone. I felt in my heart he would come back; he always does this, it gets hard, and he bails. I waited all night, only to be without sleep and without the sound of the key opening that front door.

I finally had an appetite and sat in front of the television. It was almost seven in the morning. I don’t usually watch the news, but there were cute puppies up for adoption. As I went to wash the dishes, his name, clear as day, came from those speakers. ‘’A male in his early twenties has jumped to his death late last night. His father, an apparent police officer, was called to a scene that changed his and his family's lives forever. The boy identified as Lucas was found dead at the scene’’. With my back turned, looking out toward the kitchen window, I found no realism in this. Is this what it feels like to be so badly hurt, to be utterly left alone with guilt, to be filled with despair because you know… ‘’you’ll never see him again’’ as I collapsed to my knees.

-PRESENT DAY-

And so, four years ago, I found and lost the love of my life. An all-consuming love. We were once two puzzle pieces floating separately in the world, and one day, perfectly fitted together with the glue of invaluable affection. I never understood why, until now, he would say, “Our love story is straight out of Romeo and Juliet.” I mean, he knew they died, right?

And so, trust is to pottery like glass is to shrapnel. Shrapnel is to glass like pottery is to trust. You break a plate, and it’s never the same again. No fixing it, no mending, no amount of hot glue could repair the tiny pieces that shatter on the pavement to be found again. Trust is a plate. “Why, oh why, did it take losing you to figure that out?”

We’ll know, and we'll never know, too.