Page 2 of Nemesync
I was always thinking about those seven years—the time it takes for every cell in the body to regenerate and renew—to cleanse away the past.
I needed to purge the traces of abuse, to take away every memory of this event. I needed to feel my body as if the trauma had never touched me. I just needed to find myself again.
Lost in my thoughts, my head bowed against my knees, I tried to think about something else. I allowed myself to be transported to that other imaginary world where I grew up a happy child, lived a happy life, and loved every second of it. But it was all an illusion, adream.
The saddest part about humanity is that you cannot redefine the past; for me, the lines of destiny made their way into myveins, filling my blood with nostalgia for a life I never had and could never have.
God, I felthopeless.
Luna sat up on her elbow and nudged me with her arm. “Who else would push you to try painting? By the way, you owe me a canvas, or I’ll tear up your book, you know, the one you left in my house the other day.”
Chuckling gently, I met her brown eyes full of joy and affection. “I’m terrible at it, and you can’t do that, Luna. It’s blasphemy.”
She burst out laughing, “Don’t you think you’re exaggerating, Zee?”
“It’s worse than blasphemy, it’s profanity. Books are holy in my house. What do you want me to paint? Lilies again?”
Luna exclaimed as if it was evident, “Of course, I want purple lilies, and I want you to sign the canvas.”
“I’ll do it. I’ll paint you a masterpiece,” I promised, laughing.
I laughed, and it felt real, genuine, I tasted happiness again for a split second and my heart ached from that feeling.
After a moment of silence, Luna posed a question, her pretty smile lighting up the air around us. “Do you remember our dreams, Zanae?” she asked, her voice full of desolate longing.
My Luna wanted to be a painter, and move back to Colombia one day.
Art was her blood’s oxygen. She was able to paint dreams and emotions from whispers of air and sorrows.
Luna tattooed me for the first time when we turned 16, marking each of my birthdays with a new tattoo. I returned the gift by tattooing a quote in Arabic on her when she turned 18.
“Al qamar sadiq al layl.”
The moon is the friend of the night.
We always had that dynamic— I was the night, and she was my Luna, a moon so bright that it kept me from feeling alone inmy own darkness. I thought it was perfect to describe her, and she loved it.
Her soul was the most beautiful palette I’ve ever seen. And having her art inked on my skin forever filled me with pride.
With a tender smile, I nodded in response. “I do.” The memories of our ambitions and aspirations flood my mind as I touch the sand under my feet.
And it’s true, I remembered, as if it were yesterday, our hopes of ending up happy despite everything that happened to us, which seemed as vast as the ocean in front of us, as disturbed as the waves, and as constant as the sky above our heads and its stars.
I turned to her and hugged her, “If we’re together, everything will be fine.”
She squeezed me a little harder. “As long as the ocean is filled with water,” she replied.
“And as long as the sky is filled with stars,” I promised, our pinkies entwining in a silent pact, with life as our witness.
If we were together, we would be fine; if we were still breathing, we werealive.
We stayed there all night, listening to music, swimming, laughing, mostly, living.
Hand in hand, heart to heart, soul to soul, my best friend and I, against the entire world.
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ZANAE
