Love is Liz (LiL, #2)

5 - Love is Returnable

"The asshole did what!"

Days after, Jo's angry words still rang in my mind. In a way it had felt soothing to let my frustration out by explaining the break-up, although it was rather hurtful to admit such things happened. I sighed. To say she hadn't taken it well would be an understatement. She was livid.

My hand reached out against my will to the place next to me. The side of the bed Ryan had sat on days ago. The side of the bed Sam had slept on days before that.

My hand twitched into a fist at the memory, clenching the white sheets between my fingers. The moment still vivid in my mind although somewhat blurry. I was almost able to hear his deep breaths, see the rise and fall of his chest, feel his arms around me. And then, in the morning, the touch of a pen against my wrist, the symbol still a reminder on my skin to this day.

Looking at the traitorous ink now, I realized it was the only affirmative that said memory wasn't just a dream but reality. Another page in the chapter of his deception. Painting me a fool. Drawing the picture of a naive little girl. The cover of my mental biography.

My gullible little heart, the only kind thing left in my body, lay so heavy in my chest as though protesting against my mind. How I longed to reach out for it, to give it the freedom it so deserved. To free it from its cage like a tiny bird ready to fly into the unknown. Nevertheless, beware of the delusion of a happy ending, for the unknown was an equally scary place to find refuge in; with risks to take and choices to make.

However, at this point, I'd rather take my chances with the unfamiliar than the cage of familiarity I was left standing in. But, pray tell, how was I able to break free and fly once more? The answer to that question was as evasive as expected. In order to find it, however, I would try everything in my power to achieve my craved freedom.

Tearing myself out of bed I quickly ripped the sheets off my mattress, undressed the duvet and pillows roughly, and shoved them into the hamper as though my hands were on fire touching them. I wished I could do the same with my stupid heart, rip it out and fling it into a corner. The mocking pressure against my chest told me the beating organ craved this as much as me.

Frustration swallowing me whole, my hand strayed from my rib cage to my head where I buried my fingers into my hair and tugged in exasperation. The sight of my stripped bed was relieving, but it was not nearly enough. Already I was itching for more. To skin something else other than my bed.

The urge to rub at my face was too prominent a wish for my mind to deny it. Down my palms went over my features, exerting enough pressure to tug at my skin, bringing a small dosage of further relief. Yearning for more, my nails volunteered to help in the quest of pulling off my skin, to rip it off like a mask on carnival. Shedding the walls I put up of a put-together teenager and revealing the ugliness underneath; the truth of my insanity.

Remembering the dirty clothes in the duffel bag, which I'd immediately discarded off into an empty corner of my room the moment I got back last weekend, the contents spilled out in a colorful heap on the floor when turned upside down. As I began my forceful throwing game of putting clothes in the hamper, I froze.

Tentatively reaching out, I touched the soft fabric of Sam's borrowed jacket. I'd forgotten it was still in my possession, failed to remember about the stupid claim he wanted to put on me during the weekend. Now, it just seemed ten times more maddening. How dare he worry about my friends making a move on me when he was with me and another girl simultaneously.

Bitterness creeping up on me once more, I had the sudden urge to throw the jacket out of the window so I wouldn't ever be reminded of the double-crosser again.