Red Lights, Black Hearts

by Fabiola Francisco

  “Hi.” He kisses my cheek softly and smiles.

  I finished my run here at this park where Max had said to meet. I ran an extra mile trying to ease my mind about my recent decisions.

  Max takes a seat on a bench and I follow him, still too wired to sit. I stare off into the sun again. I get mesmerized by the rays. I could sit and watch the sun dance in the afternoon sky endlessly, but a sound catches my attention.

  Max takes a picture. I stare on with confusion and he takes another.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Taking pictures.”

  “Why?”

  “You said once that you stopped taking pictures when you were older. No proof you ever existed after a certain age. You exist. Very much so. I’m proving that.” He snaps another photo.

  He’s gone mad.

  “Can you stop that?” I turn my back to him.

  “No. You’re here in this world feeling and living and healing. I want that evidence. I want you to look back and remember this moment. Remember me.”

  I roll my eyes and turn around. “Give me that.” I aim the camera up and snap. Then I hand it back to him.

  “You took a picture of nothing.”

  “I took a picture of something.” He shakes his head and drops the camera on his lap.

  “How are you doing?”

  “Good,” I respond curtly.

  His hand grabs mine and he pulls me down to the bench. I sit.

  “I leave for Germany in two days.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll be back.”

  “You always are.”

  “You’ll be here?”

  “I always am.”

  “Don’t give up.”

  “I won’t.”

  I look away at the flowers blooming in the springtime. They have a new chance at life. I have a new chance at life. Max will be away so I will have time to think.

  He’s always here. He’s always looking after me. He’s caring, but I need less caring and more truth. I need to accept myself and my path and do it without someone petting my back every five minutes. As grateful as I am to Max, he’s been treating me like an injured child lately. Maybe on a deep level I am, the hurt that child felt, but I’m a woman now. I’m an adult and I need . . . I don’t know. I need something, but not continuous pestering if I’m okay.

  “Don’t get frustrated with me.”

  “I’m not.”

  “I see it. Don’t lie. I don’t mean to be overbearing. I just want you to know I’m here. For anything you need.”

  “I know that and appreciate it, but part of me is still the person you met. I’m bitter and angry at times. I’m cynical, but I’m trying to transmute those emotions into something else.”

  “Just be you.”

  “As soon as I find her, I will be.”

  We leave the park at dusk and head to my apartment. Another chance to find clues of me in the space I reside.

  “What did you want to do before?”

  “Before?” I turn over on the bed and look at Max. His arm tucked under my head and his fingers rubbing my shoulder.

  It seems like before was such a long time ago. In retrospect it was. I’ve lived many lives since then, and now here I am, almost back to the person I was before I allowed myself to fall victim to my own self.

  “I wanted to be a psychologist. Maybe that’s why I was so good at reading the people that would come in to see me. I knew how to understand what place they were coming from to give them what they wanted.”

  We don’t really talk about this often. Me being a prostitute, but today it was said. We don’t spend time tearing it apart and analyzing it. We acknowledge it without judgment and continue our conversation.

  In our lazy state after devouring each other, we talk. We don’t just fuck and sleep or leave. We indulge our minds and hearts. That’s what I love most about Max. His lack of judgment clouded by his compassion and understanding. Not many people have that quality.

  “A psychologist.” He’s pensive. Pensive Max always intrigues me. He’s sexy when he’s pensive. He’s deep and soulful.

  “Yup.”

  “I can see that. I can see a younger you pursuing that. Wanting to help those who have been hurt. Their light. My light.”

  “No light. Just help. That changed quickly.”

  “Why?”

  “You know how the story goes. I lost myself, got married, lost myself even more. I never pursued the second degree I needed for it.”

  “Pursue it.”

  “What?”

  “Now. Do it.”

  I open my mouth to speak but close it. I can’t imagine myself going back for the long trek that a degree in Psychology entails. Not a prostitute from Amsterdam.

  I stand to go to the bathroom. I stare in the mirror and look into my eyes.

  “You matter,” I tell myself. And I believe it. For the first time since I’ve been telling myself I matter, I believe it.

  I almost cry. Damn emotions. I wash my face and go back to bed. Max is asleep by then so I lie next to him and count the specks of light on the ceiling.

  “Sam.”

  “Sam.”

  Make it stop. I’m running or trying to but I can’t seem to move my body. I’m freezing from the sweat dripping down my body.

  “Sam!”

  I jolt up and open my eyes. I look around scared of what I’ll find. Or who. I can’t catch my breath.

  “No!” I yell when I feel a hand on my leg.

  “It’s me,” he whispers. “Breathe. It’s just me.”

  I find Max sitting up on the bed and looking at me cautiously. His hand still hesitant on my leg but touching my skin.

  I gasp for air, allowing it to fill me with life. The room is still dark and my skin is clammy. I hear my deafening heartbeat in my ears.

  It was a dream. Nothing more.

  “Are you okay?” Max finally asks.

  “Yes. I think so. I’m not really sure.”

  “Breathe. I’ve got you.”

  He holds me close while I become fully aware of my surroundings.

  “It was just a dream,” I repeat aloud this time.

  “Yes.” His lips touch my temples and soothe me.

  I slowly slouch and regain control of my racing heart. Must we have to relive things from our past in order to move on? Afraid of falling asleep again, I slip away from Max and walk into the bathroom to wash my face. It’s four in the morning. There’s no way I’m going back to sleep.

  I make coffee in the kitchen and wait. I know he’ll show up in here. He’s giving me space.

  “May I?” There he is.

  “Go ahead.” I point to the chair.

  “I know you’re not shutting down but regardless, it is difficult to have such bad dreams. I will not push you, but you understand that you can speak to me.”

  I nod and drink more coffee.

  “I was scared. That’s all.”

  “Okay.” He analyzes me. Determined Max is my least favorite. He always finds a way to read me and that makes me vulnerable. I don’t do well with vulnerable.

  “I can reschedule my trip to Germany.”

  “No. You go. I’m okay. Besides, I need to overcome things on my own.”

  “You always do.” And he’s right. If anything is true about me, it’s that I fight my own battles and destroy my own enemies.

  I finally tell him about my nightmare. What I can remember at least. It was cold and dark but someone was holding me down. It wasn’t John, but I couldn’t recognize the person. It could be a glimpse of a reality I’m hiding from, or an altered imagination based on what ifs I’m drowning in.

  “You’re safe. All that’s left now is in your head. You’ll release that too.”

  Once the sun begins to peek, we go back to bed. I feel safer to sleep when the sun is shining. Too many things happen in the darkness of the night.

  Max left this morning and I realized how much time he is spending with me. He barely g
oes home anymore and I need my space. I’m grateful for his presence, but some scars I need to heal on my own.

  I run and run and run. I run until I can no longer feel my legs and my lungs sting with the dryness of the air. I run until I’ve reached the depths of my soul and found a hollow space to rest a while. Then I sit. I place my head between my legs and catch my breath.

  The sun shines down on me on a perfect spring day, but I’m too busy with my inner demons to notice the beauty. I feel movement around me but I’m too preoccupied to analyze it. I want the silence I sometimes find inside of myself. I seek the refuge.

  In that silence, I begin to repeat my mantra. I’ve taken ownership of ho’oponopono.

  Possessive. Determined. Stubborn.

  I will heal. I will win. I will defeat them.

  With a faceless presence, I begin to apologize and forgive and love the person from my dream. The person I’ve felt sink onto my bed in the middle of the night. Morbid stuff, but this is real life. You can’t make this shit up if you tried.

  I repeat and repeat, feeling the words truly enter me. I give them meaning beyond letters combined. I give them life and permission to heal me. To help me endure what this is and move forward with less darkness and more light. I want the little girl who lives in fear to reenter this world securely.

  I’ve about lost my mind to a world of philosophy and Paulo Coelho.

  I should finish that book soon. Maybe I’ll take it with me tomorrow for a walk. As if it were a damn dog.

  “S.” I look up and see Bale.

  “Bale.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Went for a run.”

  “And now you’re taking a nap?”

  “I wasn’t taking a nap.”

  “It looks like you were taking one.”

  “I was resting. I ran. A lot.” I take a better look at him. “What are you doing up so early? Didn’t you work til late at the club?”

  “Yeah. Couldn’t sleep.” I notice his black t-shirt and dark jeans. His work attire.

  “Wanna sit?”

  He sits and we talk. I confess I was repeating the mantra in my mind when he approached me and he confesses he’s been having a rough time going back to the club scene.

  “She’s everywhere,” he tells me about Evi.

  “Because she’s within you.” I even surprise myself.

  “You been doing some more soul searching?” he teases.

  “Shut it.”

  “I’m happy for you.”

  We sit together for a few minutes before either of us speak.

  “I don’t know what I’m doing,” I confess. “All I know is that a part of me has been trying to come out and I’ve been denying her that. The more glimpses I get of her, the more I remember her smile. The more I remember her innocence. The more I want to free her.”

  “Sammy, let her out. You deserve it.” I nod and continue to stare. The city really is busy. It’s Sunday. Families come out on Sundays I guess.

  “How’s the window?”

  “Let it go. It’s not your window anymore.”

  “I know. I was just asking.”

  “How is the German?”

  “You can call him Max.”

  “How is he?”

  “Fine.”

  “Sounds exciting. Are you being nice?” His sarcasm amuses me.

  “Yes.” He angles his head in my direction. “For the most part.”

  “Good. Be nice and be happy.”

  He’s so encouraging. A man of simple words who understands the troubles of life. Bale. My hero. My savior. My everything in this life.

  “I’m gonna go, babe. I should get some sleep.”

  “You should. You look like shit.”

  “Thanks for the compliment.”

  With him gone I am forced once again to continue my trek inwardly. Really, I just want to rest. Truly rest without the fear of what will come when the mind is unguarded.

  I close my eyes and allow the privilege of relaxation to enter me. In a public place, the ghosts will stay away.

  I go home to my notebook. A keepsake I never imagined I’d have. Words upon words have been accumulated in the last couple of months. Words that were so stuck within me that only closed eyes, a judgment-free heart, and a pen were able to release. Not even the thoughts in my mind have been confessed to my brain. Just words.

  Since that first time that I attempted to read them, I have not given them another glance. Maybe it’s all bullshit imagination written on those papers. Maybe they are clues. All I know is that once I get it done I feel lighter.

  I feel anxious. I don’t know why. Since I began my run this morning, I’ve felt a restless energy surging through me. The eye of the storm is passing and I feel the chaos that will follow it building. Chaos. What defines chaos?

  Thoughts. I shake my head and grab The Alchemist. Maybe this book is also influencing me.

  An hour later, I finish it. I close the book stunned. It was all a dream. So what? He wakes up from this real-life dream and has to relive that journey all over again. Will this guide him to make different choices than the ones he made? Will he go for love before anything else? And what the hell does an alchemist do?

  The boy lives this journey of life chasing something to then discover he was dreaming and is still a shepherd. People can’t transform themselves into the wind. Why am I even over-thinking this?

  I stand and stretch. Between my run and reading, I’ve lost the day. I grab the picture next to my bed and stare into her eyes. I begin to speak to myself. I ask for forgiveness for allowing anything that negatively influenced me to occur. I forgive my fears of not speaking up. I forgive the unknown that has still not revealed itself to me. I apologize for locking her away and dimming her light.

  I fall asleep at some point. I roll over in bed and have the picture stuck to my shoulder. I grab it and straighten it out.

  My dreams have been more vivid lately. This one wasn’t scary, just weird. I don’t know why I’ve been dreaming more, or remembering my dreams more often. I just am. My subconscious mind speaking to me perhaps.

  In the depth of the ocean began turmoil. Invisible to the eye above in the land, but I was swimming beneath the waves as a witness to it. Underwater volcanoes sputtering to life. At first small explosions endangering the fish. Then the fire stirred and the anger within transformed.

  When I realized what was happening, I swam fast to shore. In the distance, the tip of a mountain rose above the water and the lava spewed. I was seeking refuge, but I was not afraid. The intention was set to save humanity. In an unrealistic way, the lava shot across the island, leaving the humans unharmed.

  Where my subconscious mind gets this stuff from is beyond me. I just dream it. Now I’m analyzing it. I suppose the lesson is that things are born within and the more we try to keep them covered the harder they explode. But maybe, just maybe, we can derail the hurt from hitting the innocent. I didn’t do that. I went straight in and attacked all who resembled those that pained me. Revenge is bittersweet.

  What was it that I learned in one of my Psychology classes? The crevices of our subconscious mind hold the truths the conscious mind fights to forget.

  I can spit my fire like an angry volcano hiding in the darkness of the ocean or I can be compassionate.

  I really have changed. I don’t know if I like it. I used to not care. That was easier. It took less thinking and more acting. Now I think and experience things. Now I live. And because of Max taking photos, there is proof that I live.

  Tired of being indoors, I grab a jacket and go for a walk. The moon is hiding half of herself in the sky as I walk beneath her. Normally I would criticize myself for being so sensitive and soft. I don’t find it within me to do that to my being. I guess if I’m living honestly, it doesn’t matter what that honesty is. Light or dark, cynical or understanding. If it comes from a place of truth, then I celebrate that.

  I come across a small playground barely lit by the ligh
t post. I don’t think. I just do. I walk up and climb the three steps. I don’t know why I climb them if I reach without them. Something about being a kid again. I hold on to the bars and begin to cross them. One at a time, swinging like a wild monkey let loose for the first time in months. Years even.

  I reach the end of the monkey bars and do another round back to my starting point. It’s not the type where I put one hand on the bar then the other. No. One hand on one bar, the second hand on the next one. Fearless.

  I always felt fearless on the monkey bars. A gymnast in her natural habitat. Except I never did gymnastics. My mom always said gymnasts never grew taller than five feet and their boobs were flat. Maybe she saved me from a tit-less, midget life. Maybe she crushed my dreams. Who knows now?

  It doesn’t matter to ponder that. Instead I swing my body and lift my legs until they’re wrapped over one of the further bars. I hang upside down, my hair touching the ground. I just stay there. It’s harder to breathe but I feel liberated. My eyes close and pumping colors of black and yellow swirl behind my lids. My heartbeat is in my ears creating a new rhythm for me. Thump, thump. Thump, thump.

  My arms drop down and I open my eyes. Seeing the world upside down is an interesting experience. Everything seems as its not and exactly as it is. The sky is below and the earth is above. We walk on clouds and pick stars as we admire flowers above our heads.

  Perspective.

  For the next three days, I return to that playground at night. When I know it will be void of children. I’m not really sure how to explain to them and their parents that I want to steal their spot in line and hog the monkey bars. So I go when no one will rush me and I can be alone with my thoughts and my upside down world.

  I used to have a swing set growing up. My grandfather put it together for me. I loved him for that. I spent every waking moment outside on those damn swings when I wasn’t in school or picking flowers others called weeds. You know, those white daisies that grow everywhere. Those.

  I close my eyes and skip a bar in between each reach. Then I just hang, letting everything flow out of me from my toes to the tip of my hair. Dead cells on the strands yet they continue to grow. The irony of the human body. I guess if our root is alive, the rest of us will grow.