The Echo of my Shouts

Chapter 1

"Talk to me," I whisper from the couch, watching as Timothy recklessly pours milk over his muesli, making a huge mess on the kitchen counter.

"There's nothing to talk about," Timothy whispers.

His eyes are swollen too, and everything in me screams to take him in my arms and make his heartache go away, but I know there is nothing I can say or do to make him change his mind. I tried and tried, over and over again last night, and nothing I was saying seemed to be getting through to him.

"We need to talk. We can't throw everything away. All the years. The time we spent together. You're end game to me. I can't imagine the rest of my life without you," I say softly, pulling my fingers through my hair, wishing that I never spoke up. That I never wrote, that the books I set out in the world would magically disappear into nothingness, leaving only my life with Timothy behind – my past wiped out like it never existed.

"Elijah..." Timothy sighs. He leaves his breakfast on the counter and make his way to the couch opposite me, where he takes a seat. "We have been through this. I don't know how many times I need to explain this to you. I cannot compete with Blake. I never could. It was foolish of me to think I would ever be able to take his place in your life, and I can't play second fiddle for as long as we live. I just can't."

"Blake is dead," I hear myself say the words one more time. Once more while I hope that it sinks in.

"Maybe. But he is also very much alive Elijah. You keep him alive. You keep the hurt and pain, and the wanting for him to be a reality in your life alive. What... How long have we been married? Three years? Four? Do you even know? Do you even keep track of us the way you do with Blake? I'm sure you can tell me to the day and even to the minute how long he has been dead. He's not just someone you loved once. He is someone you love. He is your job. He is what you write about. Talk about. Dream about. And I can't do it anymore," Timothy answers. "I told you last night, I'm done. With all of this. And that doesn't mean I don't love you. It just means that I value myself enough to actually want real love, and not just be the supporting character in a story between a man who is in love with a ghost. I deserve better."

"This is not fair Timothy. It's not fair to not even try," I hear myself answer. "I can't just forget about Blake. It's not possible. And the books... All the books... Where do you think the money comes from? From my books! What I write! The tours! That's what feeds you!"

I can hear my voice climbing higher and higher, getting steadily higher as the hysterics push up in my chest, threatening to suffocate me.

"Stop Elijah. Stop it. I told you last night. It's me or him, you can't have both of us anymore. I will not be in a three-way relationship with you and Blake. It's either you and Blake, or you and me. You can't have both of us anymore. I have been patient long enough."

Timothy gets up from the couch and walk over to me. I feel the couch sink next to me as he takes his seat. I register his hand on mine, his cheek pressing against my shoulder.

"I love you Elijah. I really fucking love you. I have never in my life loved someone the way I love you, and I don't know if I will find love like this ever again. But I need to try. I have been trying to work on this relationship for the past few years. I have put every waking moment of my life into you... Into us. And I would not take that back. It has been some of the best years of my life. But there comes a time when one needs to make a decision. Where you need to decide whether you are going to allow yourself to be an afterthought for the rest of your life. And I have decided that I can't. I won't give up a relationship with myself. I won't be put second any longer. It's just one of those things, and you can't be mad at me for that. I need you to be proud of me for standing up for myself, even against you. I need you to love the fact that I won't be traumatized any longer, and that I will from now on put myself first as well."

I turn my head to look him in the eyes as he lifts his head from my shoulder.

"I love you..." I whisper, as if those three words can make everything in the world right again. As if those three words are the medicine that can cure every heartache in the world.

The poets through the ages always wrote that love can conquer all. Yet, here I am, sitting next to a boy I love, a boy who loves me in return, and somehow love isn't coming out on top. It is failing. Falling. Love is ruining everything and breaking my heart into a million pieces with every look he gives me, every hug we have ever shared, and with all the love that seems to have been between us.

"Did Lucy phone you back last night?" Timothy asks, leaving my words unanswered.

"She texted," I reply, trying to keep Timothy locked in my gaze. Wishing for him to say that he will go for a walk and that when he comes back everything can turn back to normal.

"And? What did she say?" he asks, an almost knowing smile showing on his face.

"She told me to fuck off and sort out my shit," I answer, and I can't help but smiling when Timothy starts giggling next to me, squeezing my hand tighter.

"Some things never change, do they?" Timothy giggles. "But I guess you will be going there in any case, since it is you, and you never do what anyone tells you to do."

"Only if you promise me the same thing you have promised me last night," I answer.

"I promise Elijah. Go. I will wait for you. Take your time. Sort your shit out. But when you come back I want an answer. Me, or Blake," Timothy answers, his smile gone, the serious frown back on his forehead, the redness in his eyes the main feature on his face once more.

"I'll be back in a week," I sigh. "But you have to promise to wait."

"I'm not going anywhere. Now go and take a shower. I will phone Catherine and tell her what's going on without giving any detail. I'll tell her where you're heading and that you'll be taking a bit of a break," Timothy says as he gets up. "I'm sure she will understand. I mean, how many dates do you actually have left? Four? Five? And they're all in the area. You can reschedule or whatever."

"Nine dates left. One interview, and eight readings and signings," I answer. "And she won't be happy about it. It might damage the sales on the new book."

"Then let it. I think out marriage is worth a hell of a lot more than selling a few books," Timothy answers turning his back on me and walking out of the living room towards the bedroom, his muesli long forgotten, the thought of breakfast a million miles away.

"Well it's a good thing I didn't unpack then," I sigh as I look over to the door where the suitcases are still packed, ready for their next trip.