This piece is part of QMT’s Matchbox 20 fiction series and is based on the song “Bent”:
Anna claims it’s my fault the lemon tree’s dying, only I can’t take all the blame. I blame the weather instead. I should have taken care of it and I put some old blanket on the leaves when it snowed, yet that wasn’t enough. She asks if I’m still in love with her, only I don’t know what I am anymore. I’m here, I tell her, but she frowns like she doesn’t even believe her eyes, like she’s not sure I tell the truth, which also makes me doubt my statement, for perhaps I’m not.
*
I’m the opposite of perfectionism. You can’t even take care of a tree, she says, diving deeper into the armchair across the blinking screen. She doesn’t even take her eyes off the screen while speaking. She spent the night watching the ads, the sound on the mute and I can tell she got away of the armchair for a while, because she’s making a noise like she’s swallowing something, which means she must have gone to the kitchen to fetch herself a snack. I can’t take care of a tree, or her, she means and I look outside the window and the landscape is scary, for I see the dying tree and I fear the world is dying along.
*
I’m dad’s left side. Only I’m not that good at caring, for dad’s been moaning and crying all night. Dad survived the stroke but he’s now unable to talk. He’s also bedridden, for his right side is basically useless. Like he’s split in two, his right side refusing to participate in any attempt to move forward, or to remain whole. Anna’s turning around to face me, still deep in the armchair and rolls her eyes, like silently repeating what she already said before: you can’t even take care of a tree, or your dad. I used to be a straight line, I say. Only now you’re bent, she tells me and she’s right; I’m bent and I need her to straighten me up, but she’s not willing to offer a helping hand, she claims, for I’m old enough to clean my own mess.
*
I’m the perpetuation of clichés. Anna asks why I cheated on her. I look up, then down, then look at her who looks away. No real reason, I tell her. We survived my cheating but we’re now unable to talk. Like we, too, split in two and she’s independence while I’m meaning, which sounds contradictory, considering what I’ve done. And she’s my useless right side, for she refuses to participate in the attempt to save us, yet she’s still here, reminding me how stupid I’ve been.
*
I’m the survivor of the black hole. The day I cheated was the day the photo was released. It’s that stupid black hole, I tell her. She stares at me for a second or two, then her eyes turn to the screen. I can’t stand it out there, I say, or in here, I probably mean. Ever since that black hole swallowed the world and time runs backwards, right into the dark ages, life is unbearable. We’re safe here, I tell her. I try to hold her hand but she pushes me away. And dad yells again, like he needs something, only he can’t tell me what he needs. We’re out of this shit, I say, only I’m not sure; perhaps the black hole has sucked us in too, making “nothing lasts forever” comforting, instead of threatening. Anna doesn’t listen, or doesn’t understand. Time is bent in black holes. So am I. It’s not my fault.
*
I’m the decaying heart of the lemon tree. I’m not in love and neither is she. We’re slowly dying, while the world moves on as usual. I was infinite in a finite world, in a restraining universe I was the everlasting force, the untamed fire, only now things have turned upside down; I’ve been waiting for the world to end, only I ended, we ended, and the world goes on. You’re here but you’re not, she says, fixing her eyes on the dying tree, ignoring me, while I vanish in thin air, like I don’t even exist when I’m out of her sight.
*
I’m bent. Like in that Matchbox 20 song, broken in pieces, scattered in the room, or in the black hole, or in space, or nowhere in particular. We had the lemon tree. Now we don’t. And we cry over the dead symbol, because it’s slightly less painful than crying over real loss, but we cry hard and our hearts ache and that’s the amount of pain we can afford.
Mileva Anastasiadou is a neurologist, from Athens, Greece. Her work can be found or is forthcoming in many journals, such as the Molotov Cocktail, Jellyfish Review, Asymmetry fiction, the Sunlight Press (Best Small Fictions 2019 nominee), Ghost Parachute, Gone Lawn, Ellipsis Zine, Queen Mob's Tea House, Bending Genres and others. @happymil_