I sighed and flipped the little book shut

I sighed and flipped the little book shut. It had been my custom for the past two or three years, to write before I went to bed each night. I wrote them in a little A5 art book that lived next to my bed; I preferred the thick neat white pages to the big lined ones in most books. I’d just finished an epic romantic saga last night, at least sixty pages long, which was a big thing for me. Usually I didn’t have the patience to stick with the same plot for that long, but I’d stuck it out. Having finished my soon-to-be-number-one-on-bestseller’s-list novel, it left me free to write about anything. Ideas flew through my head, most of them good, too, but I couldn’t write them down. I just wasn’t all there.

I put the little book in the top drawer of my bedside shelf, precariously balancing it on top of my pencils, loose papers and half finished knitting. I wanted to go to sleep but I wasn’t tired, and I didn’t think I would be for a while. I grabbed my pillow – lumpy, old and my favourite – and crawled to the other side of my bed, in the corner of my room. I nestled into my pillow and dragged my blanket up to wrap around me. I wiggled my toes, stiff from cold. My feet were always cold.

A noise down the hall startled me and I jumped, but relaxed when I realized it would only be Dad checking up on me before he went to bed.

A quiet knock at the door – “Can I come in?”

“Sure…”

Dad walked into the room, noting two things. One - my room was a disaster zone, two - it was past my ‘bedtime’ and I was still up.

“Sweetheart, I love you, but this is disgusting. There are socks on the floor, and bags, and papers, and … is that my DVD? Come on, a plate on the floor? I’m serious, you gotta clean this up.” Ugh. I was kind of embarrassed at the mess; I felt a blush tinging my cheeks, but mostly I was irritated. This was my room, that was how I liked it to be.

“Ok, Dad. I’ll take care of this tomorrow night when I get home.”

He nodded, not buying it. We both knew that I wouldn’t. And Dad would probably forget anyway. He was pretty slack as a parent, letting me do my own thing most of the time. Mum was another story. Overprotective to the point where it was painful, strict, constantly asking if I’d done my homework, and if I hadn’t, forcing me to do it while she watched over my shoulder. I often wondered why my parents were together, they were complete opposites. I knew the saying, about opposites attracting, but still…

“Anyways, I’m going to bed now, and you should too. Its getting late”. He honoured me with a feeble attempt at discipline, before shutting the door and going off to bed.

When his footsteps had faded off into silence, I snuggled back into my quilt. Still not tired, I looked around my room, hoping to find something to pass the time. My gaze lingered on the bookcase while I weighed the pros and cons of getting something to read. Cons won out – it was too cold to leave my quilt and I was doubtful of my ability to concentrate on the book, even if it was a good one. I scanned the walls of my room, taking in the multitude of pictures, letters and miscellaneous objects sticky-taped to them. The original bright blue paint could only be seen in a few places and I preferred it that way. I didn’t like big, blank spaces. The crowded, busy, colourful walls felt so much more comfortable, so much more like me. A small smile crept onto my face as a saw the word document pasted above my head: “Christie And The Giant Supercool Unicorn Who Was In Love With Her And Married Her, Even Though Geoff Loved Her Too” It was a story that Christie and I had written when we were young. Twelve, maybe even eleven. I chuckled at the stupidity of it, and how … young… I had been.

My good humour was spoiled by the next thing I saw. A photo, under another pre-teen story by Christie and I. There was me in the picture, short blonde hair spikey and messy with an unfortunate combination of gel and chlorinated water. Next to me was a boy with jet black hair that was actually similar in style to mine at the time of the photo. We both looked much younger; my curves weren’t filled out the way they were now, and his muscles weren’t nearly so well defined. Our faces were softer. We were both smiling. Two happy teenagers at a pool party. It was fun, for the fun of it, and we’d mucked around in the pool for hours and hours.

I felt a throbbing in my chest and I turned away from the photo. I switched off my lamp, rolled on my side and tried not to think. I recited lyrics in my head until I fell asleep, halfway through Deathbed.

I woke in the morning feeling unrested. It had been one of those nights filled with tossing and turning and waking up far too early, again and again, sleep getting more elusive each time. I groaned and stretched, feeling my bones pop. Mum used to hate it when I did that. I allowed myself a small grin. Then reality settled over me, and I assumed a more appropriate attitude.

I checked in the mirror; messy hair, purple shadows under my eyes, melancholy expression. I pulled on some clothes without checking to see if they matched, and headed down to the kitchen for a piece of toast. The chewing was automatic, not really tasting the food, just aware of it sliding, dry and scratchy, down my throat. I thought about school and felt nervous, Scared, even. There were so many things I didn’t want to do. I didn’t want to have to do anything. I didn’t want to stuff everything up.

A glance at the clock told me I was disgustingly late. Well into detention phase by now. “Great” I mumbled to myself. More crap to face. I dumped my backpack in my car and drove to my school. Along the way, my stomach twisted, churned, with anxiety. I pulled the car into the teacher/student parking lot, choosing a space between two teachers to save my car from the other idiots in my grade denting or scratching it. The car was still. I took out the keys, pocketing them, and reached for the door. My hand shook slightly.

You can’t do this. I thought to myself. You pathetic coward, can’t even face him. Is it so hard to just tell him?

I hated myself as I drove out of the parking lot, avoiding everything. Yes, it was so hard.

I drifted down the side streets, not really caring where I was or where I was going. I passed a kindergarten, they were making sandcastles, judging from my brief look in their direction. A library, numerous pretty little houses, a hairdressers, a music shop.

I ended up a ways away from my house, at a small beach. Ordinarily, it was quite crowded, but it was early morning, on a weekday, and in the middle of winter, so I was the only one on the beach. I was glad of that, as my school uniform was likely to be spotted otherwise. I sat on a pile of rocks amongst the sand. I didn’t care about the grit that filled my shoes. I needed to think. Really think. I needed to make a decision. But I didn’t want to actually make the choice. Childishly, I ignored it and hoped it would go away. I watched the waves. They were big today, angry, crashing, foaming and hissing onto the sand. Everything seemed kind of dark. It was then that I noticed the black clouds looming menacingly on the horizon. It was still pretty calm, not too windy, but it would be, soon. The storm would break later that day.

I remained at the beach until midday, when a trickle of visitors headed in my direction for their lunch breaks. I left, not really eager for someone to call my school and inform the principal that I was skipping Higher Level Maths to sit in the sand.

Back in the car, I checked my phone. Twelve missed calls. I deliberated over that for a long moment, and knowing I would regret it, I pressed the button. The first, most recent message played through the tinny speakers.

Very quiet. Then Elliot’s voice. It sounded…different. Raw. It was kind of raspy, and he coughed a few times to clear his throat. It sounded like he was getting over the worst of a bad cold, or maybe he’d been crying.

“Please, Jackie? I have to see you…please?” Another cough, more like a choke, or a sob reverberated through the phone and through my head. I didn’t wait to hear more. I flipped the phone shut and let a wave of guilt wash over me.

Stupid, stupid! Why are you making this so hard? Just tell him what you want, what you think! But what do I want? I think…I think that I don’t…but no! I … I don’t know.

Well that’s not good, the little voice inside my head told me softly. We have to decide. We have to talk to him, now. I fought against my conscience, or whatever the little voice was. I didn’t want a confrontation. He deserves it. You can’t leave him hanging like that. Make a choice, Jackie, and tell him.

I drove to my house because I knew that he would be waiting there. He was.

I parked on the side of the road, behind his car, so that he could get out easily. I walked up to him, slowly. Avoiding his eyes.

“Jackie. I need to know”

I didn’t say anything.

“Jackie, please. I love you. And right now, I need to know if you love me.”

I wanted to say something. To tell him I did know, or I was sorry, or I could fix things. I opened my mouth but the words I couldn’t decide on stuck in my throat. I kept staring at the ground.

“Jackie! Tell me!”

When I didn’t respond, he seemed to get angry. He shook me hard, and I felt my teeth rattle in my skull. I let him because I knew I was wrecking everything. I deserved his anger.

“Can’t you see what this is, what you’re doing to me, Jackie? I give you my heart, everything, and you just - you just – ”

I was shocked when I saw tears rolling down his cheeks. Terrible, sad tears, welling up in his eyes and overflowing down his face. He moaned and I felt worse than I’d ever felt in my life. I was doing this to him.

I dropped to the ground, on my knees, begging, pleading for him to forgive me, for him not to be hurt. I started to shudder and guilty cries slipped from my mouth.

“I’m sorry Elliot! I’m so sorry! I – I – ”

The self loathing was everywhere and my apologies were useless. The sobs racked my body. When they had quieted a little, still there, but silent, I lifted my head, and saw his face above mine. His eyes were red, and wet, like mine. His face was fierce, desperate, loving. And he kissed me then, and I could feel his love and his desperation.

I couldn’t help it. I pulled him closer, pulled myself against his broad, warm chest, and I kissed him back. His arm locked around my face, his hand holding my face to his. His grip was like iron; I wouldn’t have been able to leave, break the kiss, even if I wanted to. And I didn’t want to.

We clung to each other, and he whispered my name and fresh tears sprung to my eyes. My face was wet and salty and his lips tasted like tears.

There was so much feeling in that moment, in that last kiss. Because I knew it was a last kiss. We both did. I gasped for air and we separated, and I looked at him. When I looked at him, I felt safe and warm, and loved, and right at that moment, I felt terrible, torn up for hurting him. I wanted to stay in his arms, because I loved it there. But it was wrong, because I didn’t love him.

He was everything, and he wanted me. I was his everything. But I felt no love for him – had none to give. I felt sadness, grief, caring. I wanted so much to be able to look inside myself and find the love for him that he needed, but I knew I wouldn’t find it. And I knew I had my answer.

His breathing was still ragged, his eyes still wild, but as I kept silent, his breathing slowed, and his eyes dimmed. I closed my own eyes, trying to be anywhere other than where I was. Opening them, I saw Elliot’s eyes were closed. The lids were open, but his eyes, his heart that I could always see in them, they were hidden away. Closed off from me. His expression was guarded, careful.

“Jackie. I love you”

This wasn’t a plea. A statement of fact.

“It was wrong of me to tell you the way I did…before…and I pressured you into telling me what I wanted to hear. I gave you time, I let you avoid me, because I thought you needed to sort yourself out. To realize that you do love me. And…and you don’t love me.”

A pause.

“Do you?”

I took a deep breath, smelling the rain in the air, the storm that would soon break, and tasting his mouth on my own. Then I destroyed him.

“No. I don’t. Not enough. Not for you.”

The inside of him collapsed, in his eyes, I could see it. I’d killed Elliot. Because I was too screwed up tot be able to love the best thing in my life. I couldn’t bear to see the hurt, the love, the pain. I sprinted to my door, head down, tears streaming, and a cry I wasn’t aware of wrenching from my lips.

I slammed the door and slid down against it, until I was curled up on the floor. I wrapped my arms around my knees and cried. I kept replaying his words in my head, and his eyes.

Why? Why couldn’t I love him? I cared about him, a lot, but not enough to love him, really. Not enough to give him my everything. I couldn’t do that. I wanted to, so so badly. I didn’t love Elliot. I destroyed Elliot. And it hurt so much.

I cried while the skies broke open. Rain poured like my tears and thunder echoed my wails. When those tears faded, and the rain was just a soft mist, I crawled to the window and looked out. Elliot was not out there, was not waiting for me. Elliot was gone. I’d chosen that. I sat numbly, in the cold light of winter. I thought about all the stupid things I’d done, the careless things I’d said, and all the times he forgiven it. Because he loved me. I waited for the feeling of alone to come.