Standing on the balcony that overlooked the city below, my eyes looked heavenward. The night sky was speckled, with bright stars, and the full moon shone in all its glory. Not a cloud disturbed the picturesque ether. Bringing a lighted cigarette to my lips, I took a long drag. Tilting my head back, I blew out the smoke and watched it dissipate into the air. I winced in pain as I slowly took a seat on the wicker chair and placed my feet on the edge of the balcony wall. I could still feel the area where my skin had been stabbed multiple times to produce a creative artwork along my spine. I smiled inwardly, placing my hand on my back, feeling the most artistic wound I had ever received. 

As I watched the outline of the city below and listened to the traffic noise, I heaved a sigh. Out of habit, I raised my hand to run my fingers through my long hair. But instead of the long strands that I had grown accustomed to, my fingers brushed against my scalp as they passed through the short filaments. I had forgotten that I had chopped it all off and abandoned part of myself along with it. 

A chilly breeze blew past as I took a swig of beer from the pint that stood on the wooden table next to me. I eyed the golden liquid as I twirled the bottle in my hand, remembering that just a month ago, I was bent over a toilet bowl hurling the contents of my gut out. For the past three months, every time I had placed the intoxicant in my hand, I would guzzle it down without hesitation always to the point of incoherency. The beverage would drown away the thoughts that ate at me. Drowning myself in the potation was beginning to feel cathartic, without realising that the reins were slipping away from my hands. Dissolving parts of me that I loathed was easy. Confronting them was not.

I pulled the thin shawl closer to my body, longing for the warm embrace that used to greet me the moment my feet would cross the threshold of our home. But instead of having the person I loved sitting beside me, all I had left were memories. I could distinctly recall his sharp nose, his full lips and the scruffy little beard he kept. Looking at my hand, I could still feel the imprints of his fingers when his hand intertwined with mine. I missed his scent, his touch, the impression of his lips, the way he held my body when we made love. What the two of us had was extraordinary, something I thought I’d never have the chance of experiencing. But when things got tough, neither of us put any effort into making things work. He allowed the disorder of his mind to define him, and I enabled my insecurities to plague mine. Two people who were meant to be together were torn apart because both parties weren’t willing to fight. It was easy for me to give up on something that did not have the certifiable stamp that it would endure the test of time.

On one of the many nights, while I was lying on the cold, blue tiles of the bathroom floor, I felt the heaviness on my head lift. I had emptied the contents of my stomach, and my brain had begun working even though I had forced it to stop. While my throat still felt a burning sensation, my mind raced through every single memory I could recall. Watching moments of my life flash before me, tears trickled down my face knowing that I could have done better. Most, if not all, of my memories, consisted of ‘what could have been’ because I was either too afraid or I had given up halfway. Instead of facing my demons, I was trying to dissolve them by inventing a new one. 

Through the years, I had carefully constructed a bubble around me that kept me safe. I had had my fair share of scars that served as a reminder of the brutality of the world that made me retreat further into my safe haven. Scared of feeling any form of agony again, I had shut myself. But what I failed to realise was I was not experiencing the joys it had to offer either. I had given up on the good fight. I was merely existing because it was easy. Living was tough.

After what seemed like hours of lying flat on the ground and staring at the ceiling, I found my resolve before I completely lost myself to the golden liquid. I reached for the scissors and sheared off the long locks I used to take pride in. With every snip, I felt myself emerge from the bubble I had been taking shelter in for years. I looked myself in the mirror and saw a semblance of the bold girl that I used to be before I allowed life to convert me into a timid person afraid to offend anyone even when I was wronged. As I looked at my reflection, I smiled through the tears. 

I planted my feet on the floor, put out the cigarette before going back inside. I stood before the tall mirror and allowed the thin shawl that was wrapped around my body to slip off my shoulders and onto the floor. Slowly I unbuttoned my cotton shirt, stripped it off me and stood there half-naked in the dim light. Turning around, I examined my sore back on the reflective surface that bore a detailed artwork. Just below, where my bra strap would have been, rose intricate lines that ascended up my spine to form a phoenix. A faint smile formed upon my lips as I watched my back, drawing strength from the image I saw. Fueled by determination, like the mythical creature tattooed on my back, I was going to conquer my demons that had weighed me down for years and start anew.