Suffering

We were engulfed by the swirling halo of smoke from our cigarettes, slowly dissolving into nothingness. The sky was grey; the bleak horizon seemed to wash out all colours, leaving me with an ominous feeling in my chest.

“Tell me you story.”

He observed me carefully, eyes suspicious. I could feel his anxiety and watched his muscles tense up. He uncrossed his legs, ready to escape.

I smiled, ignoring his evident discomfort and slowly inching closer to where he was sitting at the edge of the bench.

“I’m not a cop. Just a curious girl.”

His eyes fixated on mine; he did not move. His stance was still defensive, though he seemed less prone to running away.

Slowly, I lifted my sleeve, gently taking his left hand in my right and accompanying it to my now uncovered arm. Eyes wide open, he did not reject the contact, letting me guide his fingers along the multitude of parallel scars and burns that constellated my arm, victim of years of anorexia and self-harm.

“I’ve suffered too, you know. I understand.”

I observed his muscles relaxing visibly as he withdrew his hand, fixating his eyes on mine. Slowly, he lifted his own sleeve only to reveal an arm with the same type of injuries.

Two scarred arms, proof of a different yet somehow similar suffering to my own. That is what suffering is after all; present throughout the whole world and manifested in so many different forms.

He sighed.

“All right _ he said with sudden conviction, almost as if he were talking to himself instead of me_ I’ll tell you my story.”

His eyes turned dark, repressed pain pushing to the surface. It was starting to get windy; the ruffling of leaves could be heard clearly. The atmosphere was changing rapidly, I could sense his unease. There was something more though, a desire to talk, to tell… to be understood and not judged.

“I reached the Libyan border on foot. I had to leave my wife behind, she would not have made it. It was a long trip, I remember the leg pains from endless days of walking under the sun, hot sand infiltrating my battered sandals.”

He stopped talking briefly, eyes now full of despair. I felt his pain as my own; a bond was being created. His emotions, past and suffering were becoming my own.

“That was nothing though. Nothing compared to what awaited.”

I could feel panic surging in his voice. It was obvious he was remembering something terrible, unhuman. I could feel the profound injustice in what he was telling me. He once more started talking.

“I was suffocating; there were at least ten of us stuffed in less than three-square meters. I curled up in a foetal position, trying to occupy the least space possible. I could hear the constant laments of the other travellers, one died during the journey. They threw his body on the street. There was not enough oxygen under the truck, I kept on falling in and out of consciousness. I thought it would never end.”

I remained in silence, listening to every syllable and letting myself be transported by his story. I could picture it: the pain, the fear, the uncertainty he must have felt. I was overwhelmed with grief.

Suddenly, his expression changed. His gaze was weighty, I could feel his sadness turning into reflectiveness. Very delicately, he smiled and with a soft tone said:

“Your turn”.

I looked at him in shock. Many times, I had asked lost souls to tell me their stories, individuals far from home and without direction. I would search for them in the most remote corners, hungry for stories. Never in my experience had they asked me about mine.

I answered with a distant tone and almost apathic gaze. Hints of agony and torment painted the white canvas of my mind, slowly taking shape.

The wind grew stronger and, almost as if it were transporting my words, I found myself telling the story of the event that had destroyed my existence.

“… the pain… the blood… the penetration…”

Silence.

He did not comment. Instead, he watched me with and undecipherable look in his eyes. There was no need for words, I could tell he too had felt my pain as I had felt his. He had understood.

Once finished telling the story, I felt relieved; freed from a weight that had been crushing my heart. Tears started forming and, for the first time, I let them.

I had not cried in years.

The wind was stronger than ever, it whistled in my ears, blowing life into a soul I had long considered dead.

“Thank you.”

I said.

“Thank you”

He answered.

I realized I had fixated my gaze on my arm; the scars were proof of the injustice of it all. The only physical sign to show how deeply I had been violated.

I looked up; he too was crying.

We had formed a bond, of solidarity and empathy. Almost a friendship, with a stranger met on a bench whose name I did not even know and who had stopped me to try and sell me hashish.

Dysfunctional Girl