S a m
"And the voices will get loud. If you never learn to shut them out." - Young Blood, Bea Miller
It's too much.
Too many, too loud.
They won't stop, no matter how many times I tell them.
No matter what I do.
No matter.
It's getting worse.
Stop, please stop.
It's driving me crazy.
They are getting loud, louder, loudest.
They're not going away.
Why?
Why not?
*
Why?
Why did I do that?
Why did I tell Lou about her?
Why do you think, Sam?
Isn't it obvious?
No, stop. Stop. Don't say anything.
She reminds you of Lily.
I look around the shop, spotting a shelf full of books strewn all over the place in the next aisle. I make a beeline towards them, placing them back on the bookshelves, smoothing out any folded or creased pages and covers, arranging them in alphabetical order based on their authors.
I glance at the clock. It's just half past two. I let out a tired sigh, starting to feel dizzy. My head starts to pound ever so slightly but I shrug it off. It's nothing big. I head towards the front of the shop, towards where the cash register is.
"Is there anything else you want me to?" I ask Mr Jones as I approach him.
He shakes his head. "Nothing in particular. But if you want to busy yourself, feel free to sort out any of the shelves," he says, gesturing to the whole shop. "Those pesky teenagers. They always come in and mess everything up."
I laugh at his comment and head towards the leftmost shelf, with the intention of slowly working my way through the shop, rearranging the miscellaneous items on the shelves so that they look neat and are easy to browse through. All of a sudden, the pounding in my head intensifies and nausea washes over me.
"Mr Jones, I know I just came in but I don't feel very well. Is it alright if I go back early today?" I ask.
I wince as the headache grows more painful with every step I take, no matter how soft it is.
"Go home and take a rest, Sam. I can close up the shop," Mr Jones replies.
"Thank you."
As much as I want to stay, I can't concentrate on anything. I'd be useless here, just putting myself in agony.
I make a beeline towards the back office and snatch my backpack off the couch, swinging it over my shoulders and rushing out of the shop as quickly as I can without running. I stuff my hands into my jeans pocket and start walking, faster and faster, wanting it to stop.
Please, just stop.
I absolutely hate these episodes of headaches and migraines. I don't even know how — or why — they started, but they came one day and never left. I've told my parents but they just brushed it off as a normal headache. The worst thing is that medicines never work and I'll have to wait it out. Even then, I've never experienced a migraine to this extent.
My ears start ringing and my eyes start to hurt. I groan, massaging my temple in vain, in hopes my headache will miraculously go away. My breathing grows shallow and quick and I can barely focus on my surroundings.
The whole world looks like it's shaking, spiralling, maybe in more ways than one.
I just put one foot in front of the other, focusing on taking one step at a time, all the way home.
You know what you did wrong, Sam, don't try to deny it.
You're not fooling anyone.
Telling the story over and over again won't help anyone, definitely not you.
It'll just help you convince yourself you're not at fault.
But we all know who's to blame.
The pain intensifies and tears pool in my eyes. Unable to continue walking, I collapse on the ground, resting the palms of my hands on the soft grass and squeezing my eyes shut tightly, willing the pain to stop.
Why is it so bad this time? It's normally very manageable. But this time, this time it's so bad to the point I think getting shot in the leg would be less painful.
I hope it won't last for too long.
I take the backpack off my shoulders and toss it to the ground in front of me before reaching for it and unzipping it, trying to feel around for my water bottle but to no avail, my mouth becoming drier and more parched as time passes.
"Stop!" I exclaim, as if that will make the pain dissipate.
I press my palms against my forehead, as if by trying to squeeze it, it'd go away. But it continues to pound and hammer away in my head, almost like a second heartbeat.
Why should it stop?
Every action has a consequence, Sam.
You deserve to be punished for your mistake.
Unable to stay in my kneeling position as my knees begin to hurt, I lie on the grass, feeling the dew on each blade of grass on my skin. This would be a perfect way to spend an evening — peaceful, quiet, lying on the grass — if it weren't for my pounding head.
"Oh it's just you, Sam," someone says, sighing in relief.
I try to open my eyes to see who it is but I can barely even move.
"Sam, are you okay?"
I recognise that voice. Jasmine. It's definitely her.
But why is she speaking to me? Where am I?
"Jas?" I mutter, still clutching my head in agony.
"What happened?" she asks, exasperated, placing a hand on my shoulders.
"Headache," is all I manage to say.
"I'll go and get some medicine for you—"
"It's no use, Jas," I say, cutting her off, forcing myself to open my eyes.
I take a look around, realising that, somehow, in my dazed state, I managed to find myself in Jasmine's backyard.
"I'm so sorry for intruding," I apologise, my eyes flickering to the baseball bat clutched in her hand. "I'll get going now."
"You look really bad, Sam," she replies, a hint of concern and caution in her voice. "Do you want to come in? Or do you want me to call your parents or bring you home?"
Why does it feel like she's threading on thin ice around me? It doesn't make sense. Doesn't she know that I've learned from my mistakes?
Have you really?
Maybe it's because of what you did to her sister.
She doesn't know whether to trust you or how to behave around you. She will never forgive you. How can she?
A mistake that big does not deserve to be forgiven.
"Are you sure you don't need anything?" she asks again.
"Some water would be nice actually. I can't find my bottle."
She nods and disappears into her house, bringing the bat along with her.
Of course, of all lawns I decided to take a break in, it had to be Jasmine's. But then again, if it were anyone else's, there would be a lot of complications, especially since I'm not exactly invited into their property.
You've come here uninvited one too many times.
I'm glad Jasmine understands. Or at least, I hope she does.
I remember the times Jasmine and I used to be close. Not because we went to the same school or lived next to each other or anything, but simply because of her sister. The two of us used to tease Jasmine to no end, and we'd always play pranks on each other and, well, we'd just play together.
Those were the days.
But we were kids back then. And we grew up. And now, things aren't all in black and white; everything is grey. Nothing is as simple as it seems anymore. But then again, nothing ever was. We were just too naive to see it.
We drifted apart. But, I guess, that is what all friends are meant to do. It's not meant to last a lifetime.
Nothing good will ever last a lifetime.
Don't flatter yourself, Sam.
We all know why you two drifted apart.
Have you already forgotten what you did to her sister?
I hear the door close and I sit a little straighter, waiting for Jasmine's return.
"Here you go," she says, passing a glass of water to me.
I take it from her and gulp it's contents. I feel the water go down my throat and the pain lessens just a bit. But it's enough for me to be able to find my way back home without collapsing again.
I hope.
"Thank you for that, Jas, but I think I should get going now. I don't want to intrude."
She shakes her head. "You're not intruding, Sam. I'm always happy to help."
"No, I meant, I probably scared you just now, what with sitting on your lawn like this with no notice."
She shrugs. "No worries. For a second, I thought you were a burglar and that's why I came out to check, especially since I'm babysitting my mum's friends' children."
"That's exactly what I meant."
She shrugs again and does not reply. I hand her the empty cup and get up, slinging my backpack across one shoulder.
"Thank you again, Jasmine."
She waves her hand dismissively. "Like I said, I'm always happy to help."
I nod in acknowledgement and exit her lawn, waving her goodbye before going back onto the pavement.
Is she really happy to help? Or is she saying that out of politeness.
I think you know the answer, Sam.
There's no point denying it any longer.
I walk all the way down the road and turn left. Black spots start dotting my vision and I'm feeling faint, the nausea returning. I stumble onto my porch and fumble for the handle, throwing the door open and heading as quickly as possible to my room, slamming the door shut.
I drop my bag on the floor, beside the bed and crawl under the covers, pulling it over my head. Admittedly, the pain does not subside from lying down, but being in a comfortable environment does make it more manageable.
In an effort to stand the pain, my mind drifts off, my body getting drowsier and drowsier. I sink into my bed and let go, dropping my guard down, removing the mask I put on whenever I'm around other people. But, the problem now, is that I've been wearing it so often that I've forgotten who I am. I've forgotten what it means to be myself
Sam, you know what you did wrong.
You know why you need to fake it.
Why don't you finally admit it to yourself? Admit your mistakes to everyone.
"Stop," I breathe, wanting the voices to go away. "Make it stop." I bring my hands to my forehead and massage my temples as hard as I can, as if the pressure will make the migraine stop.
Or the voices fade away.
Why should we stop?
It's your mistake, your past, your guilt to live with.
Didn't you know? Every action has a consequence.
It's your fault, Sam.
I'm just human. I make mistakes. Everyone does. Haven't I suffered enough?
But a mistake as great as that one?
You don't deserve to be forgiven.
You deserve every ounce of suffering you're getting and more.
Tears pool in my eyes and I can feel them slide down my cheeks and onto the bedsheets. And soon, the pain grows. But this time, it's my heart that's hurting. A pain that, unlike the headache, will never subside and maybe even hurts more.
You need a reminder for your mistakes, Sam. This is your reminder.
My head and heart are both hurting. How ironic, isn't it? Especially since people keep talking about the battle between the head and the heart, on which one to follow.
I'm not sure how long I can keep the facade up. I'm not sure how long I can hold on anymore. I've done some terrible things in the past, things I will never forgive myself from doing. I'm not sure if I will ever be able to move on.
You're finally admitting it.
How long has it been? Two years?
It's always in these situations when the voices are the worst. When I'm alone in my room. When I'm trying to forget. When I only have them to keep me company. But they're worse now, even worse than they normally are. They're louder, more frequent, more vicious.
I want them to stop. I want them to go away.
Do you really?
I take in a deep breath of air in an attempt to calm myself down.
I've wronged so many people in the past. And now, life has presented another chance to me. A chance to make everything right. A chance to redeem myself.
But the past is the past. And I can't ever change that. And the past will always come back to haunt me no matter what I do. I can only accept them and hope they will fade with time.
"I'm sorry," I mutter, closing my eyes.
I'm sorry, Jasmine.
I'm sorry, Lily.
I'm sorry.
[A/N: I know nothing much happened in this chapter as well but it's necessary. Who do you think Lily is? And what do you think Sam did to her?]