Lives Lost

Kateryna Darchyk, Ukraine

That winter—that long, cold, cruel winter—was the most dreadful one I had ever witnessed. It left scars within my ribs;

glacial as a wintry day,

rugged as my robbed little family,

red as pomegranates and blood.

**

It was getting close to being three weeks. Three weeks of no sleep, of cold white walls, and of someone who couldn't remember who I was. 

I occasionally left the hospital room to buy food and pills—red for him and blue ones for me, although they never really seemed to work—and to be able to finally, finally take a breath. It was positively freezing outside, yet somehow, I felt warmer than I had for weeks. 

When I came back, he called me by the wrong name and asked how the job that wasn’t mine had been. “It was fine,” I’d say, and smile, and wouldn’t sob, wouldn’t sob. 

**

Looking back, I don't remember smiling when it snowed (like I usually do—I smile, and giggle, and laugh for hours until my stomach hurts and my jaw is nothing but numb); I do remember the colour of his sheets, the size of the bruises his body was painted with, and the ugly feeling that had been growing in my chest for weeks.

Dark blue,

the size of a pomegranate,

the ugly, ugly chains of fear.

The nurses—the whirlwinds of blue uniform and cheerful smiles even when there’s nothing to be cheerful about whatsoever—came in and out, and the doctor checked on him three times a day; all the other moments were expected to be filled by the family.

We'd play sometimes—something easy, something that would make the time in the hospital a little more bearable—or I'd bring him newspapers and we would talk about new ridiculous headlines (“Someone’s grown the biggest carrot in the country. Again! Can you believe it?”) 

He’d laugh warmly, and his eyes would crinkle, ever so amazingly bright, and it all almost felt normal; until he choked on his own laughter and my body shuddered, afraid and more helpless than his.

Days like this were both the greatest blessing and the cruellest curse. 

**

One day, when the storm that was his sickness got especially strong, I almost asked him if he'd led a happy life. I stopped myself in time—for you don’t ask a drowning passenger whether they’ve enjoyed their cruise.

However good one’s life is, it’s always darkened by death, is it not?

**

I must’ve been six when I broke the most expensive tea set my grandparents owned. Six cups, all delicately decorated with yellow flowers; a precious gift from an old friend who wasn’t around anymore. That day I cried, and cried, and cried, expecting the worst punishment possible for destroying the last memory of the person they both loved so dearly and lost so early. 

When grandpa came back from the market and saw me lying on the bed, holding the only chipped cup that had survived my adventures, my face red and blotched, he didn’t yell. 

Neither did he cry nor laugh, nor ask me what had happened. He lied down by my side until I—always soothed by his presence, always safe with him around—calmed down and…fell asleep. 

**

When I woke up, the chipped cup was brought back to life with the smell of my favourite fruit tea, and the yellow flowers were smiling at me gently, just like he always did.

Grandpa gestured to the cup, and I took it carefully, painfully aware of the consequences my last contact with that tea set had brought. My hands, usually unbearably cold, felt warm; the warmth went further, nestling around my big tiny heart.

“Why were you crying?” He asked me straightforwardly, for, despite being kind and considerate, he had never been the one to walk around the bush.

“I bloke Auntie Lydia’s tea set,” I said sniffing as if it were the most natural thing to weep over. Maybe for a six-year-old me, it was.

“And?” He nudged me to continue. 

“It…it was her la-a-ast gift to you and glan,” I dragged out, feeling my eyes fill with tears once again. Wiping them away with my sleeve and instantly looking around to see if gran was close enough to notice—thank God, she wasn’t—I continued, “You aways say you lemember her when you look at it. And now you’ll forget her, all because of me!”

Distressed, I bent my head to look at my reflection in the cup and saw something else instead—the depth of the lesson I was about to be taught. 

“Oh, my child,” he shook his head. “We won’t forget her once the tea set is gone. You know, we,” he stumbled over his words; then smiled suddenly, knowing exactly what to say to me. “We remember her for the person she was, not for the gifts she gave us. She was…she was strong. She liked to travel. She was smart and stylish and had the most wonderful sense of humour. She…”

We talked about Auntie Lydia for hours. She was blond, just like me. She liked peaches, and gardens, and listening to music—even used to compose her own piano pieces (I made him promise to find her old music sheets, as well as promised myself I would learn how to play; I never did).

She was selfless, full of energy before her disease took over; a person to remember, he said. I smiled and nodded, blessed in my ignorance, having yet no idea how sad, how devastating it is to talk about the dead ones (I recognise now it was the most divine kind of ignorance).

Falling asleep that night—on time, despite my little nap earlier—I whispered loudly, “I will lemember you too, glandpa. And not for the gifts!”

He smiled, tucking me in, and his eyes crinkled—the most beautiful view in the world.

**

When grandpa drew his last breath, we had to sell the family house. I didn’t actually mind, too busy trying to feel anything but numb. The sky had cleared, and it would barely cry for months to come—just as would I. 

I went on with my life as if there weren’t a new sense of emptiness in a house that had always been so full with life, as if the enormous hole in my heart had always been there before. In four years’ time, it would certainly seem like it had.

Still, every time I went back to that little town—for a cousin’s wedding or a neighbour’s funeral—I felt, ever so acutely, the absence of closure. 

**

I dreamt of peace.

The peace was a she, who wore long white dresses—lace embroidered with the moon’s tears—and had the most soothing voice I’d heard. We could talk for hours, face to face, secret to secret, and sometimes the numbness would go away, scared off, for a single most precious second in my life.

The peace made it a habit to come to me at night, when the stars were at their brightest and I, at my lowest. We talked about books, and music, and this big, important life neither of us truly understood; we whispered our truths into the darkness of the night, not afraid of being overheard; we contemplated the moon, basking in her soft, yet cold light.

My companion usually distracted me from whatever daunting thought was haunting me that night, and I couldn’t but stare into her mesmerising grey eyes until the sun woke up and hugged the horizon, relieved to see the world once more (both the sun and the moon know better than to expect to be alive forever).

At the first sight of dawn, the peace always ran away. Her movements were slow, graceful, as if she weren’t running at all, but I still never seemed to be able to catch her. All I was left with were the moon’s tears scattered on the floor, nudging me to shed my own.

The numbness always returned before the first tear fell off my cheek. 

**

At night—when my peace was with me and the loud, noisy world ceased to exist, fairly forgotten within the walls of my small, perfect flat—I found myself feeling better,

freer,

happier.

But the nights were always destined to be over, and I was yet to remember what it meant to feel better, freer, happier (and simply alive) in the daylight.

Through the years I seemed to be collecting bits and pieces of my previous life—a favourite film, a dinner with friends, a horrific first date I wished I hadn’t gone on—but the puzzle was never complete, for some pieces were lost forever, impossible to restore. 

We were sitting on the balcony, my peace and I, and the air smelled of mulled wine and something bitter. “How do I forget?” I asked her quietly, desperately, realising the bitterness must’ve come from me.

“Forget, my love?” She wondered, her voice on the verge of either crying or laughing (I could never really understand). “Why in the world would you want to forget?”

I stared at her, bewildered, as she continued, “What you need to do is remember.”

**

I came back to that small town of mine—this time neither for a cousin’s wedding nor for a neighbour’s funeral. I wished to see the owner of my grandparents’ house; to take a look at the garden; to catch a glimpse of the stray cat that lived with no one and, somehow, with everyone; to finally, finally get the closure I’d been yearning for.

The owner turned out to be a young man (I hadn’t been the one to close the deal and, therefore, had no idea who the house had been sold off to), perhaps a few years younger than me. He had dark curly hair and wonderful green eyes that reminded me so much of her soft curls and his curious gaze. 

Unsettled, I asked to use the bathroom. Once inside, I looked into the mirror—the same old one, the back of which was surely still embellished with childish doodles; Waterproof yellow marker on the mirror, was written in adult handwriting at the bottom—and let myself sob. 

**

It was late October, and the garden was still flourishing. The owner explained to me he lived with his grandmother who loved being around flowers, and so he kept planting them for her, whilst she kept planting him his favourite vegetables. His marigolds, dragon flowers, and irises ended up growing beside her tomatoes, carrots (the biggest ones in the neighbourhood, he said), and peas—all now hiding under the surface, too fearful, too afraid of the cold to come. 

He treated me to a slice of homemade pear pie; we ate it, fresh and warm, in front of the fireplace—my favourite corner in the house. I watched the slow dance of the flames and felt the snugness of the house enveloping me softly, tightly; I heard children’s laughter and noticed, out of the corner of my eye, myself and my little brother playing hide and seek. 

The house wasn’t big enough to hide in, but we’d never needed it to be. We’d had our gran, who’d been working in the garden all afternoon, and our grandpa, just adding the final touches to gran’s favourite soup, and it had been enough to make us so enormously, carelessly happy (“Life is not about how big your house is—it’s about how big your heart is,” I’d thought to myself one night, and hugged my brother lovingly, already thrilled to wake up and see what the next day would bring).

The dance in the fireplace changed from waltz to something more of a tango. It was becoming more and more intense, and the sound of children’s laughter had quieted down. All that was left were the fierce red eyes of the fire and the dead silence funeral services are so often accompanied with. The picture of gran had been an old one, a beautiful one. She’d showed no signs of her disease yet: no tired gaze, no shaking hands, no perimortem devastation. 

My brother, still too young to not be ignorant to death, had been lively. 

Through the thick veil of my thoughts, I heard the owner inquiring if I was all right. I nodded, immediately feeling dizzy, and asked him about the stray cat. 

“Still here, still eats pretty much everything you give her!” I nodded again—the dizziness only lasted a second or two this time—and tried to smile, even though the remark wasn’t the smartest one. 

“Be careful with what you give her then,” I warned playfully. My grandfather had a cat that died from arsenic poisoning, I almost said.

It was a stupid cat. Grandpa got it from a shelter a year after gran had died—it’s grey, like her hair, he’d said, and I’d heard him sobbing his way through the day, loudly and softly, desperately and with so much pained relief. 

Having heard the unusual sounds, the cat had jumped onto his back and hugged his neck, his long tail stroking grandpa’s bony shoulder. I’d always imagined the two of them must’ve felt warm, and safe, and loved in a way they hadn’t felt in a long, long time. 

When the first day of their acquaintance came to an end, the cat wasn’t an it anymore.  

**

We loved the cat—he always seemed to be hungry, always in need of a hug, a reassurance he wouldn’t be left alone anymore. Always tender, affectionate, sweet. 

We didn’t give the cat a name, simply couldn’t agree on one; he’d continue to be the cat for years to come (not that it would disappoint him in the slightest). 

One day, the cat would eat a poisoned mouse—an unfortunate coincidence, a sick joke of fate—and pass away. That’s when grandpa would fall sick for the first time.

**

My grandfather had a cat that died from arsenic poisoning, I almost said. Instead, I returned my gaze to the fireplace as I pondered about the past. I was remembering the days I’d spent in this house and the wonder life used to seem back then. 

I remembered how lovely, amazing, and perfect my little life had been, and my heart filled with something light, achingly so; joy mixed with the carelessness of a little girl. I felt as if I were floating—airy, free, blissfully safe.

Those memories were followed by the ones of devastating loneliness, the hurt of a family one half of which had already been lost. My heart, secured within my ribs, turned icy; hopeless and helpless, I felt the salt making its way down from my eyes, settling on my lips—a feeling so foreign, so long forgotten that my fingers flew up to my face to make sure the tears were real.

They were hot and tasted of heartbreak. My eyes stung.

I turned away from the owner, getting up, “Sorry, I think I need a minute to myself.”

“Of course. Of course!” He promptly stood up. “I’ll leave you to it. Take all the time you need.”

I tried to force a smile, but it certainly came out shaky and more than slightly pained. The air smelled of peaches and freesias. “There’s no need for that,” I assured the owner. “I’ll be on my way.”

He looked me in the eye for a single second and, obviously still unsure, asked nothing.

**

The next few months were a combination of work, late nights, take-out food, and mood swings. My peace had left me, and those few nights I managed to fall asleep, I dreamt of her. Sometimes, when the day was good and the scars didn’t sting as much as they used to, I was almost sure I could see her in the street—a woman in a white lacy dress, dancing and swirling amongst ignorant strangers.

After some time, dinners with friends stopped being a burden. I’d missed them (or maybe, I had just missed the person I used to be while with them). First dates were still horrific, but when I came back to the warmth of my flat, I often found myself feeling amused rather than depressed. 

“You were right,” I said to my therapist on a February morning. “I didn’t need to buy the house.”

“Of course you didn’t. It was important to unlock the memories, though,” she smiled, and I imagined that’s how the moon looked when she wasn’t crying. “You did well.”

“I know,” I sniffed. “I know. It still aches so much I can’t breathe sometimes, but I…I just couldn’t stand feeling numb anymore. I was so tired.”

I still was tired. But it was the tiredness of a person who’d had a long day at work; of someone who’d spent two hours on a bus on the way home; who’d overslept, lost a wallet, and therefore couldn’t buy her groceries. 

It was no longer the tiredness of a soul who’d lost someone so close it felt like a part of her had been taken away. It was no longer the tiredness death brings.

**

I was making myself breakfast, throwing rare glances at the world outside. The winter sun was shining through the kitchen window—warm, kind, safe.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a teenage boy walking down the street with his grandmother. They were holding hands and laughing about a story I didn’t get to hear—he had crooked teeth, just like hers.

I didn’t notice I’d started crying, but I suddenly felt the weight lifting off my chest. With each tear, something within me broke and healed, hurt and brought me peace: 

the yellow flowers, resting tightly all over my soul,

the chipped cup, the most precious gift from someone who wasn’t around anymore. 

Kateryna is a 19-year-old Ukrainian student. She explores foreign languages through writing short stories and crooked poems. Apart from being a language nerd, Kateryna volunteers at festivals and nonprofit organisations, plays kalimba, and tries to make the most out of her life.