THE RESTORATION PROJECT
JAVANI BENITEZ
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This is an allegorical story about the struggle of disconnecting from a toxic relationship, told from the perspective of a jaded character and his experience as he is followed through intimately written trial and triumph to a path of self-connection and healing. Through vivid and distressing imagery, this has been made possible. Please, read with caution.I hope you enjoy.
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To Erin Bartram, Victoria Nordlund, Katherine Kelly, and Prisca Afantchao. Thank you for helping us through this wonderful program at every step of the way.Loading...
To Erin Bartram, Victoria Nordlund, Katherine Kelly, and Prisca Afantchao. Thank you for helping us through this wonderful program at every step of the way.Attic* Numeral Translations
* Attic: the numeral system used in ancient Greece
α': 1
β': 2
γ': 3
δ': 4
ε': 5
Ϛ': 6
ζ': 7
η': 8
θ': 9
β': 2
γ': 3
δ': 4
ε': 5
Ϛ': 6
ζ': 7
η': 8
θ': 9
ι': 10
κ': 20
λ': 30
μ': 40
ν': 50
ξ': 60
ο': 70
π': 80
ϙ': 90
κ': 20
λ': 30
μ': 40
ν': 50
ξ': 60
ο': 70
π': 80
ϙ': 90
Part αʹ
Damage
Damage
There are many more Attic numerals, however, they have not been provided for the sake of relevancy.
Part αʹ
Damage
Damage
April! The knife was in her chest, or so I thought, even if it was meant to be in mine. That knife isn’t even here anymore.
I wanted to scream, I wanted to cry, but all I could do was look into her glassy eyes. And even after all of this time, I never wondered why that knife was gone. And I never noticed that it was my blood that poured out to her.
I wanted to scream, I wanted to cry, but all I could do was look into her glassy eyes. And even after all of this time, I never wondered why that knife was gone. And I never noticed that it was my blood that poured out to her.
αʹ
False Accusation
False Accusation
I didn’t mean to kill her, I didn’t—I didn’t want to kill her!
Sickly warm blood soaked through my pant legs, staining my skin as I sobbed. A knife I had thought to be thrust into my chest appeared in hers, limbs unmoving as I took her hand in mine. She was dead. I think I killed her. Or she was sleeping, and this was some sick prank. Whatever it was, I couldn’t take it. I didn’t want to hurt her, I never wanted to hurt her!
My chest ached as I lifted her body, still as warm as it was the day she had first taken to me. I could barely breathe, it felt as if my lungs had been sliced off by that very same knife I had sworn was shoved into my body. I couldn’t believe I had done this.
Slowly, I carried her, running a gentle hand over her face that still seemed oh-so-alive. Where did all of the time go? Why did I have to do this to her? I was unfair, It should have been me.
My body felt heavy as I set her down into bed. I felt hollow, limp, almost. Like life was slowly being sucked out of me through an injury of some kind. But I wasn’t injured, it was only her. I killed—I killed April. Even if the knife was gone now, even if her wounds were invisible, she lay unmoving on the bed.
She was dead. I think I killed her. I think I killed her and I don’t know what to do. I cant—I can’t just get away with it, I need to help her, I need to protect her! She has to be alive, she just has to be! There’s no other way around it, April has to be alive. I can’t let her die. She’s going to wake up and be just fine tomorrow, right? And then—and then we can be together again! We have to be together again, I need to be with her. She’s going to hurt herself if I’m not. God, how could I ever forgive myself? I’ve already hurt
Sickly warm blood soaked through my pant legs, staining my skin as I sobbed. A knife I had thought to be thrust into my chest appeared in hers, limbs unmoving as I took her hand in mine. She was dead. I think I killed her. Or she was sleeping, and this was some sick prank. Whatever it was, I couldn’t take it. I didn’t want to hurt her, I never wanted to hurt her!
My chest ached as I lifted her body, still as warm as it was the day she had first taken to me. I could barely breathe, it felt as if my lungs had been sliced off by that very same knife I had sworn was shoved into my body. I couldn’t believe I had done this.
Slowly, I carried her, running a gentle hand over her face that still seemed oh-so-alive. Where did all of the time go? Why did I have to do this to her? I was unfair, It should have been me.
My body felt heavy as I set her down into bed. I felt hollow, limp, almost. Like life was slowly being sucked out of me through an injury of some kind. But I wasn’t injured, it was only her. I killed—I killed April. Even if the knife was gone now, even if her wounds were invisible, she lay unmoving on the bed.
She was dead. I think I killed her. I think I killed her and I don’t know what to do. I cant—I can’t just get away with it, I need to help her, I need to protect her! She has to be alive, she just has to be! There’s no other way around it, April has to be alive. I can’t let her die. She’s going to wake up and be just fine tomorrow, right? And then—and then we can be together again! We have to be together again, I need to be with her. She’s going to hurt herself if I’m not. God, how could I ever forgive myself? I’ve already hurt
April! The knife was in her chest, or so I thought, even if it was meant to be in mine. That knife isn’t even here anymore.
I wanted to scream, I wanted to cry, but all I could do was look into her glassy eyes. And even after all of this time, I never wondered why that knife was gone. And I never noticed that it was my blood that poured out to her.
I wanted to scream, I wanted to cry, but all I could do was look into her glassy eyes. And even after all of this time, I never wondered why that knife was gone. And I never noticed that it was my blood that poured out to her.
βʹ
Introduction
Introduction
γʹ
Reminiscing
Reminiscing
I could feel her claws digging into me, but for some reason, I could not let go of her.
This is always the typical case for us. My lady, the month before May and the month after March, and I, the month before September and the month after July. April and August, we call ourselves. April and August. We are spring and summer, always on the cusp of a harsh winter or a dying autumn, yet straying far from the edge. This is what life was like for us. One always came after the other, August always wrapped up what April had left behind. But now, I must clean after my own mess, and I’m unsure if I know how.
I still hear her sometimes. I still hear her, calling for my name, weeping throughout the halls for someone, anyone, to fix the messes she left. It haunts me. She still haunts me, as the chest of her corpse rises and falls beside me in the bloodied bed we sink into. The daggers of her breath dig into me, but I can’t let go of her. I don’t think I’ll ever learn how. It scares me sometimes. She scares me sometimes. But, even then, I don’t think I could ever let go of her, not like this.
Her fangs hurt, but I’ve numbed to the pain. The sensations of her sweet venom slowly and painfully eating away at my veins are enough to keep me grounded, enough to keep me going to see the sunlight of tomorrow. No matter how many times she has killed me, I cannot seem to die. I always seem to come back, and as the autumn, what am I alive, if not dead? What am I alive if I am not dead?
I don’t like thinking about it.
This is always the typical case for us. My lady, the month before May and the month after March, and I, the month before September and the month after July. April and August, we call ourselves. April and August. We are spring and summer, always on the cusp of a harsh winter or a dying autumn, yet straying far from the edge. This is what life was like for us. One always came after the other, August always wrapped up what April had left behind. But now, I must clean after my own mess, and I’m unsure if I know how.
I still hear her sometimes. I still hear her, calling for my name, weeping throughout the halls for someone, anyone, to fix the messes she left. It haunts me. She still haunts me, as the chest of her corpse rises and falls beside me in the bloodied bed we sink into. The daggers of her breath dig into me, but I can’t let go of her. I don’t think I’ll ever learn how. It scares me sometimes. She scares me sometimes. But, even then, I don’t think I could ever let go of her, not like this.
Her fangs hurt, but I’ve numbed to the pain. The sensations of her sweet venom slowly and painfully eating away at my veins are enough to keep me grounded, enough to keep me going to see the sunlight of tomorrow. No matter how many times she has killed me, I cannot seem to die. I always seem to come back, and as the autumn, what am I alive, if not dead? What am I alive if I am not dead?
I don’t like thinking about it.
My feet could not stop moving, but they never approached the door.
My eyes have been forcefully blinded from the agonising burn of this room, colours all around of coral and rose suffocating me as the stinging burn of carnations burrowed themselves into my retinas. This room was painful, it hurt. But once before, it was not like this.
I could not stop moving, even as my tired, thorned body spun in the silver mirror. She danced with me, tears of laughter streaming like waterfalls from the caring, oceanic crevices of her soft, reddened face. I feel fear here, but I once felt happiness, as she dragged my decaying body around in her neverending corpse dance. I hate it there. But I was happy there.
I remember my decaying feet swinging along with her gentle yet malicious tune. I remember enjoying it, regret and pain bleaching itself out of my skin and staining pink carpets a bright, crimson red. I remember gasping for breath with glass lungs filled to the brim with mildew, the vines that strained to hold my bones together tightening themselves with every jerk and jolt my body could manage. No matter how rough she was, she was always so gentle with my fragile soul.
When we would finish dancing, we would collapse together, laughing amongst ourselves as her gentle hands wrapped around wrists eaten away by maggots. I was broken, I was rotted, I was decaying, but with her gentle kiss, I could feel my lungs expand anew, my flesh mending and my muscles contracting in a painfully human way.
Now, I stand alone in the room, my bones creaking as I move to mimic that solemn corpse dance from all those years ago.
Where has the time gone?
My eyes have been forcefully blinded from the agonising burn of this room, colours all around of coral and rose suffocating me as the stinging burn of carnations burrowed themselves into my retinas. This room was painful, it hurt. But once before, it was not like this.
I could not stop moving, even as my tired, thorned body spun in the silver mirror. She danced with me, tears of laughter streaming like waterfalls from the caring, oceanic crevices of her soft, reddened face. I feel fear here, but I once felt happiness, as she dragged my decaying body around in her neverending corpse dance. I hate it there. But I was happy there.
I remember my decaying feet swinging along with her gentle yet malicious tune. I remember enjoying it, regret and pain bleaching itself out of my skin and staining pink carpets a bright, crimson red. I remember gasping for breath with glass lungs filled to the brim with mildew, the vines that strained to hold my bones together tightening themselves with every jerk and jolt my body could manage. No matter how rough she was, she was always so gentle with my fragile soul.
When we would finish dancing, we would collapse together, laughing amongst ourselves as her gentle hands wrapped around wrists eaten away by maggots. I was broken, I was rotted, I was decaying, but with her gentle kiss, I could feel my lungs expand anew, my flesh mending and my muscles contracting in a painfully human way.
Now, I stand alone in the room, my bones creaking as I move to mimic that solemn corpse dance from all those years ago.
Where has the time gone?