The Other Side

by Kim Holden

Each breath I forced into her limp, lifeless shell sucked out what remained of my tattered soul, but I would’ve gladly surrendered it if it meant trading my life for hers.

Nina was already dead. And though my heart was still beating, so was I.

Darkness within gestates; sarcasm is the result. It’s how I breathe. My black soul is the wolf, the asshole is the sheep’s clothing.

Most guys look for shallow attraction on the outside; I look for deep devastation on the inside, so brutal it seeps out.

I can’t escape it, blood stains for a lifetime.

A kiss should feel like you’ve been plunged into an abyss that you may never surface from, or it isn’t worth doing.

So when I hear a good song, it feels like fate because it can’t be planned or predicted. Like the universe has turned it on to flirt with me, to blindfold my dark thoughts and lord over them, lulling them into a submissive union for three or four minutes.

I prefer walking around with a familiar grip on the shield of hopelessness and my depression in control, to taking in the world around me with bland interest only when survival deems it necessary. Alice making me uncomfortable is unnecessary.

“I like being outside, it feels like possibility. Especially at night, because in the dark we’re all the same…”

How can you be hopeful when your world is going dark?

“The endless possibility in a starry sky; ‘Close To Me’ by The Cure at deafening volume; swimming in an outdoor pool alone when the water inside is warmer than the air outside; the way white-hot sunshine on a blazing summer day can make you feel alive; the unapologetic chill of piano keys and the cooperative submission of guitar strings; lyrics and notes in my head willing and anxious to become anything I want them to be; meeting someone and not having to put effort into becoming friends because it’s a given that we already are, like destiny already sorted us ahead of time.” She pauses and a breathy laugh escapes. “I’m going to shut up now, I could go on all night.”

When you’re counting down to the end of your life, it’s always blindingly and purposefully at the forefront of your mind.

The pattern varies from brushing back and forth, to tracing circles. Easing my constant worry, solidifying friendship by seeing me in ways others don’t, and confirming that Alice makes me feel more than anyone I’ve ever met—all with the pad of her thumb. I know this is completely platonic on her part—it’s just Alice being Alice—but for a loner like me, there’s intimacy in weaving my fingers with someone else’s. It’s a union that feels naked and vulnerable, intrepidly sexy. Which is why I always choose the emotionally boundary based, I’m-not-letting-you-in palm to palm, non-finger-weaving grip.

“A genuine smile, especially if I know I put it there; someone who listens when I have nothing to say; sharing the same taste in music; and blondes. I have a thing for blondes.”

“The most important time to listen is when words are missing, that’s when hearts cry out the loudest.”

In this moment, I don’t ever want Alice to let me go, because even though it still hurts like hell—it hurts a little less.

“Just promise me that someday, when it doesn’t hurt so much to talk about, you’ll tell me the story. I want to hear it, Toby. I want to hear all of your stories.”

Pain has an inexplicable way of making that possible, a remarkable way of making sure you don’t forget it and give it recognition even when you don’t want to.

I can officially cross the kiss off my list. I feel this one all the way to my soul and back again. Jesus, I don’t ever want it to end.

“Every kiss eventually ends. The memory of them doesn’t. I’ll still feel that one when I’m ninety,”

“You know what I miss most about losing my eyesight?” I don’t answer because I’m not supposed to. “Looking people in the eye when I talk to them. Because looking people in the eye achieves many things. I can gauge if what they’re saying with their words aligns with how they really feel. Mouths can lie, but eyes can’t. There’s intimacy in eye contact. Not creepy level intimacy, but human level intimacy. You know what I like most about losing my eyesight?”

“Truly hearing what people say when I talk to them. Strike eye contact and sight from a face-to-face exchange and it forces me to listen to words, tone, and inflection. It’s added dimension that I didn’t pay much attention to when I had eye contact to lean on. Contradiction in words, tone, or inflection is telling. It’s information-gathering. I like that. All that being said, Toby, you’re a terrible liar. Your sadness is deep. It’s old and aged and I can’t begin to hear where it began. But it isn’t permanent.” She squeezes my hand tight again and whispers, “I’ll help you slay it.”

I close my eyes, carve out my black heart, and bare it for her to see, feel, and hear. It’s absolutely terrifying.

“Darkness is passive denial of light. And aggressive denial of self. Thoughts rearranged, Emotions relabeled, Personality retracted By a thief Until all that remains Is a delicate, reluctant cacophony of shame. Screaming, So much blame. So much blame. Conscience profound. Self-preservation drowned. So much blame. So much blame. It all fades into oblivion When everything goes black. My sacred companion, disregard, She soothes. Like the dull blade of contempt, She maims. Whispering, So much blame. So much blame. A mercenary with an end game. A victim with my name. So much blame. So much blame.”

“Because I don’t want anything between my mind and your lips. I want to remember it all. Clearly.”

The first brush of lips isn’t tentative; we jump right in where we left off the last time. This isn’t a kiss that’s going to smolder until it ignites. It’s an inferno from the start.

“What have you always wanted more than anything else, Toby?” It sounds dreamlike and far away. The answer is easy, but the words are hard for my sleepy mouth to form. “To be someone’s hero.”

“Everyone cares about someone, some of us are just shit at showing it.”

The silence stretches on. And the connection between us snaps. I clipped it. Mentally I clipped it. With shaky hands. And an aching heart. Because confident and catastrophic can’t coexist. One will destroy the other. I am the destroyer. I am catastrophic. And I don’t have many days left.

Because every once in a while, life gives you a sliver of happiness…however brief.

“Sometimes in life, you do everything you can and it still isn’t enough. And that sucks,” I whisper. It’s true. It’s so true.

I’m not a religious person, but the sight is tragically angelic and eerily prophetic, like she’s peering into my soul looking for a flicker of light amongst all the dark and decay.

“Some people aren’t worth fighting for, Toby. You’re not one of them. There are people we meet in this life who anchor us. They reassure us with their presence. They bring us comfort simply by being. They love by osmosis, radiating it out and diffusing it in effortlessly. Quietly, they walk among us, treading lightly but providing stability and influence because it’s second nature. The thing that’s so special about these people is that they don’t even know they’re doing it.”

“That’s you, Toby. That’s you. You’re worth fighting for.” Her voice cracks before she adds, “You have no fucking idea how much I wish you realized it and started fighting for yourself.”

Me in the midst of a singular meltdown, the rest of the world in the midst of a mass reverie. The juxtaposition sums up my life: there’s everyone…and then there’s me. Knowing from a young age that I didn’t fit in.

I just want people to forget and keep living their lives. I’ll slip out of the daily flow the same way I lived in it…unseen.

Sometimes a photo captures emotion so palpable that it can still be felt every time you look at it. That’s this photo; it’s pure joy.

“Holding it in gives it power, Toby. Talking about it takes that power away.”

I will never forget the look on his face when he was inside me; it was devastatingly beautiful and tragic at the same time.

“But the thing is, you don’t have to go back to who you were before. Time passes. People change. You just have to decide who you want to be today, and if you’re not sure who that is, time and sobriety will help you decide.”

“I’m so sorry, Nina,” I whisper to the air. “I’m sorry there was so much I didn’t know. I’m sorry I couldn’t help. I’m sorry that life was so hard for you.” Pinching my lips together, I take in a deep, shaky breath through my nose. “I miss you. Every day I miss you. I’ve blamed myself for two years for your death. But I think I finally realize you lived with depression, the same way I live with depression. It’s hard. It’s so hard when you don’t believe you’re good enough. Or smart enough. Or just…enough. I should’ve told you that you were. You were enough. I should’ve told you that I loved you more than just once. I should’ve told you how funny you were. And how much I looked up to you. And that I love music because you loved music. I should’ve told you a lot of things. I think sometimes we take people for granted…or we just assume that they know how we feel about them because if it’s so obvious to us, shouldn’t it be obvious to them too? I know now that people don’t know…they can’t know…unless we tell them. Because saying it, or hearing it, can literally be the difference between life and death. I’ll never go another day without letting people know how I feel, even though it’s hard. I’m starting with Alice. I know I won’t have the right words, or I’ll be embarrassed, but I won’t let that stop me. Because it matters. People need to hear it. Thank you for teaching me so many things. You were enough, even if you didn’t believe it.”

Sometimes in life, there are moments of clarity so blinding in their revelation that they change everything.

“I am,” she whispers with a knowing smile. “You are so many things, Toby, an amalgamation that makes you, you. That’s why I love this so much. It’s owning it all, the triumphs and the struggles, the things you like and the things you want to change, because they all make you who you are. We’re all a work in progress—hell, no one knows that better than me. Every day is new. Every day delivers a new challenge. But saying, ‘Fuck it, I am,’ feels good. I’m going to steal this. I might have you paint it on my bedroom wall too. Even though I can’t see it, I’ll know it’s there.”

“The girl who sees the stars despite the clouds taught me to do the same. And it changed everything.”