A very Paris Paridise

I woke smelling like cheap alcohol, bad decisions and regret. I try to process all that happened last night but there's nothing, just meaningless, blurry images of smokey rooms and difuse lightning. Just another hangover I tell myself as I work the courage to open my eyes. Shyly but then all at once I allow the judgemental beam of light sent by God. I can sense Him criticizing me "Get your sh*t together, Hunter...", stating his disapproval.

Suddenly, I hear a loud screeching scream darting my hearing:

• OMG! Baby get the fuck out of bed! - my mom always couldn't help but to turn everything way more dramatic than it actually is, letting her actress instincts kick in.

• Someone is tipping the Curse Jar! - exclamed my little sister as petty as ever.

My sister's attitude may lead you to think she's the queen of the bitchive but she is nothing like that. Is certainly somewhat of a coping mechanism. Growing without a father figure or any kind of other role model, she grew up to be just like her mother, tenacious and totally a fighter, meaning she won't accept things, she doesn't agree with. It's as annoying as it's understandable and kind of cute.

Meanwhile, I caught myself thinking and that's how my head remembered to drinkshame me with a devastating headache. Soon as it gets bearable, I rolled over to the side of the bed and try not to fall facefirst in the ground. Although it doesn't sound quite a feat, I was hungover and somehow I miscalculated the distance and end up tripping and actually hitting the floor. Well, just another day at office...

A bleedy-nosed Hunter drags himself to the kitchen, where is mom and sister were.

• Nice outfit, bro - the sass was almost palpable - I love this new trendsetting side

of you.

• It's a shame I can't say that about your humour - I replied trying my best

impression of her sarcastic tone.

• No, but seriously it's everything alright, sweetheart?- and that was it, the big

difference between my mom and my sister. Having a child seemed to have woken this courage to not hide their emotions that both of them so intensely felt. Guess it's a mother's thing to prioritize her children before anything else.

• I ... - I stop there, having an internal conflict: lying seems plausible. Because of

everything she has done for me it seems only unfair to break this to her but she also deserves the truth - Does anything really happen before a morning coffee?

The joke seems to work its purpose and diverge her attention, allowing me not to commit to any of the previous. In spite of her laughter, I can tell she had guess only how broken her son was.

• Come on! Eat your breakfast before those pancakes get cold. - her tone filled of

dissumulated enthusiasm and her smile, failed to hide her disappointment. - We got our things to do! - her second attempt was more cheerful.

• Yes, ma'am. - I resign.

• Ughhh, boys... - exaled my sister - did you know, is either chewing or talking

there's no in between...

• Daisy, stop messing with your brother!

• Have you seen his shirt? It is all kinds of wrong, and i'm not talking about his

non-existing fashion sense - she does her usual eye roll, that years of praticing made so marvellously sassy. I, then, focus on the shirt and by looking at it, I have to agree with her. All kinds of stains. And then all of a sudden I remember something very clearly but very dark about last night.

• I'm not hungry - I pick my plate, wash it and went to take a shower at light speed in hopes that my mom isn't allowed to notice the mood swing.

I still hear my sister reprehending her for not having a firmer grip on me and telling that

she is only so mean so that I change my attitude. I can give her credits for it! If the roles exchanged and I only knew what she knows, I would probably do the same. But... fuck her she knows nothing. People got to learn that they can try to understand othersactions but real comprehension goes beyond that. At the end of the day, they haven't been through what we have and even if they did, different people have different ways of processing the same shit. It's not their right to judge us, to fuck us, just because they think we are doing it wrong. "Don't judge me till you walk a mile in my shoes" goes the saying.

In the bathroom, I take my clothes off and look at my reflection in the mirror. Last night wasn't just another night out at the disco, it has taken his mark on me. Although both my body and mind were hurt, the body is stronger, it has the ability to renew itself. Those are the things that can be fixed. Those are the kind of bruises that can be healed. But psychological damage is not so rarely irreversible. He in the mirror looks beaten down. A closer look would allow one to assume that he had his hope drained from him. His physique is well treated when put in comparison with the mind. He, poor Hunter, was undeniably The complete mess, but somehow messier after last night.

I turn on the water and the water starts running, taking the dirt and the smell from off my body. The water keeps running and its warmth fills the bathroom though it fails to do so to the soul. The water already fills half the tub and the steam revolves in the bathroom but it still isn't hot enough to be like the comforting presence it's needed to be. The water has the tub full and it still doesn't stop. Is there really an ending? We were promised a dawn after the dark hours. Where is it?

I reach for the confort of fetal position as I realize how fragile we are. Stupid, empty promises... How come adults sleep at night when they offer us an illusive world of happily-ever-after's? No, we're told it gets better, does it ever? Well, if it's true shouldn't we have evidence for it?

You see, that's the thing about hope; even though, while it lasts, you're unstoppable, the undefeated hero, losing faith is an infinite spiral downwards rollercoaster to the void of depression and desolation, for which, at some point, you have absolutely zero control. There are no functional brakes, you reach the point of no return and there's nothing there. Just absolute darkness and loliness.

The water is already dripping from off the tub and still it doesn't have the power to cleanse what should have not been defiled. The desperation is surreal. I crave for a way out and off I go. I look myself in the mirror again.

Water, since the beginning of times, was the symbol for purity, clearing, truth. It has always been seen has the thing with the power to temper, to counterbalance the nuissance we have in our daily lives. Water you have failed this city! I whisper to myself and laughed. I note how maniac and delusional I sounded and shivered. There is no redemption. Light shone a little less brighter now. I realize there's not such thing as a God, at least not the way he's pictured. God is the name we gave to the irony of our day-to-day, not the espiritual and virtuous energy we lack. God is gone...No, it never was there to be gone, God never was...

I put it closer to my wrist. The metal feels unbelievably, deathly cold. All it takes it's for you to make it slide. I take a deep breath. I gather courage with each time I let the air in and out. There is nothing but darkness left inside me. I reach the final part of the rollercoaster. My demons took over and have undeniably won. There is nothing but resignation to the events' fatality.

My mom steals me from my thoughts:

• Hunter, love, turn off the water, you're soaking everything - she said impatiently

and I do it...sliding feels so painful and relieving simultaneously. Like finally making a harsh decision that had been demanded for the circumstances a long time ago. I let out a moan, expressing the conflict between pleasure and pain i'm experiencing, and start sobbing uncontrollably. My mom was quick to react - I'm going in!

She enters and we both stood there without a word. Once again she proves herself sharp-witted, handling the stressful situation with ease and a collected state of mind (How came?) Her hands reach for the razor blade with softening and delicate moves, afraid I would do something stupid (or even more so). I grip it tighter in my hand, not letting it go. My mom looked me in the eyes. Instead of trying to take it from me, she held her hands up, expecting me to give it willingly. I, for some reason, couldn't...

No, she didn't deserve another man running away from her. With all that is left from my strength, I lifted my arm and handed her the blade. And then it hits me and I realize I can't begin to imagine how seeing someone this hurt can ever become something other than a terror-inducing memory.

And I totally give in. I can't help but to fall in her arms. She sits on the floor and runs her hands in my hair and starts singing "Sing me to sleep" by the Smiths. It had always been our song making everything only more meaningful. With every note of her melodious voice I start feeling its soothing effects.

Regret and guilt feel the void left by the anger and frustation.

When I reach a calmer state, achieving some peace with a unsure "Not today", she tells me how much i'm worth and how stronger I have grown. The exposure encouraged her to tell me a story long due. She shows me her scarred arm. She told it had started since father left her, seven years ago. Cutting was her way out of a depressing reality of being condemn for something she wasn't

In any other day, I would judge and condemn her even, but not today, not after what I did. The exposure encouraged me to tell her what happened.

That was when both decided not to trust the cops ever again.

Paris is just the most intense city I have been in. All its skyscrapers, monuments, lights work the glamorous concept of Ville de l'amour so any romantic clichmovie pictures. The roads, made of marvelous, puissant stone, are in themselves works of art, and somehow their chilling component is balanced by the warmth, the love the air was impregnated with. Almost too perfect but I was there and it was so real and enviable and... goals! Just like the mood!

Seems like Paris had contaminated us with all this charm and, in the end, it was just a little eternity I had the pleasure to share with Meredith. We were really getting along with each other, the city really worked wonders, but so did her broad smile. It wasn't just a nice, orchestrated smile, no, it was Meredith (...)'s specialty. She would space off, entertained in absorbing everything so she could later put it into words, in a way only she could, gazing at nothing in particular and her smile would emanate, brighting everyone's life. So sexy and powerful, I feel the flames in my heart sparking, bursting, roaring, and I can't help but lean for a elongated and ferocious kiss, pressing her lips, enforcing my carnal desire of showing love. At first, she was startled with my spontaneity but she wouldn't have me swooping her of her feet and so she throws herself into a soft, vigorous make-out session. As usual, the world stopped, like in a paused frame of romantic film, and the thrilling would remain, suspended, frozen in time, lefting me somewhat nervous, uneased, until Meredith, sweeping me off my mind, launches in for a fast series of hot, delicate kisses.

You know the best part? I finally feel like a belong and, ironically or not, never had the iconic "We will always have Paris..." such a strong, intense meaning as it has for here on out.