Which is worse: To feel absolutely nothing or to feel everything in such extremes to the point where it hurts you?
On one side, if you feel nothing at all, then you can't feel pain. You can't feel the anguish and despair that always goes hand in hand with life, no matter how hard we try to deny it. The struggle to get through a tragedy would never be yours and the sorrow that accompanies loss wouldn't be yours to feel either.
But then you also couldn't feel the good things, or the rare things, as I've come to know them. Things like joy, happiness, and love. These are the things you could feel if you were to choose to feel everything in extremes rather than not at all. Things that come in sudden, spontaneous spurts that you have only a glimpse of before they are sucked back into the darkness that you would also have to endure if you chose the 'feeling path'.
That is the inevitable consequence for feeling such things; they are always taken away and leave you even more broken than you were before they came. You know why? Because you've become dependent on it.
You've become dependent on the object or person who makes you feel happy, and once it's gone, so are you. Like life is trying to punish you for evading its cruelty, even temporarily. You have to learn all over again how to become independent and how to get at least back to the sorry mess of a person you were before. And even then you're a mess until the next trap is sent, in a form of a person or anything really, to make you feel okay again until you suffer the same devastating fate as the time before, because that's the thing with humans. We never learn.
So, which is worse? In my simple opinion, not feeling anything is more bearable than feeling absolutely everything. But, like most things in this twisted, cruel life, you don't get to choose. Someone somewhere makes the decision for you, and in the case of Alexandra Tucker, whoever they are made the wrong one.
-
(Alexandra Tucker, May 6th)
Collapsed. Destroyed. Pulverized. Shattered. Demolished. Ruined. Wrecked. Me.
All synonyms, all representing the same thing. I am completely and utterly broken. Even now, a month later, after the funeral where I saw his face for the last time before it disappeared into the ground while his family wept over their dead son. The steady tears that were supposed to be sliding down my cheeks just weren't there. I sat there completely still and unable to do anything but watch, trapped in the 'zombie mode', as I heard my mother call it, that I'm still in now.
At least I think I am. I can't be quite sure. It's like I'm under some sort of enchantment; I see and hear everything, but I don't process it the same way I used to. I'm still trying to decide which way is better. I guess the reason I'm like this is what makes the other way the clear choice. Unfortunately, that is a choice I don't have.
So for now I am stuck in this state of depression, for lack of a better word. Not even my brother can get through to me. We can have a conversation, but not like the ones we used to where we could crack jokes and make fun of each other. I can't even remember the last time I laughed or smiled. A real one, not that fake grimace or forced chuckle I've put on for anyone who pretends to care.
"Alexandra, wake up," a sharp voice cuts through my deep train of thought. Was I asleep? I don't think so, but lately the line between conscious thoughts and unconscious ones has been blurred to the point where it almost ceases to exist.
"Oh, good, you're awake," my mother walks in front of me, forcing me to look at her in her perfectly tailored jacket and skirt. Her red-lipsticked mouth is pressed into a hard, thin line and her eyes are cold and show no sympathy. Not that I expected any from her, I guess I've just grown accustomed to the pity in people's eyes when they look at me. I hate it, the pity, so it is somewhat refreshing to see what looks like disgust in someone's stare. At least it would be if that someone wasn't my own mother.
"Stop sulking and get up and make yourself presentable. A client is meeting me here in precisely one hour so we can discuss some important business," she says sternly, looking down at me over her horn rimmed glasses.
"And I would rather my daughter not look like she was raised in a pig sty," she adds before strolling out of my line of vision, leaving me again to stare at the blank expanse of wall by the fireplace that my eyes always seem to be glued to lately. That comment might have hurt me a month ago, but since then I have experienced such astronomical pain that anything else pales in comparison.
"I mean it, Alexandra," my mother calls stiffly and I hear the seriousness in her voice. It's always there, just more noticeable at times like these.
I decide that it is not worth having my mother yell at me again just to experiment with my feelings. I've been trying to feel something other than the crushing sadness that has filled every crack and crevice of my body since Will's death, but I have been unsuccessful.
Trying to get a rise out of my mother and father never seems to work. My father never gets angry because he pities me too much, and although my mother screams and yells at me, I never am able to feel anything but despair. Not even anger. It seems that my sadness is so extreme that there is simply no room for anything else.
I barely notice my muscles moving as I slowly straighten my knees to stand and walk up the stairs with jerky, robotic moments. I feel like a baby taking its first steps. No, that's not quite right... I feel like the Tin Man in The Wizard of Oz who rusted and was stuck in the same place for so long that when he finally was able to move again, he couldn't walk quite right.
I use the same robotic movements to take a long, hot shower, blow dry my hair, apply makeup, and get dressed. By the time I am finished I almost look like the girl I was a month ago. Almost. If it weren't for the dead look in my eyes or the way my lips are not turned up at the corners like they usually were, I would be.
I look down at myself to see that I have subconsciously dressed in almost all black, save for the white on my shirt. My clothes have always reflected my mood. I guess that carries over into 'depressed' life as well.
I make my way downstairs again to show my mother that I have cleaned up and made myself presentable for whatever client she's dealing with today. I have just hit the bottom step when I hear voices from the living room, one that I recognize (my mother's) and another that I don't. It is a man, deep and British, and it sounds like he's about my age. Maybe a year or two older. I can't tell, his back is to me.
"I am aware that we won the case," my mother says, sounding slightly irritated. "In the future, you might not be so lucky."
So this guy is a criminal. Or at least an accused suspect. I should've expected this; my mother uses the word 'client' for all of the people she works for, and with. Some of her clients are actually dangerous, but surprisingly that doesn't scare me.
"I'm telling you, it won't fucking happen again," he almost growls, outrage clear in his tone. I am shocked that this man would speak to my mother in such a disrespectful way. She is used to being treated with the utmost respect, so surely this is an astonishment for her as well.
Sure enough, her lips are pressed into a hard line and her expression is cold and livid. This doesn't seem to faze her client, though. I feel a spark of admiration towards this man for being able to stand up to Lori Tucker. She can be quite intimidating when she wants to be, which is most of the time.
"Very well," my mother says stiffly, and I see her jot something down in her notes.
"Aren't you going to ask me if I'm actually guilty?" the man asks, sounding confused. My mother purses her lips and peers at him over her glasses in that way of hers that projects superiority.
"That is information I will leave up to you whether you want to reveal to me or not," she says coldly, and I can see that look in her eyes. She thinks he's guilty, I know it. "Anything you have that will help your future case, I suggest you share with me. Anything other than that, I suggest you keep to yourself."
"I'm telling you, there will be no future case," he seethes defensively. My mother just crosses her legs and writes something else down on her piece of paper.
Just as I make the decision not to interrupt their meeting, my mother notices me standing on the steps and calls out my name. That's odd, she usually scolds me for intruding on her work. She probably thinks I haven't been standing there for as long as I was and that I heard nothing important. Which I didn't, really. Nothing important to me anyway.
"Alexandra, have some manners," she reprimands me like a child even though I am legally an adult. "Introduce yourself."
I carefully step off of the last stair and down onto the floor. As I walk into the living room, I see the man standing in front of our tan suede couch with his back still to me. I can see his brown curly hair where it circles around the nape of his neck. His lean but muscular frame towers over my mother, but I am still more intimidated by her than by him. That is until he turns around.
The first thing I notice about the man is that his eyes are the piercing green color of emerald. They meet mine for only a few seconds before I have to drop his intense gaze. I take the opportunity to observe the rest of him. Various, seemingly random tattoos are scattered across the skin that is exposed, some disappearing beneath his clothing while just the tips of others poke out from underneath his plain black shirt. Brown, wavy curls are swept back on top of his head and fall into short ringlets around his ears. The deep pink color of his tongue matches that of his lips when he pokes it out to wet them. I notice the glint of a lip ring as the light reflects off of the silver metal poking through his skin.
"Alexandra, don't make me introduce you myself," my mother warns, snapping me out of my trance. Of course, she's already said my name three times so there is really no need to introduce myself...not like my name was such a secret anyway.
My eyes flick between my mother and the man who now has a cocky smirk growing on his plump lips that sends a twinge of what I think is annoyance through me. It's hard to decipher my emotions because I have only known one since the day I got the news about Will. That reminds me, I couldn't have felt annoyance. I probably just imagined it.
My mother is still glaring at me so I clear my throat before speaking.
"I'm Alex," I say in a monotone voice, addressing the man in front of me. I hate when my mother calls me Alexandra, just the way it sounds in her voice makes me want to rip my hair out. Or her's. The man's smirk grows and another spurt of emotion flashes through me before it disappears just as suddenly as it came. I definitely didn't imagine it this time.
Although I can't put a name to what I felt, it was something other than sadness and that both surprises and angers me. The fact that I am angered is also a huge feat, but it only makes me angrier. How is it that I've been trying to feel something all this time and am only able to do so when a complete stranger shows up in my living room and smirks at me?
"So I've heard," the man says in his raspy British accent that I heard talking to my mother. "And I'm Harry."
"Harry Styles," he adds smugly as if his last name should make a difference to me in one way or another. It doesn't. I don't want to hear it again either.
If this Harry guy can make me feel angry just by looking and sounding the way he does, then I don't want to see how angry he could make me in the future. I don't know why I'm even thinking so much about this; he's just a client of my mother's and I doubt I'll ever see him again.
I glance at my mother who is eyeing me quizzically. She gives me a terse nod that signals for me to leave. I turn around to walk back up the stairs, but not before Harry can flash me a wink with his left eye.
I can feel my face starting to flush, so I quickly turn away before he notices. Harry seems like the kind of person who would take pleasure in seeing my red face and I don't want to give him that satisfaction.
"Oh, and Alex?" Harry's voice calls from behind me. I turn my head and cringe at the haughty expression on his face. His grin widens, making a dimple pop on his left cheek before he speaks.
"Cute bow."
My hand automatically lifts up to touch the small, black bow that is clipped into my hair. My face flushes again and I run the rest of the way upstairs, choosing not to respond to Harry's mocking comment.
Who does he think he is? He is simply a client of my mother's, a criminal nonetheless, and he thinks he can mock me - a girl he doesn't know the first thing about? Pathetic.
It isn't until I am back up in my room that I realize I am no longer in my little funk. Even if the emotion was anger, I have felt, truly felt something other than sadness. And I guess I have Harry Styles, his cocky smirk, and his smug British accent to thank for that.