Oceans

As I sit here on my balcony having a glass of vanilla tinted bourbon, listening to the deep, melodic voice of Grozav singing in the living room, I wonder if I made the whole thing up in my head, just to justify my theft and leaving. Sometimes I think that they never actually happened. That the copper and salt that stained my tongue and chest and the purple and yellow circles around my eyes were not the result of his fist connecting with my face. The aching, swollen, welts flushed with color were not a result of the whip's lash on my back. Why do we question ourselves when we know for certain that there were events which took place that changed us inside? Why do we simultaneously tell ourselves we are crazy and tell ourselves that we are not, that it truly happened? “Convincing myself I’m not crazy is driving me crazy”.

I look out at the city from my balcony, pondering. In the fading light, the landscape takes on an ethereal quality. The hills, now shrouded in mist, become elusive silhouettes, and the sounds of nocturnal creatures echo through the valleys. Transylvania reveals itself as a living, breathing entity, where the senses are transported to a bygone era, where time itself is an ever-present companion in the dance of nature and human craftsmanship.

Transylvania has been my home now for five years, and I have never loved a place more. I was born in Varna, Bulgaria on October 31, 1450, to a poor family of five, the youngest of four children, and my mother died when I was just five years old from typhoid. I lived at home for the next fifteen years going to school and trying to stay out of the way as much as I was able. When I was fifteen, my father died from malaria. I was mostly raised by my older siblings, as my father took my mother’s death the hardest. He checked out, stopped bathing and feeding the kids and essentially let them fend for themselves. My eldest siblings had to get jobs on top of their schooling just so we did not lose the house. My father’s illness had caused him to lose his job on the merchant's ship when I was ten. At fifteen, I was the only child left in the house. I was doing my schooling and working in his free time to keep up food in the home. With the stress of work and school bearing down on me, I decided to sell my home to pay off all of the debts. I left my home and started working for a local tailor for room and board. The tailor promised I would want for nothing and that I would be well taken care of, but that was not the case. My master was abusive, beating me with belts when I made a mistake or did not move quickly enough. There were also nights when he would come into my room when he thought that I was sleeping and touch me in places I did not think I should have been touched. I tried to fight at first, but that just got me more beatings, so I eventually stopped. In retaliation, when I was 18 and no longer needed or wanted to work for my master, I stole from him and left, running away to Constanta, Romania where he was an apprentice to an ancient historian.

I was sick and tired of my master. I worked like a dog all day and night and had even taken to sleeping in the basement so that I never missed anything. Master's morning tea was always piping hot and ready for him, sitting next to his soft-boiled egg and toast on the dining room table. I ran his errands and did all the housekeeping, making sure that there was no speck of dust in sight. Moreover, I helped my master at the hospital. Despite this, I still wore the same tattered rags I started in.

I had been devising a plan over the last few weeks to get away and truly live a better life. I had been secretly putting items aside which I knew would be valuable and would gain me passage and money. These items included 5 gold pins, 2 silver candlestick holders, two ells of velvet and 3 ells of silk. I had also set aside 6 tunics that were marks 'B.S.', a French hat, and French loafers. I waited until two o'clock on Tuesday morning to act, making sure to add a little extra sleeping elixir to Master's evening brandy to be sure that my movements would not wake him. Before heading out of the basement, I grabbed 250 gulden in coin, and donned a pack of clothes.

I opened the basement door leading to a dilapidated staircase and was met with a surprisingly cool and crisp breeze. Shocked, as it was July, I smiled and took in the smell of the ocean just beyond the wall of the city. Salt, water, and citrus wafted through my nostrils and sat on my tongue. This had always been my favorite scent, reminding me of my father when he would come home from a long voyage. As I continued on my moonlit path, the smell and the sound of the waves crashing against the shore grew stronger. At this time of night, I was the only soul about. Everyone else in town was snug in their beds, dreaming. The only thing I heard as I walked was the shuffling of my own feet against the weathered cobblestones, the waves hitting rocks, and the owls talking to each other,

As I approached the shore, I removed my boots, carrying them in my free hand and relishing the feel of the cool, rough grains of sand against my cracked and dry feet. The beach was my happy place. I loved the feel of sand between my toes. There was something relaxing about the scratching, and it soothed my soul. I entered my boat, gently placing my pack on the bottom of it, and looked back at the city which I had called home for the last five years. I remember thinking to myself, "On to a better life" and smiling as I pushed off of the bank and sailed away.

It has been fourteen years since I made my decision to leave, and it was the best choice I ever made. I met both of my partners when I left. My male partner is forty-year-old Grozav Lupu, who I met when I was 18 in my first year in Constanta, and we became friends very quickly. We met while apprenticing for the same historian. We became extremely close and spent most of our free time together. The friendship eventually blossomed into something more, and we started dating after being friends for about two years, when I was 20. My female partner is thirty-five-year-old Lipa Cosma, who I met at 22 in my final year of apprenticeship. She was a newly hired barmaid at my favorite pub, Vlad’s, and it was love at first sight. I also fell in love with her ten-year-old daughter, Eva, and we have been a family ever since. Grozav and Lipa get along very well, and they are sometimes affectionate with each other, snuggling on the couch as friends, or kissing each other goodnight. They are not together, but they do love each other as one loves their best friend. Grozav also fell in love with Eva immediately, and the three of us raise her together.

As I sit here enjoying my bourbon and the sound of my lover’s voice, Lipa comes out to join me.

“Lipa, have you noticed something different about Eva lately?" I asked Lipa.

"Yeah, there's this air of melancholy around her. Can't quite put my finger on it." Lipa replied.

I sighed. "I've tried talking to her, but she deflects with a forced smile. Something's bothering her."

Lipa nodded. "Maybe she just needs time, Arcadian. We've all been through rough patches."

"I get that, but Eva's always been open with us. It's disconcerting to see her withdraw," I said.

"Let's not push too hard. She might open up when she's ready. In the meantime, we can offer support without prying."

"I suppose you're right. I've been too focused on finding a solution instead of just being there for her."

Lipa replied, "Sometimes, that's all we need – a comforting presence. Let's remind her she's not alone."

"I guess I need to be more patient. Eva deserves that much. I just hope that she will reach out if she truly needs help. My biggest fear is that she will sit and stew in this madness alone. I fear that she may not ask for help, or even talk to anyone about anything, until it is too late. My oldest brother suffered from a sickness of the mind. There were days when he would lay in bed from sunrise until sunset just staring at the ceiling. Some days, when we would all go out as a family, he would stay home, seated on the couch and he would still be in that same spot when we returned, staring at nothing or sleeping. There were nights that he would wake the entire house from his screaming. His night terrors were the worst of it. He spoke to me about them once. He told me about how the monsters came out of the darkness of his mind, shaped as the members of our family. He said that we were attacking him and yelling at him. The words that we threw at him are words that I could never fathom using. That was the only time he ever said anything to me. I watched him suffer in silence for months. His face became gaunt and gray. I remember asking myself if he had stopped eating. I never paid attention at mealtimes. I noticed his collar bones poking out of his shirt one day but said nothing. Maybe I should have talked to him, asked him if he was okay or if there was anything that I could do to help him. Maybe if I had he would not have felt so utterly alone. Maybe he would still be alive."

“You mustn’t blame yourself, love.” Lipa said. “Your brother made the only choice he felt he could make. It is horrendously sad and I wish that he was still around for your sake. But it is not your fault. Mental sickness is not something easily understood or caught. You could not have known he was suffering that terribly.”

“You do have a point there. I just wish there was something I could have done. I at least want Eva to know that should she need assistance, that we are here for her, no matter what. Always.”

"Exactly. We've got her back, no matter what she's going through."

I wish I had more people in my life before I left Varna. Perhaps things would not have been so bad, or at the very least maybe they would not have gone on for as long as they did. Sometimes I wonder if I’d have met Grozav in Varna if he would have saved me. Grozav makes me feel like the most impeccably supported individual in the world, and I know that he would never do anything to hurt me, never intentionally at least. He has never raised his voice to me, or his hand. He has never acted out of anger. We have had our disagreements, as most people in relationships do. But we talk them over, and all is right in the world. Though that anger, however brief, is what sets the alarms in my brain off. The anger is what thrusts me back into the damp, musty basement, chained to the wall, Gaston screaming in my ear that I am a useless and worthless waste of space as he forces his fists into my ribs over and over.

This must mean that I truly was traumatized, that the actions of Gaston were real and not an invention of my imagination. I lived these atrocities for years, being told I deserved them for being so insolent and ignorant. How does one break the cycle of self-sabotage? How do we stop blaming ourselves for everything that goes wrong in our lives, or tensing for the lashings that will never come when we make a mistake or say the wrong thing? Will I ever get past these feelings of inadequacy and worthlessness? I don’t know. What I do know is that I love my family and I love the life that I have been living for the last fourteen years. Grozav and Lipa have been the most incredible partners a person could ask for, and Eva has been the best daughter imaginable. So I will go to bed tonight as a happy man, knowing that I am loved and that I will never again have to endure what I did for so many years.