"Spend forever asleep because life pales in comparison to living the dream." - #Deep
. . .
Los Angeles, California, 2013
Why?
I stare at Bo after he asks. The look on his face is one I've never seen before: some sort of mixture of sorrow, confusion, and disgust. Tears slide down my cheeks and around the contours of my mouth, leaving the salty aftertaste fresh on my tongue. My heart is pounding, and I can't see.
Bo, please... I think, praying he doesn't just leave me. It's me, Justine. It's still me... I'm still the same...
But, just thinking the words makes me realize I'm lying. I'm lying to him and myself, and guilt clenches my soul. I don't know what to say, what to do. I just stand there like a scolded child, shoulders shaking with sobs. I can't look Bo in the eyes.
Say something... just say something.
He doesn't. My shoulders fall, and I turn around to walk away.
He doesn't call after me.
I can feel his eyes on my back, but then I hear him turn around and step away as well.
Silently, I start to cry even harder.
I guess this is goodbye, Robert Burnham.
. . .
I can see Bo in front of me, but I can't reach him. He's some sort of mix from when he was younger and now, his slouch is obviously more prominent than it was before, and he's dressed in a plain white t-shirt rather than a tie-dye shirt. He's wearing black jeans instead of the normal baggy khakis from before. I'm not sure which is the real one, but they seem to be superimposed on each other, 17-year-old Bo and 22-year-old Bo. His older eyes are more broken, more thoughtful. His younger eyes are bright and cheerful.
"Bo, it's me. I'm sorry you had to see that earlier." The words rush to my mouth before I can think, but I'm glad they do.
His eyes fill with forgiveness, and I sigh in relief.
"Justine, I'm sorry too. I was speechless, confused. I'm not mad. I still love you." His arm reaches out, and I take his hand.
His younger self now opens his mouth, and his older self stands, silent. "I love you." He says.
The words sound like an empty echo from the past.
. . .
I wake up suddenly, but I let the last strains of the bittersweet dream fade away. Before I know what's happening, the world seems to crash down on me. My life is now this, where dreams are the only escape from this living misery. I cry for the fourth time today, praying to be back in that dream. It never happens.
I want these feelings to go away. I want to fall asleep peacefully, to forget about Bo and continue my life of selling my body in the Los Angeles streets. After I've calmed down a little bit, I reach for my cellphone in the dark.
A text message displays on the opening screen. My mom. I ignore it.
I pull the scrap of paper out of my pocket with Bo's number on it. I try to control my breathing and dial.
It rings twice before Bo picks up, sounding fully awake at 3 AM.
"Bo." I say, trying to control my frantic breathing. I can feel anxiety gnawing at my insides, but I try to breathe.
"Justine?" His voice is slightly hostile.
"Bo, I can't..." My lungs start to seize up. No, please. Not here and not now. "I can't..." My lungs refuse to fill with air, and panic starts to set in. I claw at my throat, but I can't fight it. I start to wheeze frantically, trying to force some words out. I can't do it. I can't.
"Justine? I'll be right there, don't hang up." Bo's voice is full of concern, but I can't breathe. Please, Bo, I can't breathe, please...
He hangs up. As I drift into unconsciousness, spiraling into the darkness, only one thought crosses my mind.
Let me see his blue eyes one more time.
. . .
Hamilton, Massachusetts, 2008
"This whole dance thing is really your dream, huh?" I look at Justine, trying to memorize everything about her face. She's packing her things, folding clothes into a suitcase. I'm sitting next to a little box full of small things. I look through them. There are a few little key chains, a Juilliard pamphlet, a necklace with a rose gold pair of pointe shoes on it. On the very top, a locket sits. It's just a simple gold heart with a clasp, like the cliché ones in movies and books. I snap it open and see that Justine has arranged a collage of tiny photos. Her mom, her grandmother, her older brother, and me, right at the bottom, in a tie-dye shirt with a reckless smile on my face, my arm around her. I sigh and place the locket back inside the box.
"Hey, I brought something for you." Justine looks up from her suitcase and glances at me.
"Yeah? What is it?" She smiles curiously.
I produce a CD, the case shiny and brand-new.
"It's called Words, Words, Words. It's a Comedy Central special. I was going to surprise you... it comes out in the fall, but I guess this will have to do. Don't leak the CD or anything, though... it's kind of a big deal for my career and all that shit." I smile gently, and hand it to her.
Justine stares in wonder at the CD cover before carefully sliding it into the front of her suitcase.
"That's..." she looks at me, searching for words. "I mean, it's... fuck, Bo, I don't even know what to say.. that's just... amazing..." Justine smiles sadly at me, and I flop back onto her bed, defeated.
So she really is leaving.
. . .
"Okay, uh... I'll drive you to the train station at 6, alright? See you then." I smile and hang up the phone, bitterly staring at the floor.
It's almost too late, but not yet.
When we get to the train station, I'm going to kiss her and ask her out.
It's now or never.
. . .
I pull up to her house, more nervous than I've ever been. I step out and ring the doorbell. I'm going to kiss Justine; I'm sure of it.
I wait a few seconds, then ring again. That's weird. Justine's not the type to be late.
Suddenly, a loud crash rings from inside the house. I hear a scream.
The next few seconds blur.
Without even thinking, I kick in the door and rush in to see Justine sobbing amid a bloody mess of shattered glass and china on the floor. Her father is towering over her, his face bright red, his eyes bulging out of his head.
"WHO THE FUCK SAID YOU COULD GO TO NEW YORK?" Justine cowers, a stream of blood trickling from her hands. Her father raises a plate over her head, and my eyes widen with rage.
I feel like I'm underwater as I sprint at him, white-hot anger filling my veins. I hear a scream, but I'm not sure if it's me or Justine, and suddenly, my fists are on him.
I beat him, hearing crunches and shouts in the distance as my fists fly, but time seems to cease to exist. I feel blood run down my arms, but I don't know whose it is, and dull pain fills my shoulders as hands grab me.
Suddenly, I'm ripped away from the sniveling excuse for a man I was beating. His eyes are swollen, and his head is bleeding and grotesquely misshapen.
It takes a few seconds for it to register that I did this to him.
Justine is staring at me with some sort of awe and fear, her eyes red and wide.
The man grabbing me by my shoulders shouts something. Justine's father's eyes skirt around like a wild animal's as he smiles a toothy grin. I glance back.
A police car is parked outside. I come back to my senses.
Click.
The cold snap of handcuffs shock me back into reality.
Then, another officer steps up to Justine's father and hauls him up.
"We'll need you to come down to the station with us, sir."
. . .
Justine
I sit, crying on my mattress, my packed suitcase on the floor. I can't believe Bo did that. I can't believe him.
All I remember is screaming for him to stop, to stop hitting my father. I wasn't scared that my father would die or get hurt. I was terrified that he would punch back at Bo.
At the thought of the gore on the kitchen floor downstairs, I race to the bathroom and vomit into the toilet. When my stomach is empty, I dry-heave until my entire body is slick with sweat. Shaking, I carefully clean the blood off of my hands and wrap some gauze around the cuts. I try to clean the little gash in my forehead, but it stings too much, so I just put some Neosporin on the open wound.
I thought I was going to be able to sneak out of the house and get on the nearest train to New York without my father noticing, but he came home too early. Now what am I supposed to do?
My father's gone, but I no longer want to go to Julliard. I just want to see Bo. I was going to kiss him when he picked me up, but I lost my chance. I lost every chance. It's too late now, and I'm going to see Bo again.
I slowly leave the bathroom and walk back to my bedroom, trying to take deep breaths to overcome the sobs that wrack my lungs. On my bed, the front screen of my phone is shining with a notification.
I'm surprised to see it's a text from Bo.
Bo: get on the next train to Julliard. don't even think about staying. you have to get out of this goddamn town. take my car; the keys are on your table. leave it at the train station, and just go.
I stare at the text. Doubt gnaws at my mind, but I know he's right. I missed the chance to ever be with Bo, but I won't miss the chance to follow my dreams. I grab my cellphone and my suitcase, and run down the stairs two at a time. I see Bo's keys on the table, right where he said, and ignore the shattered plates that litter the linoleum. I call Mom with a press of a button, never pausing. She picks up just as I get in the car.
"Yeah, Mom, Bo and I are heading out for the train station. I'll call you when I get to New York."
I hang up without waiting for a response, and pull out of my driveway without a second thought.
All the pain from my memories with Bo, the cuts on my hands, and the gash on my forehead fly away, as if they can't keep up with me.
I'm leaving this place behind.
. . .
Bo
I missed my chance, didn't I?
I sit and wait in the station, tears welling in my eyes.
I hope Justine makes it in New York.
I hope she sticks around to see my name up in lights.
. . .
A/N: Wow, this is a long one, isn't it? Almost 2000 words. Sorry it took so long to update. I originally published this chapter, but it wasn't quite where I wanted it to be. I decided to move the plot ahead a lot more with this next one.
Has anybody seen "Can't Handle this" from Make Happy? It makes me really worried about Bo, honestly. I know his satire has always been just that - satire, but this seems a little too serious. I wonder if he's really depressed because it almost seems like he's too smart not to be.
Whatever.
I wrote my best friend a letter today, too. She's not home right now, so yeah.
Well... that was a boring author's note. Anyways... I have a signed copy of "Egghead". Random fact.
Well, hope you liked it! Vote, comment, share, drink, lather, rinse, and repeat.