|You Kill Me
Author: User PM
We are in love, pure and simple, and so intensely, but society has a very different opinion about us being together. Why, a black girl with a white boy? Love and social taboos don't mix well. A romance set in the mid 1900's.Rated: Fiction T - English - Romance/Angst - Words: 1,800 - Reviews: 1 - Favs: 1 - Published: 05-16-12 - Status: Complete - id: 3023186
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
A story about the utter terror love can bring and rejection.
Uneditted-Will be fixed in a few days.
You Kill Me
"What is wrong with you? The way you behaved in there?" He hissed. I flinched and twiddled my thumbs. I could play cute…
"I don't know what you are talking about." I tried to appear innocent. His eyes narrowed.
"What you said to my aunt-my family. I brought you here because you promised you'd behave and-,"
"Control my temper." I finished, a harsh tint to my tone. "I like how you claim to love me, but wouldn't defend me in there." I raised my eyes to meet his defiantly-God it was hard. Looking into his eyes; he creates urges in me I've never felt before. The urge to obey another, the urge to jump through hoops to make him happy, the urge to hold him and never let go-I had to look away before I gave in to the instinct to apologize to him.
"They are my family, Myra. Family. Maybe you don't know anything about respect but I do. Why did you have to do that?" I bit my lip.
"Was that rhetorical or…" He gave a harsh sigh.
"No, no it wasn't; but you can't possibly have a good reason, can you?" He breathed, hands coming up to massage his temples. It occurred to me that he had no right to be angry at me. His aunt had attacked me, attacked us with some insult about the falsehoods of teenage love. I'd been angry, furious really at the subtle jibe she'd sent our way. It was obvious, what she had meant. 'You won't last; he doesn't love you.' A little nagging voice tickled the back of my mind.
Why didn't he defend you two? Does he love you?
I growled at it, defiant at the idea of him ever leaving me. Andrew took it in a different manner.
"What's wrong now? What did I say-do you not like the fact that you make my family hate you, don't you enjoy creating chaos in front of the kids?" The silky sweet sarcasm in his tone made me throw up a little in the back of my throat.
"I don't believe this…" He leaned against the aged brick of his parents' old Victorian house. It was a lovely place really, lovely if you discounted the people who lived inside. They'd never liked me, though Drew always claimed they did. Why would they? A black girl-dating their white bred son? Impossible! Despite the racism in the household, Andrew had insisted from day one that they hated me because of my behavior, that the blame rested entirely on my shoulders. I reached out to him.
"Drew, honey…" His eyes snapped up to meet mine.
"Why does this keep happening?" He sounded angry, stressed, scared-but mostly sad. I couldn't help it. I took him in my arms.
"No." He interrupted, tone solid. He pushed against my shoulders, moving me back an inch from him. Our noses barely brushed. "You go in there, and you behave the way you did, and you acted the way you acted and said what you said now you go, and make me forgive you? You make me feel these fucking emotions for someone who always screws me over?" I winced; Andrew hardly ever curses at me…
"I don't hurt you on pur-,"
"No!" He snapped, shoving me hard enough to send me stumbling. "I'm done-I'm done with this shit. Myra-you play around, you treat my family terribly, one day you are an angel and the next the woman of my dreams. You claim it's because they are racist, or because I'm picky but it isn't. It's because you never act like you give a damn-about anything! It's because you are harsh, and rude, and never let anyone in! Half the time I feel like you don't even want me, and the half of the time when you do want me I certainly don't know what you want from me!" I winced.
"Andrew," I growled, "Calm down."
"No! I won't just shut up and be quiet so you can go on living in this fantasy world where you can say anything you want and nobody will care. You-,"
"Andrew!" I snapped.
"You don't have any respect for anyone's opinions but your own do you?"
"Andrew! Stop it!"
"Fine!" He threw his hands in the air in a manner that I would have classified as childish if I hadn't been so shocked. "Is that what you want? Me to be quiet-to not talk? For nobody to have a say but you? Hm, Myra? Is that it?"
"No!" My hands found their way to my hair and attacked the dark, curly strands with all their strength.
"Then what do you want! I don't even know with you! Tell me!" His hands were thrown out to the universe in a welcome sign. It was sarcastic, false, and rude; I knew it. But I couldn't help the fury boiling up in me. I moved forward and shoved my nose against his, backing him up into the wall.
"You! You fucking kill me-but despite that I want you. Above anything else in the world I want to hold you, and take you, and feel you, and taste you and learn everything there is to know about you! I want to live in a world where we are legitimate-where to everyone who does not feel what we are feeling we are more than just a teenage fling. I want our loved ones to view us as more than puppy love! I want the stress gone! I want the disapproval gone! I want the judgment gone! I want to live in a world where I don't fantasize about going to sleep next to you but in a world where I do. I hate that to be happy I spend my days listlessly wandering-pretending to care about life, pretending I enjoy my friends, struggling through school, and only passably tolerating things I used to adore because they don't live up to you!
"I want my future to come sooner than ever; but only if that future is with you. I see no point in having a future, if my reason for living isn't in it. I hate that I think of you and you take my mind to places it has never gone before. Do you remember that joke Tara made inside-the one about our children? It sounded mocking, she was obviously kidding; so why did it make me feel so nice inside? Why did it seem so right? Why do I feel like the only thing that would make me happier than going to sleep next to you every night would be waking up next to you every morning-"
"Stop!" I froze at the tone of voice he commanded. My words rushed to the forefront of my mind-holy hell what did I just say… "Stop it, Myra. Stop." My arms came up to hug myself in a way I was sure he wasn't planning to. I was a moron. I told him that. I'd just told him what only a select few my goddamn diary knew. I didn't hear his words. I didn't hear him scold me. I zoned out.
I heard the wind whistle through the trees. I heard the birds chirp their goodnights the grassy yard of the White's household. I heard the kids playing out back-they'd be called in soon, the sky is drawing near pitch black. That made me glad, in a sense; their laughter felt mocking now. Their source of joy is so simple; mine is currently glaring at me.
The words came without my permission.
"I'm sorry…" It came out as a hesitant whisper. I stumbled backwards, watching his wide eyes and panting lips with my own.
"Myra…" I shook my head and took another step back; shell –shocked by my own stupidity. My own feet seemed to be tripping up as I gazed into those gorgeous brown eyes; so deep, so expressive. Those were the eyes I imagined my children would have, the eyes I'd die to wake up next to in bed. I back peddled and managed to tear my eyes from his gaze.
I shot off across the frosty lawn like a bat out of hell, as if I were running from a creature from my nightmares instead of the man of my dreams. Despite the pain in my legs as I sprinted in a way I'd never done before I strained my ears to hear another set of footsteps fall behind me. I sent prayers to gods I'd never once considered before that his arms would wind around me, pull me into him, apologize. But he didn't. I ran, and ran, and ran until my legs gave out under me and on the dirty concrete in an area of town I'd never been before I laid, waiting as if he'd ever consider coming to look for me.
Tears cascaded like salty rivers down my flushed, pink cheeks. I'd left him, he hadn't chased me, hadn't hunted me down and told me he loved me, hadn't taken me in his arms and kissed the air from my lungs. The bitter bite of rejection stung deep, but even deeper laid a self-resentment that grew stronger with each second it had burned. A resentment that scolded me for ever stepping foot away from the man I loved, hated me for not making him love me too, and would haunt me until the day I died with the idea that what Andrew said may well be true. Maybe I was a waste. Maybe I was selfish and harsh and unlovable. Maybe that was why I ran away.
Or maybe it was fear of my own emotions, a worry that he'd reject the words I'd said, that he'd oh-so-carelessly crush the very fragile little heart I'd placed in his possession. My gut screamed that he would have, but my brain told me the fear was illogical. Instinct wanted me to run back to him, jump in his arms and plead to be loved, but fear is powerful. And love is terrifying. And terror is crippling.
There is no demon in hell more ferocious, dangerous, horrifying and soul-wrenching than love.