The Man Whose Eyes Never Tire

14...

      My friendly, old-man bus driver is my chaperone home today. He smiled at me as I got on the bus, and asked me how I was doing; does no one else on the bus notice that I am the only one to get this special greeting from him? I love his smile; it reminds me of Ice Cream Man by Tom Waits, and this connection makes me blush each time I see him. 
    Guess who is on her way over? Mark texts me as I sit on the bus. I bite my cheek to disguise my anger and disgust at these words. It seems as though I can never grow entirely free of the mention of her name; she lingers all around me, and I cannot help but remember when she was never in the picture; when I felt like the only girl occupying the mind and attention of Mark. How I miss those days ever so.
   It’s all for you, baby, he texts me, and I mistakenly believe him for a fraction of time; I know better: This is only a lie of his to get what he wants from me. I imagine she is you. I make her moan your name as she cums and I moan your name too, baby. It’s all for you. Yeah, right.
    I have re-entered my old habits from when I was fourteen - oh, how I miss being this age; so terribly desirable; so terribly young and pretty and innocent - that of course being drinking daily. Each moment that I get home, I wait for my parents to go out for a smoke, and I pour myself a drink. When their backs are turned, I steal a bottle. When I am home alone, I drink whatever I can find. I drink before school; I drink at school; I drink at night, when I am alone and thinking about Mark. When there is nothing but wine to drink - the drink that I absolutely despise: The drink that Mark wanted to teach me how to love - I drink the wine. I will drink anything, just as long as I do not need to brave my feelings about Mark through a sober lens. If I can hide behind the comforting label of simply being drunk, then I can excuse my heartache, my tears, and my fear of my own addiction to him. A haze of imparity is my antidote to managing the feelings Mark has inexplicitly given me. With this, my fight with my father is only getting worse, and I am craving the old innocence of Mark more than ever. All I want is for Mark to be sweet with me again. I just want him to love me.
    In the typical song, dance, show, and act of ‘daddy issues’, the girl always wants to rebel. She always wants to rebel; she wants to steal her dad’s car and crash it into a tree, she wants to date a drug dealer, she wants to dress like a whore; I, instead, choose to rebel towards Mark, but indirectly: I am not truly rebelling, I am just choosing to show him moments in which I did not behave properly. I post videos on my story of myself in bikinis, I post videos of my friends and I drinking, taking shots, joking about sex. Pay attention to me, Mark! Notice how much I am drinking! Notice me being naughty! My blade continues to meet my thigh in the name of Mark.
   Sitting on my piano bench, bored from relentless practising, I take out my phone and check to see if my English teacher had graded my latest essay. I always feel antsy and excited in regards to receiving new grades, rather than the typical nervousness that all of my peers receive. I was good at school, and knew I would be doing well - I just wanted to see what my teacher thought!
    To my delight, Ms. Harlow had indeed graded my essay! I received 100% when the class average was 60%, and her comments thrilled me. She told me that she struggled to find any ways to support me for improvement as my writing was ‘perfect’, according to her. I read her comment written on a particular argument I had made. “Love this. Romanticising conflict is beautiful.” I wonder if I do that in my own life. I wanted to show these comments to Mark. I wanted him to be proud of me like he was on October 19th when I told him I received 100% on my Shakespeare piece. I did not show him though; I knew he would not care; he does not care about things like that anymore.
    Feeling terribly unwell - of course, not physically - I had called Brooke, asking her if we could just go for coffee: Some girl time, as I needed a break from home. I want to feel like I did during my last fight with my dad when Brooke had stolen me for a night. I felt free. I felt comforted and loved by my best friend. I felt like everything could be beautiful, romanticised, and okay once more. She had agreed to come get me, so I began curling my hair, and grabbed my wallet as she said she had arrived. As I step out of my front door, I can see a Camaro parked in front of my house, and I feel my heart sink. Perhaps Aahan had let Brooke borrow his car for the afternoon; I had asked her for girl time, not third-wheel time. To my disappointment, Aahan was behind the wheel, and Brooke in the passenger seat. They helped me slide in the back seat - not before I debated running back into the comfort of my own house - and I instructed Aahan not to speed or do anything crazy. I knew I sounded like a grandmother, but I wasn't sure if I was ready to die today. He promised me that he would do as I asked, and broke this promise instantly by whipping around in a cul-de-sac, laying a patch of rubber. We took off down the highway and I watched as his speed ran up to 260 kilometres per hour. I felt horrified as we drifted between cars as if we were in some video game. I texted Mark from the backseat, telling him I was in a car going 260. Would he be afraid for me? Would he punish me for being bad and unsafe? Instead he told me that sounded crazy and like I was having a good time. I was not.
    Aahan needed to shower, so suddenly, Brooke and I were seated on Aahans couch in his house as he went upstairs. His mother kept insisting that I had something to drink, which my paranoia made me promptly deny. She kept persisting, and eventually handed Brooke and I two glasses of Coke. I took a small sip to show my appreciation for the gesture, but refused to let myself finish the glass. Everything about today, this week, and this month felt strange, and I was convinced that I could be drugged by these people, especially considering how distant Brooke has been getting; perhaps she had told the family some horrible things about me, and they were planning to take care of me. We were in a sketchy neighbourhood after all.
    Aahan finished his shower, and we were back on the road, looking for a place to get coffee. We were near the jazz club.
    “We’re right by the jazz club,” I laughed with a smirk.
     “No, Julie, We aren't visiting Mark,” Brooke responded.
    “Who’s Mark?” Aahan questioned.
     “Some old man that Julie wants.” I stayed quiet as we got coffee and returned home. As we pulled up to my house, I told Aahan to piss off my father; be as loud as you can as you drive off. He did exactly as instructed.
    I felt so let down by Brooke today. All I wanted was some girl time; to feel like the old days when everything was beautiful and everything was fun. Absolutely every element as of late has felt tragic, ugly, and heartbreaking. I figure I am only being a depressive; things aren't that bad, Jule.