Will You Come With Me?

With Katya in my arms, my shoulders wet with her tears, my face wet with my own, the pain I felt eclipsed any hurt I’d known before. Katya did not deserve this. Pain was not for her. It had no right to affect her the way it did. Neither did her father, I thought. Holding her, immersed in sadness, still deep down within my body was a smile. My heart felt cold and numb, but I had Katya back. Without a word it seemed all our problems were over. All the thought and despair I’d put into the issue had been for naught. The sadness that Katya’s father had caused brought resolution to our problem. Simply, she needed a shoulder to cry on and mine was nearest.

After nearly ten minutes in our pose of sadness, her head lifted and her tears seemed to slow. She was trying to compose herself. Trying to stop. Tears still seeping out, her eyes looked down and her right arm moved from around me to on my chest. There her hand rested and for a moment she leaned against me. Not sure what to do, I just waited for her to speak. Once she had attained control of her tears, she did.

“I’m sorry.” She said softly, sincerely, and I was clueless as to how to respond. Carefully I rubbed her back, hoping to soothe her. To ease her pain.

“Don’t.” I replied gently. I didn’t want her to apologise – she had nothing to be sorry for. She continued to look down, avoiding my eyes. With my right hand I gently caressed her face. Even soaked in tears and drenched in melancholy, she was pure beauty. An angel unable to spread her wings and fly away. Holding her, calming her, all I wanted was for her to be able to fly wherever she wished. With me. To find happiness. Visions of grandeur for our future together.

Then we were separated. Katya knelt; below her was the broken angel figurine. Gravely she stared at it, mourning its loss. Picking up the pieces slowly and looking at them, I saw as a tear dropped into her full palm.

“I loved this angel.” She said, the sound of crying now slowly returning. I knelt down to meet her. Looking at the broken angel, I saw why she could love it, even spread into parts, not whole, it was magnificent. “My mum gave her to me for my fifth birthday,” she continued, “when I was a kid and mum wasn’t home to listen, I used to sing to her.” She chuckled. “I used to talk to her. I could tell her all of my problems and she would always listen and afterward, I would always feel better.” She was now clutching the angel. She couldn’t let it go. I watched as her grip grew tighter and tighter, until the shards of the angel were in her, cutting her. A line of blood trickled out from her palm and dropped to the carpet. She was transfixed, her eyes closed as tightly as her palm, she was lost in the pain. I watched without a clue what to do next. So I took a risk, and spoke.

“What happened?” I asked. What happened to the angel? What happened with your dad? What happened with everything. Still consuming the figurine with her eyes, she spoke gently as the blood still trickled.

“My dad.” She said – then silence. Whether she was unable to continue or that was all she had to say, I didn’t know. I just allowed the silence to go on, taking us wherever it may lead. And though I watched Katya, I couldn’t help but be drawn away from her and to the walls of this amazing room we were in. There were paintings everywhere. Katya’s paintings, I imagined. They were incredible. None of them were simple or displayed a clear meaning. I was lost in a sea of abstract beauty. More than painting, it was poetry in colours. Looking around me, I couldn’t understand a single one of the artworks that surrounded me, but still I was drawn to it. Like a moth to light. I could have spent the rest of my life in that room trying to decipher the inner workings of Katya’s soul through the vision of her art, but as with every time I find contentment, I was interrupted by noise. Though it came from Katya, so it was a noise I accepted warmly. An endearing distraction.

“I have to get away from here.”

I turned back to her, both still kneeling. She had finally stolen her gaze from the angel and now it was on me. Her eyes writing a novel about despair and loneliness that I couldn’t bare to read, yet couldn’t take my eyes off, she repeated herself with emphasis.

“I have to get away from here now.”

“Where do you want to go?” I asked.

“Anywhere. I have to get out of Melbourne though.” And with her eyes quickly penning a short story about hope, she asked “Will you come with me?”

And without thinking, I said “Yes.”