Iâm sandwiched between two thin blankets on the frozen floor of this hospital room, eyes closed, pretending to sleep, when I hear the soft whine of the door, Ellaâs familiar presence entering the room.
Itâs hours past midnight.
She brings with her the faint smell of something slightly chemical, which confuses me, but more important: I feel her fear as she tiptoes into the space, all displaced by a sudden relief when she catches sight, no doubt, of my prone body.
I donât understand.
She is relieved to discover me asleep. She is relieved she doesnât have to speak with me.
The pressure in my chest intensifies.
I listen to the sounds of her shedding her shoes and clothes in the dark, wondering how best I might shatter the silence, bracing myself for her surpriseâthen disappointmentâto discover I am awake. I give her a moment, hearing the familiar sounds of sheets rustling. Iâm imagining her climbing into the narrow hospital bed, tucking herself under the covers, when her emotions pivot without warning: she experiences a sharp, stunning wave of happiness.
Somehow, this only scares me more.
Ella is not merely relieved, then, but to have evaded me. Sheâs happy to be going to sleep without being disturbed.
My heart races faster, dread multiplying. Iâm almost afraid to say anything now, knowing that the sound of my voice would only prompt the demolition of her joy. Still, I have to speak with her. I need to know whatâs happening between usâand Iâm preparing to say as much when I hear her breathing change.
She is already asleep.
I have been lying awake fully clothed, sinking into darkness for hours. Ella has fallen asleep in moments.
I feel frozen. Fastened to this cold floor by fear, familiar pins and needles sparking to life in my limbs.
My eyes fly open; I canât seem to breathe.
I hadnât known what to do with the jewelry box in my pocket. I was afraid to leave it somewhere, worried it might be misplaced, or discovered. It remains with me instead, branding my leg with its presence, reminding me of all that feels suddenly and terrifyingly lost.
Unconsciously, I reach for an altogether different piece of jewelry, my fingers finding the smooth stone of the jade ring in the dark, the piece so much a part of me now that I canât remember what my hand looks like without it. I spin the cold band around my pinkie finger in a familiar, repetitive motion, wondering whether it has been a mistake, all these years, to keep this token of grief so close to my skin.
The ring had been a gift from my mother; it was the only present Iâd ever received as a child. And yet, the memories associated with this object are so dark and painfulâ reminders in every moment of my fatherâs tyranny, my motherâs suffering, my grandfatherâs betrayalâ
I have often wanted to lock away this memento of my tortured childhood. Touching it even now reminds me of versions of myselfâsix years old, then seven, eight, nine, and on and onâthat once clutched it desperately even as I screamed, explosive pain branching across my back, over and over.
For a long time, I hadnât wanted to forget. The ring reminded me always of my fatherâs brutality, of the hatred that motivated me to stay alive if only to spite him.
More than that, it is all I have left of my mother.
And yet, perhaps this ring has tethered me to my own darkness, this symbol of infinite repetition fated to conjure, forever, the agonies of my past.
Sometimes I fear I will be trapped forever in this cycle: incapable of happiness, inseparable from my demons.
I close my eyes, scenes from the day replaying as if on an automatic loop. I seem doomed to relive the events in perpetuity, combing them for answers, for evidence of anything that might explain whatâs happening to my life. And despite my best efforts to shut them out, I recall Samâs voice, then Kenjiâsâ