I was never really good at getting things right.
That was the first thing I saw on her paper, the words the introduced me to her controlling and all-encompassing soul. It's fictional, she said. It's not even about me.
When is it ever?
But still, I read on. I read about how she hated herself, hated what she had become. I read about her perfect sister, her strung out brother. Her mother, too nice, and her father, too mean. She was alone, she wrote.
The story outlined that abusive relationship that she got involved in, the way her eyes became permanently shifty. I would have never known about that tiny scar on her kneecap had I not read about the time he took a stab at her, and I also would have never known about those stitches she wore on her heart, always threatening to burst with the strain of keeping herself together.
I wouldn't have known about her intense love for music, though she was never any good at it. The Beatles, she told me, were gods. She worshipped their every song. I couldn't picture her as one of their screaming fans in the sixties, but she told me she would have been. She should have lived then, she mused.
I stopped at page one hundred and sixty four, because that was the first page where a name—a VERY familiar name—was mentioned. I couldn't do it. I couldn't cheat myself, looking into her complex mind without her consent. Hell, I barely even knew her.
I tried to picture her long, pale fingers moving across a keyboard, typing out her story. I honestly tried. However, every time her face came into my mind, I saw her holding my hand, walking down the street and laughing. I saw her face turning blank after something particularly horrible happened. I saw her eyes—bright, bright green—and her long blonde hair.
If I would have looked on page two hundred and seven, I would have saw that she loved Harry Potter and Star Wars just as much as I did, only she thought it was more feminine of her to moan and complain every time I made her watch those things. If my hands would have taken me just a page further—two hundred and eight—I would have learned that she loved my dog more than she loved herself. But I never knew these things.
She didn't like her name. Why didn't I know that? All those times we discussed names and those things, why hadn't she told me? Because I thought people would tell me it was beautiful, she wrote solemnly. I noticed that page was filled with a lot of dot, dot, dots.
Always the impatient one, I filled to the back of the book, to the very last page. I didn't think the story would make sense to me, seeing as I had skipped about fifty pages. But God, it had.
How did she know me so well?
It was funny, but I knew that this would happen. I constantly felt it, even in the best of times. It was dishonorable, she wrote in that last paragraph. I was being a coward. But then again, I've never been brave like you, have I?
Hands shaking, heart pounding nearly out of my chest, I finished that book…her book. The one I never knew she had been writing.
I've never been good at getting things right.
I guess I don't have to worry about that anymore, huh?