BERLIN NIGHTS
We explored barren roads in the semi-dark, broken by streetlights, by the sudden two-pronged glare of cars shooting towards us then beyond. Buildings rose up, drab and grey, illuminated squares of yellow.
It was all new to me and the thrill of it was foreign and sweet, a fizzy drink I could only hold in my mouth for moments at a time. I was breaking away, finally, from the prison bars of routine and you were with me, walking in step beside me, each one an act of freedom.
That’s what it felt like, the summer we caught a plane to Berlin, then a train to Amsterdam and a bus to Brussels. It felt like coming up for air after being held underwater. It felt like a break from reality, though I understand now it was just an illusion because reality is created inside your head, not outside.
Still, it’s an easy thing to romanticise. The musky smell of our hostel room, the crisp white bedsheet hiding a stained mattress, the murky window that looked out onto a murkier street. The comfortable silence between us as I poured over a city map on the top bunk while you unpacked below, like we’d done this a thousand times before. The little preparations for an adventure. The quiet moments before the main action.
I miss going on adventures with you.
There are so many moments during those two weeks that stick in my mind, little scenes that my brain has decided are important enough to capture and immortalise. They come back to me like old friends, especially at night when everything feels a little more surreal, a little more fragile, as if the present is just a shimmering reflection of the past.
You, a ghost of a ghost, balancing on a concrete wall separating land from river. Holding your arms out for balance like airplane wings, the bulky black folds of your hoodie, the girlish silhouette of your body. Stepping carefully, one foot in front of the other.
The sun was setting behind you and your profile was black against the light. I wanted to take a photo because everything about you in that moment was beautiful, but you wouldn’t let me.
At the time I thought you were just shy, now I know better.
Another fragment: walking along the relic of the old Berlin wall, now a gallery of street art murals. You were telling me about a book you read that followed the real-life story of a Jewish mother fleeing from Germany during the Holocaust to the safety of Belgium, the sad tragedies of her life, how at the end she kills herself by jumping out of a window. I thought to myself: what a sad ending, she deserved better after surviving that hell.
Out loud, I said: “‘One day I want to write sagas about women like her.”’
Later, we ate German hotdogs inside a boat anchored to the harbour. You were quiet and forlorn, your clear blue eyes seeing something that I couldn’t. I peered out of the window as the water rippled, catching the dying light like an expensive piece of jewellery, trying to decode the puzzle of your silence.
You nibbled at the soft doughy bread, splashes of mustard and ketchup painting your plate autumn colours. I wanted to say something to break you out of the trance, to bring you back to me, but I held my tongue. I knew that prying would only make you fortify your walls and push me away again.
Then there was the night we went to a gothic bar inside a cathedral. We arrived early and the place was empty, red lights pulsing, demonic faces on the walls and plaster skeletons dangling from the ceiling in an eerie glow. The tables were made to look like coffins. Heavy metal blasted through the cavernous room, a screeching symphony of violins, distorted guitars and voices singing about death and absolution.
We were both exhausted and excited, sitting at the coffin table with our drinks named after mythical monsters. I plucked gummy bats from cocktail sticks and ate them whole, tried to have a conversation with you but the music was too loud.
So instead I drank until my head spun and before I understood what was happening, I leaned in and pressed my lips to yours.
I felt you freeze, then slowly kiss me back, then just as quickly pull away, an apology in your eyes. I tried not to let that hurt but it did and I excused myself, heading to the bathroom where I curled up, my back against the door, forehead pressed into my knees, letting the tears leak into my jeans.
Perhaps it was the alcohol bringing everything into focus, making my emotions sharp at the edges. Suddenly I felt like a naive child. Of course we would never run away together and be free of our demons. We would never live in the cold water flat full of books and tea leaves, come home together and curl up under a blanket with cinnamon candles. All those things you once wrote about that I’d savoured in secret, holding onto the hope that we could make it a reality, even if it was only in the forgiving darkness of my bedroom at night.
It would never happen. Why did I ever let myself think otherwise?
We weren’t good for each other, and perhaps I’d always been the only one wanting something more, twisting the signs so I could believe that you wanted it, too.
After a while you came to find me and I rubbed the salty wetness from my face with a sleeve. You could tell I’d been crying though from the pinkness of my eyes. I could see the confusion and concern in your expression, for once easy to read.
I lied about why I was upset, even though you pressed me for an answer and blamed yourself for my sadness when I wouldn’t give you one. But how could I explain that I thought of you in ways I shouldn’t have? That I saw futures for us where there were none? It seemed kinder to hide the truth from you, to save us both the pain of giving this thing life just to cut it down again.
As we walked home that night through a maze of identical streets, through tunnels tattooed with paint, I let the ache in my chest become a bittersweet swell of nostalgia for a moment I was still living. I knew that this kind of intimacy was short-lived, that it was all I could ask of you. And that was okay. It was enough. It had to be enough.
I would love you in silence, and it didn’t matter if you never accepted or returned it, because the love was mine to give, label-free, and it would come from a place that couldn’t be broken so easily.
Months later, during a time when we were both studying in separate cities, you called me one night after you’d just gotten back from the hospital after overdosing on sleeping pills.
You were having a panic attack and I tried to calm you down by saying all the things I would want to hear in that situation. I acted calm because that’s what you needed at the time, but I was terrified at the thought of losing you. I was terrified you would try again and succeed next time. For weeks afterwards I had visions of you dying somewhere while I went about my life, completely unaware until it was too late.
I wanted so badly to make the pain stop, to give you hope for something better.
I wanted to be the one to save you, but that’s not how mental illness works.
So I tried my best to be whatever you needed in that moment of desperation, to do whatever little I could so that at least you would know how much I cared.
As we talked I remembered our last night in Brussels, climbing onto the rooftop and dangling our feet over the edge, the whole lit-up city glittering amber before us. I remembered the cold, biting wind making me feel like I could step off that roof and fly.
I remembered you: the curly wisps of your hair, the dark rings under your eyes, the baggy denim jacket and scuffed black boots you wore everywhere. How you stared at the lights like they were breaking your heart and said to me: “how can something so beautiful also be so sad?”
Annmarie McQueen is a London-based digital marketer, freelance writer and graduate of Warwick University’s creative writing programme. She’s been published in numerous magazines including Dear Damsels, Buried Letter Press and Avis Magazine. Her prose also appeared in the anthology The Little Book of Fairytales released by Dancing Bear Books. In her spare time she runs an online shop selling her handmade soy candles at www.chailightsco.com. You can follow her on twitter @Annmarie_writer.