I Stole the Bad Boy's Skateboard

Chapter 29: Moving On for Dummies (Edited)

A/N: Dedicated to @tangi533 for her long list of comments! Love you gurl!

There are moments in life when you can rely on your consciousness. Take for example - getting drunk with your friends yet at the end of the night you need to be somehow be the sober one to get home (not that I've ever tried this before). Weak analogy, but you get what I mean. Consciousness equals awareness. But then again, there are times when we just want to lose all consciousness and try but, end up failing. 

Tonight, my consciousness failed me. It wouldn't let me fall asleep. The moment my eyes shut, scenes of the moments in the woods flashed before me. It felt so bittersweet to remember a memory I could've cherished but instead, was torn into pieces. I didn't tell Hayley because I didn't want to ruin her momement. We just talked about her and Dylan on the way home. My eyes flutter open for the millionth time that night. 

STEP 1: Still looking back...

Why can't I just forget about it?

I toss around in my bed, each position I end up with different from the previous one. Hugging my pillow against my chest, I tried to numb the pain. I felt my heart pounding violently inside me, caged in my ribs. 

Forget about the damn kiss, Alex!

You forgot that certain him before didn't you? He caused you more pain than Chase yet you found it easier to forget him. Surely you can do it again? 

And my conscience was right. I could do this. I could forget about everything. I've done it before. I can do it again. 

STEP 2: Trying to FORGET

I woke up the following morning (not really 'cause I've been awake since last night) to the familiar cold. I stared blankly at myself in front of the mirror. 

If I'm going to make this work, might as well start with a smile. 

I shuffled around my room, getting ready for the day. I picked out the first things I saw in my closet, pulling them off their hangers. It was only when I was running my fingers through my wild, nest of a bird's hair in front of my floor length mirror that I took the time to evaluate how I looked. 

The peach and woolly, long-sleeved sweater hung loosely above my denim jeans. Although my jeans were tight fit, the hem bunched around my ankles, overlapping my black combat boots. My brunette strands hung loosely in waves and my mascara held my lashes high and intact. The blush I applied gave life to my pale cheeks. 

That's how people would see me when I walk out my front door. 

But what do I see?

I see the fraying ends on my sweater's hem and the pieces of thread pointing out. I see the color blue of my jeans fading due to it being washed countless times. I see the faint stains of mud on my combat boots, forgotten to be cleaned. I see the split ends on the tips of my hair and feel its dryness. I see the clumps and flaws on my lashes and the dark circles hiding behind the concealer under my eyes. I see the paleness of my skin behind the pink glow.  

Frustrated at myself, I turned away from the mirror and grabbed my brown satchel hanging from my desk chair. 

I jogged down the stairs, exaggerating happiness in each step and rounded the kitchen island, where mom was making herself a cup of coffee.