CLICK THE EXTERNAL LINK FOR MY NEW NOVEL TAYLOR'S PEAK!
Do You Know Eva?
-Chapter One-
Decisions and Choices Made
Sometimes it hurts more to smile in front of everybody than it does to cry all alone. I have been faced with a decision. A choice. My choice- no one else’s. The pain used to be there to remind me that I was still alive, it’s funny how you can get used to it, the crying, the hurt. Now the presence of the pain just urges me over the edge. This is my decision, my choice. Live or die. To be or not to be.
The school’s front entrance is paved with marble tiles that lead up to a mound of steps. The yard is empty, the car park full. I have long missed the bell for first period. I dash up the stairs and pull open the door and enter the empty halls. I stand there, almost shocked by the eeriness of the deserted halls, the door crashes shut behind me. The hall is nothing without the population of the school gossiping and running through it. The emptiness almost reminds me of myself. The only difference is I know people will be back in the halls in a matter of minutes.
My locker door is always a hassle to open. I bang it twice with my fist after entering in the combination and it pops open. I throw my bag in and pull out my first period, English, book and copy. I also pull out my sketch pad. If there was one thing that was certain in my life it was that I was going to draw. It wouldn’t help me in the long run, but it will numb me for a while. Only for a while. Like a drug it will have its high and wear off leaving me even worse than before. If possible.
The thoughts of entering a full class almost makes me turn around and return home but that is never an option. Besides, I like English. I am fluent, I have you know. I grasp the door knob of Ms Jones’ room and take a breath. I knew as soon as I opened that door all thirty sets of eyes would be on me and that was the one thing I despised- being the centre of attention.
The door opens with a creak and as I guessed, everyone turns around to see the late arrival. Much to my delight, once they see it is only me they return to their whispered conversations and daydreaming. Ms Jones passes me a disappointed look. Her darting eyes return to the board where she continues her notes on Hamlet.
I take my seat at once and pull out my copy and begin transferring the notes. I know it myself, I am slacking behind. No sleep and school do not mix. But school, teachers and a host of other things will not matter to me anymore. This is my send off. My last English class.
Halfway through class, I zone out from Hamlet and his dramatic exit from the play and flip open my sketch pad. Flicking to a fresh page and ironically the last page in the pad, I pull out a pencil and immediately I am drawn in. No longer am I sitting in English class, or even alive. I am in my own personal state. Eva time. I move the pencil methodically and religiously. My movements are quick and decisive. I draw my memories and today’s drawing depicts a young girl, glistening blue eyes and thick, blood red hair starring out the window of her sitting room as a man in a leather jacket over his shoulder walks away. This is one of my most painful memories.
I look up to the board. A whole fresh board of notes has been written up. I haven’t even taken any of that down. How long was I out? A few strands of hair fall over my eyes but that is how I like it. If my eyes are covered they cannot see if I am crying, and if they are covered I haven’t got an excuse to cry. But other than that, I am ashamed to show anyone the black circle that surrounds my left eye. No amount of make up could have hidden it. Her fist against my face was like a hammer against a nail.
“Eva,” Jones says. Suddenly everyone is looking at me again. I look to the tall, formal woman at the top of the class.
“Yes Miss?” I reply, trying to sound as normal as possible but the confusion and shame can be heard in my voice.
“See me after class.”
The bell rings moments later and the students flood out of the room. I dread the moment when I have to walk up to Jones. Will she see the bruise around my eye? What does she want? Why can’t she just be like all the other teachers and not care?
She brushes her grey, pencil skirt leaving a trail of chalk along it. Taking a seat behind her large desk, she pulls a chair out for me. I wave my hand, gesturing that I do not want to sit. I throw in a polite smile, faked of course- it's just a habit now. She takes a second to compose herself, then looks me right in the eye’s- as best she could.
“Eva, girl what's up with you lately?” She says her face dropping. She is genuinely worried about me. Probably the only person who is. “I mean, you’re late almost everyday, you never concentrate in class, you are always doodling. I have nothing left but to go to the principal.”
“No please don’t do that!” I plead. That would lead to more beatings than necessary at home. Then again, I won’t be around to have a meeting with any principal.
“Then please tell me what’s going on.”
I could break down. I could start crying and tell Jones about all the stuff that goes on at home. Maybe she could even put a stop to it- save me. But I don’t. I pull out another excuse from a book that has been opened too many times, it's ink long faded, handwritten by me.
“I’m just-” Jones interrupts me before I can finish.
“Tired, ill- I’ve heard it all before Eva.”
I don’t mean to be like this to Jones, as a matter of fact she is my favorite teacher, my favorite person- sometimes my only person. Telling her is just not an option, yet lying to her feels so bad, like a first lie to your parents, so much guilt. I nod and she shakes her head, maybe she has given up to.
“Just wise up, girl. Now get to class, you’re late.” She smiles and I churn one out too before walking out of the room. Even though I cannot see, I know her eyes follow me as I walk out.
*
As I walk along the hallways, or should I say drag myself along the hallways, I get the feeling that something is wrong. Everyone is peering at me as I walk towards my locker. I am used to everyone looking at me. I guess you could say I wasn’t like everyone else. I didn’t have boyfriends or I wasn’t part of the cheerleading team. I wasn’t ashamed of the two razor scars on my wrists, so much that I wouldn’t wear short sleeve t-shirts. I almost flaunted them.
People automatically assume that I am a suicidal freak. They never let themselves get to know me just because what they have heard from hallways whispers. Maybe if they actually got to know the real Eva, they would actually like her and see past her scars, both inside and out.
I was right. There is definitely something up. I zip up my black, hooded jumper and pull down my sleeves covering the marks form Attempt One. Pulling my hood over my hair, I stop in shock at my locker. This is what they are all waiting for. Just another show. Lengthways along my locker is the word dyke spray painted in red with a coating of blue. My jaw drops an inch and suddenly everyone is pointing and laughing.
My heart stops. I feel a shudder of embarrassment and mortification. I fight back an army of tears that are welling behind my eyes. I have been tripped and pushed all my years here but never have I been so insulted. The tears swell up in my eyes and threaten to destroy my make up. As I stare at my locker I am knocked to the floor by a football player. The hallway explodes with laughter. Everyone is gathered around me, almost in a circle of jocks and cheerleaders, even the odd nerd.
“Woops, my bad dyke,” he says, laughing. He returns to his group and they all turn to laugh at pathetic little Eva, lying on the ground- books sprawled around her and mascara running down her face. What doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger, Eva.
I pick up my books and run to the entrance, down the stairs and keep running. I don’t stop until I reach the forest and even then I keep running. It isn’t until I am completely alone in the heart of the forest that I stop and let out a heart wrenching scream to the skies.
The walk home from the forest takes a matter of minutes and soon enough I am walking along the road where a small, two-story house stands in the corner of a rich estate. A dark cloud begins to ascend over my house. Drops of rain begin to fall and in the distance I hear the beginnings of thunder and lightning waging war. I stand behind the whit gate and look at the house. The once bright yellow paint has now turned a vile brown and has began to peel. A window to the right is cracked and baskets holding dead flowers hang outside the door.
I open the gate; it creaks as it swings shut again. I follow the stones on the ground to the doorstep where I find myself bracing myself behind a door once again. This door is much more perilous. I would much rather open a door to find thirty people looking at me than what was behind this one. The eyes that linger behind this door are a lot harder to look into.
I enter the house and I am immediately hit with the smell of dampness. Icy, cold air lingers in the house. We haven’t been able to afford gas, not in a long while. But I have gotten used to it even though the fight with coldness shouldn’t be something to get used to. The carpet I walk along has lost its royal red color and turned almost grey, torn to pieces, alcohol stains cover it.
In the distance I hear the sounds of a television set blaring, trash TV threatens to turn my mind to mush. I can just imagine her sitting on the couch in front of the TV, wearing the same pajamas as yesterday and drinking a half empty can of beer. I need not imagine.
The living room is no greater than the rest of the house. I stand at the door and look at my mother, Susan, a vile, angry and alcoholic woman who, unhappy with her own life, enjoys making mine a living hell. She doesn’t take her eyes from the reality show she is watching when she speaks.
“Where were you, you are late?” Her speech is slurred.
“I stopped in the forest for a bit.”
“Get me a beer from the fridge,” she says. I stand and look at her before replying. “Now!” she barks. I retreat into the kitchen. Dirty dishes and over flowing bins have demeaned a once beautiful kitchen where so many happy memories were created. I pull a can of beer from the fridge and return to the living room.
“Here,” I say, passing her the can. She cracks it open and sucks the foam from the top. Her face drops a little and she burps. I mumble the word “Pathetic” under my breath, a mistake I will soon regret.
“Excuse me?” She says, “What did you call me, Evangeline?”
“Don’t call me that, my name is Eva.”
She stands up and we are face to face. Her alcohol stained breath invades my nose ad my face crinkles. Her body odor forces me back a few spaces.
“Jeez ma, when was the last time you showered? Look at you, you're a mess!” the words seemed to come on their own. This wasn’t me talking. Is it because I know that after tonight I knew she couldn’t harm me anymore? Has my imminent death brought out a confidence?
Susan drops her can of beer and the liquid soon joins the rest of the stains on the carpet.
“Don’t you talk to me about hygiene you filthy pig!” She screams into my face. “You ruined my life, you know that?” She whispers as if I wasn’t supposed to hear, as if she had never said it to me before.
“No, you ruined your life. Dad leaving wasn’t my fault. He saw what you were becoming and he had the sense to leave! He was lucky to get outta here, just like Scott!”
It happens very fast. She went to go sit down but as soon as I mention his name she turns to face me once more. Susan raises her hand and slaps me across the face. Next door the neighbors turned the volume of their TV up. The room is silent, my heart is thumping. Pain flashes across my face and I place a hand over the place she struck. Rain belts against the window as she stares hard into my eyes.
“Don’t you ever say his name again, you hear?”
I nod and leave the room and silently walk up stairs.
My room is my haven, my safe place. If I had any faith it would be my church, my sanctuary. It reflects my personality. The walls are painted a vibrant shade of purple on one side and yellow on the other. The curtains are black and the bed clothes are white. A small CD player sits on a shelf beside my bed, next to a stack of old school CD’s.
I plop onto my bed and stare at the ceiling, my arms behind my head. I remember when I was small I would fall asleep to the glow in the dark stars glued to the ceiling. I smile at the thought.
From underneath my pillow, I pull out and old photo album. It is square in shape and the leather is smooth to touch. I flick through the pages until I find my desired photo: Scott. He smiles a crooked smile showing his dimples. He does a weird thing with his eyes to make himself look goofy. It still makes me laugh. A tear drop lands on the photo.
“Miss you bro,” I whisper to the night.
*
The abandoned house lays exactly twenty three doors down form my house. It stands three story's high and is quite thin. I find it the best place to come and think, I guess. I like to come here to draw too. I walk past the broken glass bottles and graffitied walls to the sitting room where a large hole in the wall, the fire place, used to be. I curl up inside the hole. It blocks out all the noise and all I can hear is the sound a wind from above. The rain comes down heavy and a few drops manage to land on me. I close my eyes and begin to think.
Will they notice? Will she notice? Will anyone notice?
As I continue to think unpleasant thoughts I hear the sound of cracking glass. Someone else is here. This has never happened before. Besides the occasional group of teenagers, no one ever comes into the Old Brooke Manor. I peer out from the fire place and look to the door. A girl, around my age, stands with her hands in her pockets, looking around. She almost screams when she see’s me.
“Oh my God, I didn’t know anyone was here! Sorry.” She turns to leave, cursing to herself. I crawl out of the hole and shout after her.
“No, its okay I was just about to leave.” I have a suicide to commit.
The young girl turns back to face me. She laughs at the situation, then stretches out her hand.
“Jessica. My name is Jessica,” she says, sweetly. I take her sweaty hand and shake it.
“Evangeline, but people call me Eva.” What people, I think.
“Eva,” she repeats, “I like it! Tell me, Eva, what are you doing in an abandoned house at,” she looks to her watch, “Ten PM?”
“I could ask you the same question.”
“Ah, touché.” She smiles, what is it with her and smiling? It almost makes me feel uncomfortable to see how happy she looks.
There is a silence. We both laugh at the situation.
“Well Jessica, I’ll be seeing you around.” A promise I was not going to keep.
“Please, call me Jess.”
*
The white, rusted bath tub fills slowly with ice cold water. It rises and rises as I slowly undress in front of the bathrooms mirror. Looking at myself in the mirror, I think to myself, why did God waste a life on me? Why was I worth being born if I have to live like this?
But I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t have to live like this. I turn around to face the fully filled bath. It looks like a boat; wide and deep.
I place a reluctant foot into the water. My foot tightens. I turn to the side and place my other leg into the bath. The water reaches just under my knees. I take my hair out of my bobbin; it flows down to my neck. I can still see myself in the mirror; one last look. I clutch the photo of Scott tightly in my hand.
I kneel down onto my rear. The water rises to my chest as I grab my knees in my hands. Some water escapes onto the floor. Ice cold air can clearly be seen coming from my mouth. A tree branch hits against the window as lightening strikes. The lights twinkle off for a second.
Will they notice? Will she notice? Will anyone notice?
I close my eyes and fall, ever so gracefully, into the depths of my freedom. The water covers my whole body. I hold in my last bit of oxygen, but then I let it out; my last breath. I stare at the ceiling through my soulless eyes. I open my mouth and the water enters into my body; fills my lungs. My thick hair flows around the water like blood.
For one brief second, I feel as if all of my problems, all of the names, the bullies, everything, has washed away. I close my eyes and swallow the last bit of water, my eyes widening in shock.
This is my decision, my choice. Live or die?
To be, or not to be?