Trapped in Forever

58 ~ Your Name is Staying Here

I was sitting in his bedroom, on the crinkled and messily made bed sheets at the foot of the bed, the pillows lopsided and somewhat propped up against the cream colored wall that his bed was pressed against, and the squeaking wheels of his desk chair were rolling on the carpeting of his floor as his finger clicked furiously on his wireless laptop mouse, the paint wearing white in an oval shape over the left side of the mouse, and the screen cast a pale glow on his face as he constructed another mix CD, this time with the new soundtrack scores from The Dark Knight Rises, his brow furrowing as he continued to debate over whether he should add Hans Zimmer’s Aurora to the mix as well (“It’s not from the movie but it is a good piece and the money does go to the victims,” he explained as he gestured toward the screen, the cover of the score a black square with the words simply put in white font Aurora) and I stuffed little parts of the cupcake that he had brought me into the pockets of my shorts so I wouldn’t have to glimpse that look on his face when he would glance over his shoulder and see that the icing was still pristine and swirled on the top, that the sprinkles hadn’t shifted, and the wrapped still unpeeled, and try to ignore the crestfallen look in his eyes as he turned back to the screen of his laptop, rested on the desk in front of him. The icing did make it a little harder, and I already knew that I’d have to wash these shorts myself in case Mom wanted to know why there was orange icing in the pockets of one of my shorts, sprinkles amidst the sugary mess. But I felt nauseated at the idea of bringing it to my mouth, at swallowing that glob of icing the hue of a setting sun or chewing those yellow sprinkles in between my teeth.

“Okay!” he announced after a moment, giving the mouse one final emphasized click before lunging into the back of his desk chair, squeaking as he leaned back and propped an elbow on the arm rest of the chair, the wheels rolling faintly on the carpet, the floorboards groaning as he pointed to the computer screen. “The first CD to contain any of the brilliant Hans Zimmer’s scores for The Dark Knight Rises.” He grinned, as he used his feet to spin around to face me on the bed, sitting with my legs curled underneath me, and I caught his gaze flickering toward the cupcake still clutched in my hand, the wrapper peeled back slightly and little bits that maybe accumulated a mouthful were gone, exposing the yellow vanilla core, and I almost thought that his smile grew just a little bit more before his gaze lifted back to mine. “Do you like it?” he asked, nodding to the cupcake. He used to bring me chocolate or red velvet ones, with buttercream frosting, and now, he switched to vanilla, like the flavoring was the only reason why those cupcakes were never eaten, instead they were thrown in the garbage can underneath our kitchen sink beside the cleaning chemicals and yellow rubber gloves.

But these were things that couldn’t penetrate their way into Orion’s understanding, unable to force their past his disappointed feelings that his lips kept stifled but his eyes held amidst the hazel, that disappointment that swirled with fault—as if the uneaten cupcakes and rejected meal offers were a reflection of him, of his persistence maybe, more than mine, more than me and our aspiration to be beautiful—and apprehensive glances that he shot over his shoulders when we were eating and he would turn his back, as if he was trying to get me to reveal a secret and by turning his back, I’d do just that, and they all clouded his eyes, fogging them with his black and white way of the world, as if long as it didn’t apply to his past relationship with Roxanne, anyway. He couldn’t see that I was just trying to look better, prettier, and for him, just as much as me. I could feel the palpable tension in the air whenever one of those over the shoulder glances darted my way or when that disappointment filled his eyes when he saw those uneaten chocolate and red velvet cupcakes still in my hand, and I could feel him slowly straying away, taking step and step away from me, but he would see eventually. He would see that if I was more beautiful, that all of those uneaten cupcakes wouldn’t just be fragments of calories and disenchantment, but really a necessity to become someone better, someone prettier. Someone who could kiss her boyfriend and let him play with her fingers without the twinge of guilt simmering in her belly because pretty girls don’t worry about anything other than being pretty and staying pretty.