Ceilings

A story of unconditional love by Samantha Barrow

His ceiling is ornate with crown molding and decorative stencil. The dark fan hanging from the flourished plaster doesn’t have a light. It masks the room in a dark, cold void as it turns—its hypnotic rhythm dragging me under.

“What’s it like—being in a cult?”

The linen sheets are expensive and thick, coiled around my body like the snake in his faded tattoo. He shifts beside me, his arm sliding under his head as he gets comfortable, like he’s giving me a bedtime story. 

 “Stressful.”

I prop myself up on my elbow, cradling my head in my hand as I look him over, bare body on display. Nothing to fear. Nothing to hide. Not when we’ve seen each other’s most intimate parts.

 “I can imagine.”

He shakes his head like I’ve just said something stupidly naive. “No one can imagine it, Ava. You have to be there—in the thick of it. Have to wonder everyday if you’ll survive. Question if you even want to.”

I try to brush it off—like so much else he casually implies.

Age is just a number until it separates you through time and space and sanity. Until you’re wrapped up in two-hundred-dollar sheets and feel suffocated by the very thought of the unknown. And it’s painfully slow in the killing, the jabs of back then and at my age, and sometimes you just wish he would stab you faster, deeper, until the blood pools on the oak floor and the knife isn’t even in his hand anymore but ground impossibly far into your sternum, imbedded in your gut, a part of you and your story—his history. And at least you finally, finally, have a chapter. A page. A line.

“I want to understand,” I amend, biting on the swollen flesh of my bottom lip. “You never talk about it—that part of your life. And maybe you should.”

He rolls his head—soft, dark curls sliding along his cheeks. “Who says I don’t talk about it?”

I hate how small my voice sounds as I say, “You don’t talk about it with me.”

He brushes it off like lint from his shoulder. “I didn’t think you’d care to hear it.”

“I do,” I nod as my foot brushes against his calf, my hand tentatively tracing gentle circles across his chest. “I want to hear it all—everything.”

He closes his eyes, lets out a long exhale, and says, “It was a dark time—the darkest of my life. I did so many things I’m not proud of—so many awful, terrible things I can’t even bring myself to tell you.”

He gulps down a deep breath like it’s water. “And it was all in the name of some guy who claimed to care—who claimed to love me. And I’d never really felt that before. Loved. Not from my parents or anything. They only paid attention when it benefited them, in public for appearances’ sake. That’s no way for a kid to be raised.”

He leans into my side, and I savor the touch. “And so, I clung to him, this man who spoke to God and knew so much and loved me. But the love was conditional—violently so. And I did those terrible, awful things all the while hoping he would continue to love me for them. I did it day after day after day until eventually I couldn’t look myself in the mirror anymore.”

His face is cast in shadow, and his mouth twists as he spits his words. “And then I had to come to terms with the fact that his love wasn’t real, and I had done all these things for nothing.

Hurt all these people for nothing. And I’ll carry that with me for the rest of my life. So, that’s what it’s like.”

He opens his dark eyes and stares up at me, and I’m frantically trying to remember the last time I’ve taken a breath when he says, “It’s heartbreaking. And I don’t think I’ll ever fully recover.”

My chest is tight as I stare down at Lucas—this man that has done unspeakable things. This man who carries this weight. This man who I could love, unconditionally. I probably already do.

“I’m sorry,” I say softly, my breath brushing the curls around his face. 

He blinks then shrugs off my words. “It’s not your fault.”

I shimmy down next to him, letting my head fall on his shoulder. I feel his ragged exhale, and I breathe in as deeply as I can—filling my lungs with him.

We stay entwined like this for a while, exchanging breaths and soaking up the silence.

And when his dark lashes finally flutter shut, I twist around to my back and stare up at his ceiling. I trace the slopes and curves of it with my eyes. The fan keeps spinning.