Two sides of the same coin by Sana Vasi

Two Sides of the Same Coin I am at the beach. The water is an inky black against the backdrop of the sky, shot through with streaks of pink and gold that brush against the violent roar of distant waves. I pause, for just a moment, to savor the familiar taste of salty sea air against my chapped lips. Then, I start to unravel—bits and pieces of me battered away by the relentless chill of the wind. Until there is nothing left. Until I am nothing but fragmented memories and broken thoughts as sharp as glass. So, I run. I run to escape the unbearable emptiness that threatens to tear me into shreds. I run to forget the poisonous whispers that ooze their way into my head and tinge my emotions with darkness. I run to stop feeling so much, to stop feeling anything at all. I run until I realize that there is nowhere to go. ***** I sit slouched against the high-backed wooden chair, spine digging into the rose-patterned seat-cover, as I glare at the motionless figure sitting across from me. Her straw-like hair is pulled into a loose ponytail at the back of her head, although a few stray wisps are stuck to one cheek. Her eyes are dull; lifeless—surrounded by ash-grey circles that signify yet another sleepless night. “Mom?” I hesitate. “Guess what happened in school today?” She offers up a brief glance in my general direction before returning her gaze towards the untouched bowl of rice and daal in front of her. I try again. “You’ll never believe what this girl told everyone at lunch!” No response. The silence reverberates across the room and bounces off the walls. The air feels too heavy all of a sudden, and I scrape my fork against the bottom of my empty plate in a vain attempt to loosen the ache in my chest. “I hate you,” I whisper with all the misplaced anger of a spiteful eleven-year-old. She doesn’t hear me. She never does anymore. ***** I am so tired of running. ***** The rusted porch swing creaks beneath my mom’s weight as she swings back-and-forth, back-and-forth—a monotonous repetition that ceases when I wander outside. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” She sounds vaguely concerned but her eyes are unfocused, her expression faraway. I know that I’ve lost her. “Why do you take those stupid pills everyday?” I ask, my voice laced with bitterness. I hate those little white capsules. I hate the rattle they make as they are shaken out of their container and my mom’s inevitable sigh of relief as they slither down her throat. I hate how they turn her into a stranger—one who is content to wander aimlessly around the house, trapped within the confines of her own mind. I hate how little she cares. It hits me then, just how much I miss my mom. “You don’t understand,” she replies after a few minutes, the lilt of her voice threading into the moonlit sky. “I would rather be numb; I would rather not feel anything at all. It hurts too much otherwise.” ***** I’m drunk. The thought makes me giggle with delight and I stumble, sloshing the remnants of my drink onto the already sticky floor. I’m happy, a tentative feeling that I clamp onto before it flutters away. I know this hazy contentment won’t last. It can’t. The party is winding down and the magic of the night has already started to fade. Strings of fairy lights that once gave the room an ethereal feel now look cheap and gaudy—suspended from the ceiling by nothing more than strips of peeling masking tape. “Hey, you want to go someplace quiet?” His fingers are entwined in mine. I fleetingly wonder how that happened before I nod and agree to follow him outside. It’s cold. We find a concrete bench to sit on, and I pretend to ignore the frigid wind that nips at my bare legs. A few strands of hair are plastered to the side of my face, and I gently tuck them behind one ear before placing my hands in my lap. “So,” he ventures, breaking the tenuous silence. He looks at me. I wish he wouldn’t. “Would it be alright if I kissed you?” “No,” I think. “Please don’t.” But the numbness is gone, replaced by a sadness lodged deep within the hidden corners of my heart. I’m so tired of hurting; I just want it to stop. “Yes.” ***** I am falling apart. ***** My mom lies underneath the covers of her queen-sized bed, her attention momentarily diverted by the latest soap opera on Zee TV. A woman adorned in a designer sari and diamond-encrusted earrings yells at the man with a handlebar mustache, as the evil mother-in-law lurks by the doorway with a smile stretched across her wrinkled face. “Why do you watch this crap?” I complain with my usual amount of teenage condescension. She offers up a weak parody of a smile, and I take that as my cue to plunk down next to her. “Seriously, mom. Why?” She shrugs. “It helps.” “How can this help?” I ask, my voice betraying the resentment I had kept buried for so long. “It passes the time.” “Oh,” I mutter. Then, in a rare display of affection, I lean my head against her shoulder—the fabric rough against my cheek. “Can I pass the time with you?”