Dear Fin,
Today, I got a letter in the mail from Jeanine. I could tell that it was from Jeanine before I had read the address; since there was only one person I know who sends her mail in magenta envelopes. The sight of the envelope brought up a smirk in my part, but it was brought wider upon seeing the stationary (bright orange, framed in fake peacock feathers). I didn't smile, however, at the letter's contents.
Jeanine bragged for several lines about her new family; her dotting husband and daughter (you remember my demonic niece, don't you?). Afterwards, she discussed our family's annual Christmas party, which I was required to attend or I'd be considered for banishment. And, of course, just the mention of that jolly occasion brought a frown to my lips.
I hate Christmas.
My hatred for the joyous holiday started with you, I'm afraid; when I skipped my family's Christmas party for you and you dumped me . . . but that's another story, one I don't really want to get into at the moment.
I remember a time where I used to love Christmas; as a child, it had been the only time where I truly felt like I belonged among my family members. I can still taste the peppermint on my tongue, the snowflakes on my cheeks, the joy of giving in my heart . . . but alas, I am poor. I cannot afford to buy gifts this holiday season.
The thought of returning home is bittersweet. I will see my father and Bea, plus maybe I'll catch Etta. Maybe I'll see you. But then again . . . I'll see my mother and sister. Maybe I'll see you. I'd rather remain here, working twenty-four/seven throughout the holiday season. But I know my family would never forgive me, so I am forced to head home.
But the thoughts of this Christmas bring me back to another . . .
Encounter Number Thirty-One:
Until you arrived, I had been sitting on the top step of the staircase, waiting for you. I didn't mind being alone since I didn't necessarily enjoy the company of my family, but especially tonight because I was feeling suffocated. I had a long session at therapy the day before and . . . and I didn't want to breathe. I wanted to stop being alive. And being around those who did was so painful it threatened to send me over the edge.
But then the door knocked and I smiled. And like a child, I skipped down the door, ripping the door open in hope.
Upon seeing you, instantly a grin shaped my lips; you looked so incredibly handsome, like a rebel angel on my doorstep. You wore a black suit with a white-button up shirt underneath, no tie in the equation. You didn't look like yourself, but you still looked absolutely stunning. In your hands, you held a bouquet of flowers. Daisies, which was ironic.
"Hell-lo, gorg-gorgeous," I greeted.
Seeing you was like a breath of fresh air. I had wanted to stop breathing, but you reminded me of the pleasantry of having oxygen in my lungs. You gave me purpose.
"Hi," you murmured, offering me the flowers. I took them.
You eyed me from head to toe, making me blush. My family's Christmas party was more formal –showing in your attire, since you never wore anything but ripped up jeans and band shirts- so I was attired to fit the format. Or my mother might disown me. The aquamarine dress was patterned with daisies, clinging to my waist and falling right above my knees, curling around my collarbone and cupping my shoulders; my scarred arms were exposed, but if anyone noticed, they didn't mention it. I wore tights and cream oxfords.
"Fuck," you said, your eyes still wandering up and down my body.
I smiled, still blushing, unsure how to react to your attention. "Mis-mistle-toe."
You smirked. Without a moment of hesitation, you separated the distance between us and grabbed my waist, crashing my lips to yours. And for a moment, it was just you and I and nothing else mattered.
Someone coughed from behind us.
I blushed as I saw Jeanine, her blue eyes scanning over us. You fingers remained tight on my waist, my own clinging to the lapel of your jacket. I felt your cheek, pressed against my temple. "Hello."
"Hi," she replied, awkwardly. She turned to me, "Who's the boy?"
You removed yourself from me, which I wasn't really a fan of. "Finland Erickson. You must be Annalise's sister, Jeanine, right?"
"Obviously."
"It's very nice to meet you. And thanks again for inviting me into your beautiful home," you added, smiling politely.
She remained silent.
You grabbed my hand. "Come on, dove."
I reintroduced you to my mother, who was much more polite this time. You spoke to my father, who seemed to enjoy your company. Finally, I introduced you to Jeanine's fiancé, Michael. I hated Michael, since he was pompous prick, but you didn't seem to mind him too much. You met a handful of my aunts and uncles and cousins, whom you were polite and courteous, too. There was only one more person you had to meet, my brother Claude, who appeared to be running late. But that's what worried me . . . Claude was never late.
"Relax," you told me, as I glanced at the clock again. "I'm sure he's just running late. Driving sucks at this time of year."
But you didn't understand. Claude was the type of guy who arrived over an hour earlier, just to be on time. He was the type of guy who ironed his ties, because he felt that it made him appear neater. He was the type of guy who mowed his lawn every few days, because he actually enjoyed the scent of freshly mowed grass. I tried to explain it to you.
"I'm sure he's fine," you assured me repeatedly.
"Claude is Claude," my father told you, trying to add to my point. "Claude's a child prodigy; he completed high school at the age of ten, university at fourteen with a degree in criminology. A couple years later, he decided it wasn't for him, regardless of the job opportunities; by seventeen, he had returned to college to pursue journalism. And now, here he is, ten years later; Claude currently works as a reporter for the New York Times."
And now you see what I put up with. There was no wonder that I have never been able to compete with the Dream Team: Claude (child prodigy) and Jeanine (model).
You opened your mouth to reply, but I never got to hear what you're about to say. You're interrupted by giggling. And Claude.
He came in the most shocking way I could've ever imagined. He was absolutely, without a doubt, wasted. I have never seen anyone so drunk in my life. He was wearing sweatpants and a Chicago Bears' tee-shirt underneath his jacket, his face was adorned with dirt and his blonde hair was matted and greasy. Claude's arm was curled around a girl, who was practically supporting him, as he giggled at something he was pointing at in the distance.
The girl was in a similar state that he was; dirty and tattered. To a regular person, she appeared quite plain, but I found her pretty in an unconventional sort of way; her hair was a knotty mess of auburn, her eyes matching dots with a narrow symmetrical face and a lithe figure. Under her jacket, she wore dirty leggings with a Maroon 5 tee-shirt.
"Hello," the girl greeted my father, in a thickly sweet voice. "You must be Claude's father, since you look just like him. I'm Bea, but that doesn't matter. Your son seems to be in a bit of a state, is there somewhere I can put him down?"
Instantly, you lurched forward and helped the newly introduced Bea –yes, the great Bea- to support Claude.
My father couldn't say anything; his gaze was locked on Claude, an unreadable expression shaping his features.
I stepped forward. "Um, ri-right thi-this way."
I led Bea and you, who were supporting Claude, towards the staircase. All eyes were on us as we ascended, Claude snickering into Bea's shoulder. I led the three of you down the corridor, finding the door of Claude's empty bedroom, the one that no one had been inside of in over a year. The door squealed as I pushed it open.
You and Bea placed Claude carefully down on his bed, causing it to bounce, which made him erupt into another fit of laughter.
"Goodness, what the hell is he on?" You demanded of Bea.
She sighed. "'98 Bourbon. Claude was convinced that he could get me to drive, even though I don't have a license, if he was unable to drive. What he didn't realize was that his car broke down, so we had to walk all the way over here from the next town over."
You turned to me. "I thought you said Claude was the smart one."
"H-he usual-usu- usually is."
"Well, he's been acting like a dumbass for the last several, so . . ." Bea shook her head. "Do you have a bowl? He looks rather green."
"I'll g-go get one," I said, quickly.
I left his room, quickly scurrying down the stairs. Eyes followed me as I headed into the kitchen and, suddenly, that feeling hit me again. The one that had been lingering within me after that therapy session. That feeling of wanting to be alone, of being tired of seeing other people who were so much better than me. I swallowed it down, remembering my mission.
Quickly, I found a big ceramic bowl. Before I could return to Claude and Bea and you, I found myself face to face with my mother, a scowl adoring her lips. She demanded in a sneer, "What are you doing?"
"Get-t-ting a bo-bowl for Cl-Claude," I informed her.
She hushed me, frantic; glancing around to make sure no one was looking at us. No one was. "Be quiet, Annalise. You're embarrassing the family."
My cheeks burned, but I didn't want to argue with her. "I-I'm so-sorry."
"Don't stutter, it's unbecoming and no one can understand you. You're a mess, Annalise, don't you realize that? Look at you . . . you're dressed like a child," she told me.
I glanced down at myself as the truth of her words struck me. I was being ridiculous . . . who did I think I was, thinking I could come here looking like this, with you, and belong? Because if my life had taught me anything, it was that I didn't belong. I was a failure and I always would be. So what was the point of being alive?
"Even Claude's drunkenness is less embarrassing," she hissed.
"I . . ."
"Go upstairs, before you embarrass us more," she snarled.
And I listened, dropping the bowl back onto the counter. Because I was done. I wanted the air out of my lungs, I wanted silence, I wanted to be alone . . . I wanted to be done with everything. Because what was the point of trying when I was alright determined to be this mess? I could never get better. This was all I was.
Tears blurred my vision and before I knew it, I was sobbing, but no one paid attention to me as I raced up the stairs and into the bathroom. As I found the razor in the cupboard, as I felt the edge against my wrist. And then it was easy.
Cut, cut, cut.
Slash, slash, slash.
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
Slice, slice, slice.
Score, score, score.
Sever, sever, sever.
Hash, hash, ha-
"Annalise?" There was knocking on the door and your voice. "Dove, are you in there?"
I didn't answer, returning to the razor and my wrist and the rhythm.
"Dove," you repeated. "Please, open up. Please. I'm worried . . . are you okay? Please come out, or talk to me. Say something."
I ignored you.
"Annalise?" It was a new voice, at the time one I couldn't recognize. "I know you and I don't know each other well, but I've heard nothing but wonderful things about you. When Claude was heading here, suddenly his flight was cancelled due to a storm, so he decided to drive; my flight had been cancelled as well and I was heading here, so we decided to travel together. Since the drive from New York is long, we had so much time to talk. And he couldn't stop talking about you; about how you're a beautiful painter, incredibly intelligent, shy but so kind . . . he adores you, Annalise. So come out, because I'm sure your older brother would love to see you."
"I . . ." I dropped the razor, slick with my blood, onto the tiled floor. The pain wasn't too alarming, but the red stain was vicious on my skin and seeping onto my dress. "Fin?"
"I'm here," you said, from the other side of the door. "Open the door, darling. It's locked, so we can't get in. Let us in."
I stood up, causing my stomach to swirl. I tried to curl my fingers around the knob, but . . . "I ca-can't fe-feel my fing-fingers."
"You . . . you can't open the door?" The other voice. Bea.
"Fin," I breathed and I could feel it, the hysteria. It was rising, threatening to suffocate me once more. It was like a wave, resting on the horizon, swimming towards me. I didn't have long. "I'm so-sorry; I'm so sor-ry."
You hushed me. "It's going to be okay, darling. Just keep talking, baby, tell me something while we get the door opened."
"I . . . I ca-can't talk, Fin. I stut-tut-ter, I sho-shouldn't be allow-owed to spe-speak," I replied, curling up against the door.
"Annalise, don't say that, don't ever say that. Its' not true," you said. "You deserve to be happy, you deserve Everything."
The Everything.
"Fin . . . te-tell me some-th-thing."
"Have I ever told you about the time Etta swallowed a watch?" You murmured and when I didn't respond, you took that as a yes. "I was nine and she was seven and we're at home. We had been watching a movie with my parents, an old one. I can't even remember the name of it, but Etta loved it. And after we're finished, we're talking about the movie, and my dad started talking about how it was a classic, how it was timeless. And Etta adored it; there's something about old things that she loves, I think it's the idea that something can remain eternally amazing, that there are such things as monuments of time. And she wanted to be one; she wanted to be timeless, so she thought the best way to do so was . . . well, to swallow a watch. It didn't turn out well; the doctors had to pump her stomach."
"I wa-want to be tim-timeless," I mumbled.
"You're to me," you said.
"You a-are to m-me, t-too," I whispered.
And I thought about how in some ways, maybe I was timeless. The blood in my veins was time, because it gave human beings the literal will to live. I thought about my fingers. I had been cutting time off from them, cutting off their will. Was I really that weak?
Carefully, I rose to my feet, and wrapped my hands as well as I could around the knob. It took a bit of effort on my part, but I pulled it open.
Opening that door was the hardest thing I ever had to do.
You wrapped your arms around me, carefully placing me in a sitting position on the ground. My head was in your lap and you stroked my hair, cautiously setting my arms so my wrists were exposed to the world.
I saw Bea and I saw the grin of hers . . . the one that made me feel like we're sharing secrets, and maybe we're. I had no idea why she was smiling at the time.
"It's in the darkest of times when we find light in ourselves," Bea murmured, examining my wrists.
Tears pooled in my eyes, but I didn't know why. And there was silence and I wondered if that silence was like being timeless. Because silence is an immortal power.
End of Encounter Number Thirty-One.
Like I said, Christmas isn't exactly my favourite holiday.
-Annalise
*
Hey Reader!
Chapter's song: "Little Lion Man" by Mumford and Sons. I think this song perfectly describes the relationship between Annalise and her mother.
Thanks for reading! I . . . just love you guys so much, I'm not sure if I tell you that enough. So thank you for being so wonderful.
Love Your Favorite Liar <3