Prose that may be too bland or too blue;
Random stories that may or may not be true;
All penned by Alice in her times of loneliness;
They shall aid the mind and heart of the restless.
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I don’t believe in love.
You might ask why. You might think me a cynical loser, but I have my own reasons.
When I was younger, my father left us for another woman. My mother begged for him to stay. She tugged at my father’s sleeves. She cried for what seemed like ages. She lay on the floor, cathartic. She wasn’t bleeding, but she was dying. I was so little, so fragile, so vulnerable, as I watched from the wooden banisters of our staircase. At that moment, I realized that love was a lie—a lie that every pathetic being chooses to get blinded by.
But you came . . . James. With your shiny eyes, your pretty promises, and your lovely games. Oh, James. Fucking James. Whenever people saw you, they assumed you knew nothing. You were wide-eyed. You were young. You thought the world was a rose, pretty and red with charm. You were unaware of the thorns lurking around.
You see, I didn’t believe in love, but you made me. You coaxed me out of my bitterness. You reached for my hand over and over again, even when I refused to hold yours. You tried and tried and tried, and in the end, I gave in. After all, even the coldest of hearts can be melted with the warmest persuasion.
We wore vintage tees. We ran through the cobblestones, me with my high heels and you in your Levi’s. We got drunk, and we danced under the streetlights. We kissed in cars. You made your vows. You saw my scars, and you said they were stars.
But August came. Both the month and the girl with the name. She was bubbly. She was like sunshine, so bright you could get blinded by her rays. I was there, sipping smoothies with my friends inside the local diner. Inez pointed out the window. I looked, and there you were, standing under the heat of the sun, holding your bike. A car pulled up, its tires screeching on the cobblestones. A girl said, “Get in the car,” and you did.
She was August. She was summer. She was warm. She was everything I would never become. You would never call my name with the same sweetness as you did with hers. You would say, “Betty.” Two syllables. Plain. Mundane. But when you said her name, it sounded different. “Augustine.” It rhymes with sixteen, pristine, clandestine. What a beautiful name! What a beautiful girl! What a horrible, horrible twist.
I know what you did with her. I know about the nights you spent twisted in bed sheets. I know about your secret meetings behind the mall. I know about the kisses and the touches you shared. I knew everything, even before Inez told me.
You were wide-eyed and young. You thought the world was a rose. Little did I know, you would be one of the thorns lurking around. You tricked me. You pricked me. Look at my scars; look how they bleed for you. I am dying like my mother, and you left me, like my father. You ran like water. You said you would be the Noah to my Allie, the Jack to my Rose, the Peter to my Wendy, but like a bird discontented with its nest, you flee.
I feel used, cheated, and double-crossed. What did I do to deserve this cruelty? I feel abandoned. Like I am an old toy tossed away because something new has come. Like I am an old movie, overlooked because I seem colorless compared to the films of the new age. Like I am an old cardigan under someone’s bed, forgotten and neglected.
Will you come back? Will you take the last train? Will you stand on my doorstep? Will you try to fix my broken wings? Will you kiss me in your car again? Will you beg me to take you back?
I bet you won’t.
Oh, James. Fucking James. I was right all along, wasn’t I? Love is a big, fat lie.
