Till Death Do Us Part

Good.

No problem.

No problem at all.

I was just about to leave anyway.

His eyes make my back itch. With the last shiver of self-respect I have left, I clutch my hands together and shield my watch from the snow. The cold bit even more than the merchant’s words, which is weird because I should be used to the cold by now.

As I carry myself across the ice-covered crossroads, my eyes trail the mass of people around me. They are smiling. Sharing stories. They are already showing each other what they bought. They are pointing at the beautiful decorations somewhere behind me. Agreeing, laughing, gossiping. The people on this ice-covered road are living. My breath catches as I squirm my way through their laced coats and waterproof shoes. I feel like an insect. Whenever I bump into someone, they hastily protect their shopping bags and flare their nostrils. Their mouth opens, but they stop themselves every single time. And every single time, I nod.

I nod because I know they believe I’m not worth their time. I nod because if I don’t, they think I’ll rob them. I must nod so they don’t see me. I nod to hide.

I barely make it to the other side of the road. My bare hands are numb. As blue as the burrowing feeling in my chest. It feels empty. Everything is empty but not my hands because I have a watch in them.

When I look at my watch, with its beautiful golden finish and I swear the stone in the middle is a diamond, I’m reminded of how terrible we match. The watch, and the world it lives in, is glamorous. It wants to be seen, and people want to see it. People want to live. It suits the warm Christmas lights best this time at night, absorbing this atmosphere of peace and laughter. I nearly ruin its shine with one of my tears, the cold freezing it almost immediately. I apologize and close my hands again.

Some snow gets into my shoe, and as I make my way across another street, one of my toes starts to sting. I ignore it at first, since everything always hurts, but the feeling gets to a point where I need to sit down for a while. As I do, I observe groups of people. Some eye me like I’m holding them at gunpoint. Others don’t bother to look my direction. When it’s painfully obvious they don’t want to acknowledge me, I just nod again.

I nod to hide because people don’t want to see me.

When they do want to see me, I strongly believe it’s because of my watch. Not because of me. My watch is the most beautiful thing I own, and therefore the only thing. It resembles freedom, the fact they can’t take everything from me.

Because people have taken a lot from me. A lot but not my watch.

An old couple passes me. The man’s eyes as blue as my hands and therefore as deep as the burrowing feeling in my chest. Tears coat my cheeks, but they don’t freeze this time. This time they stream, catching the man’s attention.

He lets go of his wife and struggles in my direction. His wife panics. I don’t blame her, but I don’t move either. My gaze is fixated somewhere between my hands and the man in front of me.

He points at my watch.

I shake my head and apologize. People are curious. They dig and dig and dig until there’s nothing more to take. Until all is given and the only thing left is my watch. Thinking about it makes me cry even more. It breaks the heart I lost. The feelings I used to own but now the only thing I can do is nod. Nod to these people who dug and dug and dug and robbed me of the power I had.

I assume this man wants nothing else, because he is no different from his parents. No different from his wife. No different than all the people making me feel like it’s my fault I still have my watch.

But they’ll never take my watch.

I stand to leave. The man’s eyes grow big as he takes in how tall I am. When he looks back for his wife, she’s being supported by a woman. They nearly hug. Their hearts nearly touch. The wife tries to reach for us, but I know she can’t. Her husband seems to realize it too.

The desperation isn’t new. It doesn’t bother me anymore because I can’t feel it anyway. Nothing but silence for my entire life, if that even is the proper way to call it.

I clench my fingers. They turn as white as the hands of the woman and therefore as white as the snow. I close my eyes, and I know. I know what I have to do because I exist to take the most valuable thing of the people that took everything from me. I kneel in front of the man to match his height. A subtle but clear sound rings my ear.

His heartbeat.

I couldn’t be mine. I don’t have a heart. My chest itches at the thought of it. I would like a heart. I would like to know what it’s like to feel. To understand love. To follow a connection and to create a bond. People can make up all they want about me, invent myths and rumors and medicines to keep me away but I can’t.

I can’t stay away.

I can’t leave them alone, which is why they don’t leave me alone but it’s exhausting to run. And in this moment, standing in front of the man, I wonder if they don’t find it tiring too. To run from something you know will come. Maybe deep down they know, that instead of denying me, pushing me away, we could somehow allow ourselves to be connected. Allow ourselves to respect and accept each other.

Deep down, however, I know they’ll never rest. Not until they have my watch.

I open my hands, granting the old man a peek at my watch. His eyes light up, and mine fill with tears again. I nod to apologize. The man shakes his head and confesses that I have a beautiful watch. He tells me about his father. That perhaps, where he still alive, he’d be able to fix it for me.

My chest fills with a feeling that isn’t emotion, but it isn’t nothing either. It fills with what could be heartbreak. I know my watch can’t be fixed and I’m aware of his father’s passing. Some might call me the reason for it. I still smile at him, silently watching him eye his wife.

The crowd around us erupts but I know it doesn’t matter because what I do is done. I don’t get to pick and choose, and for some reason they still blame their loss on me.

I hear screams and curses, hugs and kisses and a siren somewhere in the back. It doesn’t matter what I tell them. Whether I apologize or explain I can’t help it. Tell them it’s what I do and who I am because that’s a good excuse for most people but it’s not a good excuse for me. I can’t have excuses.

I approach the wife, but her gaze is glued on her husband. His body freezing in the snow, but his soul wrapped around his wife with the promise they made all those years ago.

Till Death Do Us Part.

I show her my watch. I nearly stuff it in her face, just to prove. To show. To do something about the fact that I feel this is not all my fault while it probably is. A paramedic bumps into me, nearly tossing my watch on the street. I push it to my chest that feels emptier than before.

Good.

No problem.

No problem at all.

I was just about to leave anyway.