Time goes by so quickly. There is always too much homework or I'm just being lazy and unmotivated.
Well, I hope you are not disappointed. I really do.
And if you are, let me know.
And if you are excited, let me know.
Happy reading : )
Chapter 22 – Not even in dreams
I avoid Anton at all costs. It's the best I can do, because facing him means facing my fears, getting hurt, being forced into telling the truth, because I can't keep pretending any longer.
Even if I want to tell him about Lorcan, and what he did, I shouldn't. I mustn't.
The classes go by slowly. But at least I won't see Anton there, because I skip the class we would have together. And at lunch I find a quiet place to hide. I tell Jocelyn to bring me food. She told Anton that I wasn't feeling okay, and that she'll take whatever she can with her, so I can at least eat something.
He believed her. He trusted her. He trusted me. I lied. We all lie. It's a constant line of lies. A chain reaction – one lie equals two lies, equals four.
I don't see him. As soon as the class ends, I rush to Jocelyn's. I look at my phone and there are three missed calls.
I'll tell him that I didn't hear if he happens to ask. I'll tell that my phone ran out of battery. I'll tell that I couldn't find it, because it was on mute.
He'll believe me.
And that's what makes it even harder. It's easy for him to believe me, because he trusts me.
Part of me wants him to fight back.
The thing about glass is that it breaks. If it's a mirror, then you'll have seven years of unhappiness. When it's just glass, pieces of it, it supposedly brings you luck.
It's not the same for one's heart. If it breaks, it breaks. You need to let it break. You'll only wound your hands if you try to hold the pieces together. It slices the skin, it leaves scars. Let it break.
I will break.
That night I am drunk. It starts in the evening with me and Jocelyn listening to music and her opening a wine bottle, me refusing to have glass and ending up having drunk it all. Or what was left of it.
She telling me that it's going to be okay, that I am a good friend, that lovers will find their way back to each other, that even though she hates it, she still loves Lorcan.
And I forget when we switched topics, I forget when she mentioned Lorcan the first time. Suddenly, she's talking about him, and I am drifting off to somewhere.
It might be a land where they use fairy dust to cover the lies and the hurt, and dance along the tunes that elves play; it might be a land where every person is a clown – face painted white with a red happy smile; it might be a land that is black and white, where you can see borders, where you can run your finger along the line and you can clearly see where the bad is, where the good lies (get it? the good lies)
Even the good people lie. Even the bad tell the truth. Even the jokers say thing they sincerely mean, but people usually brush it off.
'I'm shy' – translate that into feelings and you get 'My mind is over thinking everything, and if I take that step I might fall and break my leg, I might start to fall and grab someone's shirt and they might fall instead of me. I might hurt someone, and I'm scared of hurting myself. But what if I think that's (love) what I want? What if I don't? And I take that step, and the other person will fall for me, and by then I might have decided to give up and move on. It's my entire fault then."
No, I don't want to fall in love.
But I have.
What if I don't stop? What if I do?
I wake up in the middle of the night. Jocelyn is sleeping next to me, curled up on the floor, while I am resting against the wall, the empty wine bottle in my hand, surprised it hasn't fallen from my fingers, surprised it hasn't broken like glass tends to, like hearts tend to.
I would let it fall. If it wants to, I would.
Instead I place it gently on the floor, far from Jocelyn's reach, so that even when she stretches, she won't knock it over. I rub my eyes and look at the clock. But my vision is blurry, I am sleepy, I need pillows under my side and under my head to support my brain that is heavy with dreams, to support my ribs because they're filled with fragments of my heart that broke when I walked away from Anton.
He might not know it yet, but he will soon enough that we aren't together anymore.
I shouldn't just play a game. I should tell him face to face. I don't know how. It feels like betraying myself. Every act I can think of is egoistic – telling or not telling him. I will lose anyways.
It is funny how time goes by when you are feeling sad. It's not quite moving slowly, yet when you look back, you don't understand what happened. Time has vanished, as if your fairy godmother got Alzheimer's and forgot how to say the spell, so she said it wrong, and made the chances disappear.
What were the chances? I could have recovered. (Yes, I know. You can't recover from a break-up that quickly, doesn't mean that I hoped I would.)
"What do you mean?" he asks, worry in his eyes and if I am not hallucinating, then his hands are shaking. He's clutching the strap of his backpack that is slung over one shoulder.
I'm so nervous, and defeated. There is nothing I can do to ease the pain. I hold the knife in this situation; I hold the ropes that are around his throat and mine. I am suffocating both of us, there isn't any oxygen left. I feel like drowning. I feel like I am hanging upside down from a tree, and the water has reached the branches, including the one that is holding me. And I have been punched in the stomach, so I can't lift myself up and save me. And Anton is stuck in the sea of tears, his legs tied to the weights that have dropped at the bottom. He's reaching for me, and I'm stretching myself towards him, but he can't see me trying.
"I mean it's over," I say as confidently as I can. I have to be cruel. He won't believe otherwise. Or maybe I have been distant enough that he will, without a doubt. Maybe words are unnecessary and he already felt me distancing myself from him. I should have left a note. But then he would have demanded answers...maybe. Maybe he wouldn't even have looked at me ever again.
"But wh- why?" he stutters, biting down on his lower lip. It's like a tiny electric shock I am giving him. It keeps him awake, alert. Maybe giving a reason for the adrenaline to pump through his arteries will force him to run from me. Maybe his survival instincts will kick in and he'll leave before I say anything else. Isn't it natural to avoid pain? Why do we keep standing still despite this?
I want to close my eyes to gather this last strength and brutality I have in me. I have to think of something horrible, that will make me angry in order to say the next words. I am like a snake spreading its venom through the bites. I am like a beast tearing the skin of a human, a victim, enjoying the sight, only getting stronger. And if I'm not, I have to quickly learn how to be.
"I don't love you."
I wake up terrified that night. I was screaming in my dream. It's a paradox – how can your mind scream in a dream, when in reality you are completely quiet? Can you draw a parallel for when you have to lie – that you know the truth, but are saying something that is the opposite?
I am clutching the sheets, my forehead sweaty.
I saw him walking away, crying. I saw the consequences of what I had done.
How can anyone be satisfied with all the destruction they have caused, all the pain and the hurt and the loss and the crushing of someone's happiness? It's awful. I'm wretched.
The next night isn't any better. I have to leave my bedroom and make myself some sugar water to calm my nerves. Thankfully I don't wake up Jocelyn.
It used to be that she couldn't sleep either, now she gets at least some peace of mind. But I think she takes sleeping pills. Some mornings her eyes are hollowed, with dark circles around. Even though she likes me to think she's sleeping okay, she still sees things that make her scared.
I gulp down a glass of the sweet liquid. It creates a false reality that I am okay. But it is too sweet. Lying to yourself is too sweet and you begin to question it.
The upcoming weekend is Piper's birthday. I won't be seeing her.
I wonder what he'll say as an excuse. Will he say I was feeling sick and couldn't come but I send my best wishes and hope she's having an amazing day? Will he hug her for me? Will he even mention me?
On Saturday morning I jerk awake. It's like they sung Piper awake and by doing this, I also woke up.
I find Jocelyn at the kitchen island, drinking her coffee and staring outside the window. It's snowing.
"Morning," I say to her and have a glass of warm water. I am not feeling hungry. I don't want to eat. The thought of food makes my stomach turn.
"It is a fine one, indeed," she replies, not taking her eyes off the sight. "Makes me wish for a loving family." She says it quietly. The melancholy of the moment erases the illusion of peace. It sparks a war.
Every family is broken. But that doesn't mean that there isn't love.
So is love war? How cliché.
"I'll make you waffles," I change the subject, or make it more specific. My mom used to make waffles when I was younger. Lilly loved them. I miss her.
"It's Piper's birthday," she says.
I close my eyes and let out a breath. "I know."
"That's why you're looking for a distraction, isn't it?" she looks at me. "You couldn't sleep, either. I can tell."
I force a smile.
"You don't have to," she says. "Smile when you really mean it."
I smiled during the following week. The professor made a great joke that I can't (of course) remember. Taken out of context, it wouldn't be funny anyways. Appreciate knowing that it was worth sitting in class for forty minutes in silence with my mind racing, travelling on roads that lead to self pity. Of course I snapped out of it, and right then the professor made the joke. I smiled. I didn't quite laugh, though. But that's okay. I will. Someday.
I locked all the alcohol away, and I promised to Jocelyn, and she promised to me, that we wouldn't go down that road.
I managed not to drink for a week.
Then, on Tuesday, Anton held hands with a girl.
I froze in my steps. I was speechless.
They laughed and then he stole a kiss. It was only a peck on her rosy cheek, but that didn't make it any less hurtful.
You broke up with him, I had to remind myself. You deserve it. He deserves it.
They didn't see me. They were too busy being happy and smiling.
I smiled into a bottle.
Right after the classes ended, I rushed to the house. Jocelyn wasn't there yet. With shaky hands I opened the lock on the door of the liquor cabinet. I pulled out a bottle of whisky and drank it, with tears running down my eyes. I sat down on the floor, back against the wall.
Pathetic. And I wanted to feel that way, too.
Self pity, I was full of it.
Now I'm drunk. And I keep telling myself I don't love him. I keep telling myself he doesn't love me. And I keep hating everything. Yes, it's all black and white. I'm bad, he's good. The whisky's bad, but forgetting is good. Feeling numb is good, feeling pain is bad.
Then it all goes black. I think I drop the bottle also. I think it doesn't break. I think I can sleep.
Not even in dreams am I happy. Because even in dreams Anton is with that girls and I realize that I was just a phase. And in a way, he was my phase too. I just don't know what kind exactly.
I'm not over it. I definitely am not.
Ice is a phase of water. Doesn't change the fact that it's still water.
I'm like the water. But right now I want to feel cold.
I want the ice to burn like the flame once did.
Jocelyn takes the bottle away, like I did when she'd fallen asleep.
I am awoken by steps in the kitchen. I straighten my back and, although my vision is blurry, I see Jocelyn, her hands resting on the sink. Her hair is flat, sweaty. She couldn't sleep.
We are both poisoned with love. We are both in love with people who are bad for us, or who we are bad for. Who are we even trying to save, them or ourselves? Because even though she's keeping her distance from Lorcan, she's still a mess, and the same goes for me.
Neither is benefitting from it.
Maybe they are. Lorcan and Anton. Maybe they are feeling fine. Whatever we do in this life, we are hurting ourselves, whether we realize it or not. It's true that I am myself my own worst enemy. Because I wouldn't even expect it from myself.
That's what makes it a brilliant tragedy.