Hurt People Hurt People

Chapter Thirty Eight:

Deep breaths.

Two months ago today.

But that wasn't supposed to matter now. I was walking arm in arm with Arya around her town, laughing like I didn't care, cracking jokes like I wasn't pained.

She was happy, genuinely so. She had got back with her former boyfriend, Corey,  and her life was once again complete with the joy she deserved. Her jovial features and glowing smile were almost infectious - almost, but not quite.

My heart was weighed not just by the recently passed events but by the upcoming in the present: we were going to meet Corey, and, although I had met him one time before, I had never seen them together while they were dating. I was anticipating just how very much doing so would sting.

I had been free of The Voice for a month and a half, and, almost as if my mind worked to spite it, did not regret my choice to relinquish it. Indeed, there were frantic moments where I tried to enclose myself in the same numbness I had accepted, just to be free of the unbearable sadness, but the release of emotion was inexplicably relieving to me. I always felt The Voice's presence lurking, yet somehow it was easier to feel everything then nothing at all. And I really did feel everything - I could no longer listen to the same music, walk the same roads or pick the same flowers. Fits of hysteria would grip me when I least expected it, exiling me from rooms where I was holding conversations, mumbling excuses as I went. I spent each night curled into a tight ball underneath the covers to muffle the noise, my stunted cries building in my chest until I thought I would burst. Sometimes I wondered if I would actually break from the inside, out. Sometimes, I wished I would.

But all the same, the lift of my shackles was the lift of my spirit, and I found moments where I could be content, if not okay. Before there was nothing, I reminded myself.

Corey came into view as we were sitting on a wall by the park, and Arya immediately sprang up to meet him. My stomach turned over as she ran to him, wrapping her arms around his neck, forcing me to look away. I didn't move to go over, the forgiving part of me saying that I was worried I would make them awkward, but the truthful part knew that I simply couldn't bring myself to.

People driving past craned their heads round to look at them. I wondered if that was because they were as lonely as I, and were wondering what it must feel like to have that connection, or maybe they were just gawping shamelessly at Arya, her long, auburn-glazed hair catching the sun, her vivid green eyes glinting. Corey's eyes were as trained to her as the driver's - I found my thoughts dwelling on a happy time when someone would look at me that way.

I felt horribly guilty for not going to greet him the second they came back over. It was so dreadfully unfair on my cousin that I wasn't trying as hard as I knew she would have for me, plus the fact that I looked abrasive, rude and uncooperative to Corey, as if I had something against him. I didn't want that, in fact, I hated the very idea. So I stood up, tugging my lips up into a smile and saying hello.

Every second from there, I felt ready to burst into humiliating sobs. They were so easy together - she would laugh, he would laugh, she would be sarcastic, he would be sarcastic. They bounced off eachother in witty conversation that I thought I could keep up with, but didn't have the energy to try to. And Arya was so good with me, repeatedly trying to draw me out of myself into conversation, trying to involve me in a way that I couldn't do myself.

I was in such inner turmoil. I knew how it looked - like I couldn't stand Corey at all and was just being stroppy. The idea shocked me so much that I would make useless attempts to brighten up, before slipping right back into my original silence.

On top of my frequent comparisons between them both and my own love, there was a horrible, horrible feeling settled in the pit of my stomach. Every time Corey tried to speak to me, although I knew it was based purely on the phantoms from my past, I found myself giving stunted replies and looking away. Everything about it made my flesh crawl - not Corey, but the way my thoughts referred back to him and John every time he looked my way. I hated myself so much for it, disgusted by my own narrow vision, but nothing could shake the tenseness from my limbs.

I tried. I really did. I tried like a small child who desperately sought approval above attention, although the very core of me longed for both. I wanted Corey to know that I didn't dislike him - no, I wanted Arya to know that, too. I wanted her to know that I cared, and that I was putting every atom of strength I possessed into acting normally, for her sake.

But oh, god, why were they so happy? why was it me trailing along beside them, ever the third wheel? where was Alex now, when the only place he should ever be was by my side, cavorting along with us? then I would be happy. Then I would be laughing. Then both Corey and Arya wouldn't see this unwelcoming version of me, that was entirely forged from the last few months' pain.

Was Alex back living with his dad now that I was gone? was he staring out of the window onto the road in his bleak little room, all alone, dreading the return of John? and was he thinking about me . . .

. . . I hoped he was. I hoped he missed me, but not because I wanted him to feel as desolate as I, but because I wanted to know that he felt the pain of separation as keenly. I wanted to be sure that it wasn't just me, another overreaction, another trick of my confused mind.

I hoped he was alright, though, really. Because while my confused mind worked to understand it, I didn't actually want him to feel the same way. I wanted him as happy as I had planned our future to be. I wanted him happy without me in it. And, of course, he would be.

They danced a little bit ahead of me, Arya's giggles floating on the soft breeze, mingling with the birds' lulling chirps. The sun brushed them with shadows, so I could only see their silhouettes as they twirled under the trees, speckled with light, hand in hand.

It took me a moment to register why they were both suddenly so fuzzy, and another moment after that to blink the glaze out of my eyes.