Remember when we ran?
I do. If you don't, I do because the memory was like cancer. I studied cancer in my notes with you. What did you tell me again? Oh yeah, it was a very bad disease with uncontrollable abnormal cells that doubled, tripled over time, destroying what makes us human. Eating away at the tissue that holds us up in one whole and if one bug irritates our system, we would be broken into a million parts. It demolished us.
You questioned why God would do this to people. I didn't have a clue, but you sounded angry, like it was more than cancer, more than people. You almost had a hatred for Him. I didn't understand that either.
No matter how many times I try to get rid of it, it's there, never leaving my side. Some people make it, the lucky ones.
Let's hope we're one of them tonight.
So as we're forgotten and old news, I realized
What if that's a good thing.
Maybe then, moving on, trying not to talk about bad times is better than moping in sorrow.
My lungs that I thought were functioning, collapsed in my chest, deflating like unfiltered balloons. Catching air was difficult that it turned into breathing in a clogged faucet with running water.
We were so loud. Terribly loud. Just utter chaos to the world on open grounds in an unknown location. I was amazed silence and noised mixed into peaceful riots.
You ran alongside of me. The same fear and flight or fight response terror I carried on my face. I was not quite fast enough, I didn't have quick feet as I began deciphering between wanting to give up and wanting to continue, slowly lagging behind. You weren't too far from my reach and we ran like Olympians in a massacre.
Running from quiet fallen deaths and bloodbaths to get to the white finish line of life being our only chance of survival. Our only chance of winning.
It could potentially be the last time we see the stars and sky.
It was a battlefield out here.
I always thought life and breathing were important, but now as it's affecting me, I needed it, simply desperate for something I haven't cared about it until I was low. All for selfish reasons because I actually might die, I don't know for sure.
I just don't understand, teenagers shouldn't be living like graves were upon us so soon. But this could happen to anyone. Life can be taken away just a breath away for anyone. For the unfortunate. For the unlucky ones. For the ones really trying.
Even me.
— Ebonee
1 missed call.
Beau.
(2) missed call.
Beau.
My eyes watched the screen change over time until my actions seemed futile and I did pick up. I wasn't doing anything. Life continued to be a routine with nothing new or different occurring. I place the phone to my ear.
It felt like heaven and hell frozen over.
I couldn't hear his breathing at first over the phone—not that he was dead—but the background noise contained the silence of a mind in a rambunctious rowdy room.
"You called," I said, more of a question than a solid response. I was stupid enough to state the obvious of course.
Beau stuttered at first, "Y—yeah, uhm—,"
I could almost hear his brain thinking and formulating words together to say the right things. "I'm kind of outside right now. I know I didn't ask but I. . .I want to show you something." He paused. "Again."
I held my arms over my old tee and with light feet, went over to the window. I lifted a finger to push the veil curtain away. His car sat in its shadow with the engine running, blowing puffs out to intoxicate our earth.
"Well the thing is. . .I'm catching a cold. I think I'm sick." I fibbed through my teeth.
"Well get unsick then."
I had the urge to roll my eyes and glare at the phone afterward. "How does a person even unsick themselves then? Ugh." I held the bridge of my nose. "I sound as stupid as you."
" I don't know, you tell me miss-pretending-to-be-ill."
He got me there.
I really wasn't sick. Just fishing for an excuse to not go out tonight. It's been two days and one night as we already pretended to play stranger roles. We both knew better. But we always had petty fights before I guess. That's why the phone keeps ringing, texts still blinking and I came running back. Never really mad.
Beau's tone softened to faint words, almost like the muscles on his face relaxed.
"Are you mad?"
The powerless intertwined with giving up in suggestions and dancing around situations to asking how I felt. The words almost hurt, scratching barely the surface of the truth.
"No."
"Then what?"
"Just feeling. . ." I licked my lips to moisten them, "feeling and being fucked over right now. It just hurts."
I wondered if his heart was churning like mine. But all I could hear was soothing muffling in the speaker like he was uncomfortable before and he should be. We haven't talked about that night or the feelings behind it. We just held the phone by our ears until somebody had thicker skin to break the time that walked by.
Beau backtracked a little, "Ebonee I'm not making you do anything, I just—"
"No, but I'll go. I'm coming." I answered, "I want to go."
Then we hung up. And a little part of us held onto something that was so simple for some couples to let go on. As my mind raced, I tried coming up with all types of scenarios on where he would take me. Maybe dinner? No, it was too late for that, shops closed. Or a movie. . .then again, that would be sort of ridiculous. So I picked up sleepless nights and pieces of a bruised heart out the door, sneaking quietly out of the door.
I didn't feel too guilty leaving again without permission, not being too cautious or hesitant like the first time left no room in me anymore. The bad habits started feeling good on the inside. The cold night air hit me like a heartbeat, the weather always unpredictable here.
I gently knocked on his glass window and hopped in to take in the adequate smell of crisp lemons from your lemonade in the cup holder and weak cigarette. The essence settled a satisfaction that was not describable and I snugged the seatbelt over my shoulder.
"So, where to?" I asked, staring between the steering wheel and him.
"You'll see," He said. Not as awkward as I suspected the way it was over the phone but we'll see how this night turns out as we do midnight drives.
_______________________________________
We didn't end up at the movies nor a place to eat for that matter, but a colossal building with a couple cars to nothing in the open parking area. The tapered pointy arches stood tall in the midst of the night, two smaller ones fell behind the main arch of the front building. A soaring tower was shown in the back with neo-Gothic spires sharper than Native-American spears to elevate the architecture to be aligned with skyscrapers. I believed a bell swung in there.
The glass window tracery that stuck out in the middle, that made the building round with elliptical swirls and coils behind egg-shaped ovals. They formed white innocent daisies and spiritual mandalas with embellished designs.
Beau and I made our way towards the portal. Directly in front us was a heavy ten-foot double doors ornamented with a semi-circle tympanum carved with people I assumed were Gods or angels in deep prayer with clasped hands. The door creaked with a deep groan and it was colder in than out.
But it was even more beautiful.
Soft lit candles lingered throughout the sides and wooden pews or benches were parallel evenly going miles and miles. The boards reached from the front to the back, reaching the entrance, so everyone could be seated in His grace.
A few people were seated praying or concentrating straight ahead at a statue with a cross above its shoulders. But my eyes, they've never seen artwork so precious before. I couldn't take my eyes away from crafts displayed where it could reach skies, on the ceiling. Fresco and illusionistic paintings were able to touch super novas and comets as the sketches probably took several years to complete. Each detail from a stroke of paint illustrated a month. A delighted painting of a face would've been a year. The artwork on the ceiling took decades. As I twirled around with a mouth slightly open and in awe, everything mesmerized me to infinity.
I hadn't noticed Beau slid his hand into mine, the warm amongst the cool building's indoor atmosphere made them rough as he pulled me along with him to explore more of what was inside and in store for us.
On the sides of the wall were small candles, lined up in neat rows and glistened a cream color with a light fire flickering in hushed chilled wind. A wooden cross embroidered in the wall behind them, candles exerting a heavenly glow. I averted my gaze to Beau, his eyes fixated on the candles, explaining how lighting one might endure a long-lasting prayer for oneself and faith.
I watched the glow of orange light dance in his pupil.
It wasn't hate or anger in his eyes at all. It was gentle and warmth. His guard wasn't being let down or anything, Beau didn't open up that much like me. I would usually spilled out my entire life before I could catch it when someone invited me in like that. Despite him saying anything, he was showing me. It was his real and sometimes there weren't going to be times to ask or tell. That was okay too.
We walked around the perimeter of the church, making the hard wooden floors creak under our feet. I read the history on the walls and flipped through crippled pages and bible verses. We passed the alter locked in behind slim gates with the same statue although, a womanly figure in the center. She gave off a sense of empowerment with a podium and piano by her side.
Beau and I passed by more candles and worn books opened, and we sat down when the tour came to an end. Our backs rested on an empty row of benches and Beau heavily sighed and leaned back. That position didn't make him comfortable, so he leaned forward to run his hands through his hair and propped his arms up on his legs.
I studied the statue ahead of me. One hand was over her heart with possession and other holding up a torch with flames in the air. I wondered how women were viewed in those days in the sculptor's eyes, the way the artist sculpted a woman dominant and strong.
"This. . . is where I go at night," Beau confessed.
My attention drew to him and he was indeed looking back at me, a bit weary. Beau's cut lips parted open still, midway in what needed to be said. He looked away first. "After I leave or sometimes before I go see you, I come here." He examined his broken fingers with little white tape around two fingers.
"And when I came here," he dragged out, "guys were wearing all brown, outside the church and I didn't notice. I. . .didn't see them. They beat me up, so that's why I look like this."
He held out his hands as I analyzed the bruises and wounds swelling on his face, seeing it's not as excruciating as it had been when blood was a feature. His lips were still sliced in two, his bruises were still fucked up on his hands and some on his face. I swallowed when I saw the hickey around his valley of his neck, visibly freckled over his cream neck with no shame covering them up by me.
I looked away ashamed of myself that night then, if that's how it went for him. I frowned at his words and kept my eyes glued to my lap. Not sure what to muster out. "Beau. . ."
"I never liked going to church too. Weekly. Never did, when my mom was alive," Beau stifled a laugh that sounded cruel and cold, "actually she would force me, I had to do the looking presentable part, where a tie we couldn't afford and get yelled at in the mornings. Lots of arguing then between me and my parents. Now as I think about it, I hated it. Hated it so, so much. I knew being there, I couldn't pray for my dysfunctional family or change. Everybody knew it."
He thought about it and whispered, "But I'm closer to her here. This is what she grew up to. Hoping for an opportunity."
My heart was already tiny pieces in shreds that I didn't know were capable of tearing apart even more and I felt so stupid for assuming things and relying on bad instincts.
"Beau, I'm sorry for what had happened. With everything."
He shook his head with a weak grin, "It doesn't matter Ebonee. The apology was already accepted when you came here with me. And because you still love me, though." A bigger smile burned along his lips and twinkled eyes.
I scoffed and fell into a smile as well, "I don't."
"Yeah. . ." he said for a moment, "You do."
We glanced away from each other and giggled quietly so we weren't disturbing other individuals or make our sounds echo.
Out of seriousness, I wrapped in my lip and bit it with my teeth, "Beau, am I enough?"
He pushed down his pants and adjusted himself in the bench, "Enough, like what?"
I wanted to say like important enough, strong enough, pretty enough like the statue. She was stared at all the time as oceans of people just gawked at her. Special enough.
I wasn't strikingly beautiful, it was almost difficult to be muttered out of pretty mouths. I do not cause double glances on the street. My eyes do not make anyone drown in them. I don't make any guy lost for words. I couldn't make anyone laugh until you actually smiled. I wasn't unique or spontaneous or quirky. I couldn't shine like gold or platinum palettes. And I'm kind of confused, you're still standing here to this day making me believe I were all those things. I guess I need more convincing then I thought, but don't mind me. That's what happens to the rusted and damaged.
That's what happens when your told all your life in different ways that I was "close. . .but not quite", never actually using "enough" but the meaning stuck out enough to be translated into harsher words of not being good enough. Rejections and failures sugarcoated the truth or reality shoved me so hard that I began to wonder if there was something wrong with me.
"More than anyone's offering or willing to think."
You said it so casually and loosely like it wasn't hard to answer but it took me a decade and more of my life to figure out.
I'm glad you didn't give up on me.
He stared straight ahead at the altar where the woman figure stood and I did too. My hands remained in my lap but I extended out my arm until I found his hand distinctively without being aware of what I was doing. My fingertips grazed the outside of his palm, skimming my nails over his smooth skin. Beau flipped his hand over. He spread his fingers wide, every finger stretched out like a petal from a newborn blossomed flower with his trust and life in them.
I settled my fingers in between the dents and dips as he clasped them over his with affirmation. My body relaxed. Beau's tension unraveled.
Little did he know as we continued to stare at artwork made by man who maybe had a passion and love for the woman or art, I shared the same. I fell for the art in him.
I wished he knew I really did to.
______________________________________