3 Fragments 

Talia Parfaniuk

Here I am, in Vancouver, lying on the carpeted floor of my ghostly childhood bedroom. The girl who lived here died last year. She and I share a name, body, and soul; but she is not me. She was much more carefree than me. I am so melodramatic. I can see the sky getting dimmer through my slatted blinds. My window faces east. Somewhere, on the other side of the house, the sun is setting. Likewise, somewhere else, where I am not, the sun is rising. My room is quickly getting darker. I do not move to turn on the light. I barely breathe. Eventually, in the soft evening darkness, I rise. I stand in front of the mirror. I make a quiet prayer to the shadow standing there: “When I look for feelings I find myself empty. Please, teach me. I want to feel more, and I want to feel it intensely.”All I feel is my clenched jaw. I lie on my bed and indulge in wondering how the world could be so callous. My mind spins and unwinds. My body feels soft around the edges. I fade away. The next morning, I call up my best friend. She helps me dye my dark hair platinum blond over the bathtub. My brittle, bleached strands of hair will snap off one by one. I don't care. Self imposed acts of destruction remind me that I am alive. They are the only worldly power I have.
~
Here I am, in Montreal, bare feet planted firmly on the cold tile floor of my poorly lit bathroom. I watch the mirror as my pale hands rise and gather my hair at the base of my skull. I take note of how fragile my neck and wrists appear. These are the parts of me that connect the magic to the body it requires to survive. My head and my hands are so divine. I cannot believe that they are mine. In one fell swoop, I lean over the sink and cut my hair. My reflection sticks to my mind for a chronostatic moment. I clean the sink and sweep the floor. I brew the coffee. I put fresh flowers on the table. I open the window to let in the icy, sunsoaked air. Leftover snow is black with city grime on the street below. This is what spring looks like in Montreal. This is what my spring looks like in my soul. The layers of trash that slowly accumulated with the snow are rapidly revealed as the ice melts away. Every spring, I feel like an urban archeologist, as well as a suicidal psychologist. Every spring, I carefully examine each layer of myself, then I throw myself away. I relish in the rituals that ground me: spring cleaning, haircuts, fresh flowers, and sweet coffee with cream. These absurdly simple rituals are all that keep me inside my body.

...

Here I am, in Hawaii, relishing in how little I require to survive. All I need is a single bed, simple food, and the sun on my face. I have not been what my mother would consider comfortable or clean in a month and a half, and I appreciate that. This mundane epiphany blossoms into a familiar mania. I own the world. My dainty human hands hold it as easily as fruit. I devour it. During these giddy spells, bloody laughter spills from my mouth uncontrollably. When I brush my teeth I stare at the porcelain sink. Looking at the mirror is too surreal. The reflection is uncannily familiar, like my abandoned childhood bedroom. Rather than look myself in the eyes, I lose myself in mundane human rituals: brush your hair, wash the dishes, breathe in air. I am learning how to be good at these things without paying attention. I polish my exposed mouth-bones twice a day, like all good humans do. Sometimes, I brush too roughly. I taste my gums bleeding. I have to remind myself to be gentle. I drink rainwater. I eat the fruit that grows outside my bedroom. I sleep only when I have to. There is purity in simply surviving, but it makes my body weak. I wonder how far I can push the edges of myself. Sometimes, I forget to be gentle. The world will inevitably and cruelly remind me that I am a girl, not a god. Each time I fall, I learn how to kill myself without dying.