So here's a present to let you know I still exist
I hope the next boy that you kiss
has something terribly contagious on his lips
Brand New – Jude Law and a Semester Abroad
He lay sprawled out on a park bench, denim clad legs stretched in front of him. His breath was crystallising in front of his face, the stars above him twinkling down, harmonious, almost mocking the discordant mess of a man that was slumped beneath them.
Victoire had thrown him out after he had finished his fifth bottle of Ogden's finest, Harry had slammed the door in his face, and James had punched him before doing the same.
She had left him a year ago, snuck out of his apartment while he slept, the only proof that she had ever existed a note in the pocket of his jacket and the smell of her perfume still invading the air.
The sudden bite of sadness had faded over the months into a slow burning hatred, what right had she to leave without even a goodbye, without even having the decency to say, "hey, Teddy, I'm leaving."
But that was Lily all over, no consideration for anyone's feelings but her own.
He numbs the anger with bottle after bottle of whatever poison is on hand, every time he remembers something about her, the way she'd smile when he complimented her, the way the leather smell of her jacket was always mingled with smoke and Calvin Klein perfume, every time some memory of her assaults his mind, he turns to his bottle and tries to bury it under alcohol induced numbness.
He watches the dots of planes in the sky idly, wondering absently if maybe she's on one of them somewhere. He knows (although he pretend not to) that tonight she is flying from Tallahassee to New Orleans, and vaguely wishes that maybe her plane would crash, fuselage and wreckage putting an end to his torment.
She'd survive though; she couldn't bear to give him any satisfaction. He knows in the back of his mind that that's not true, that she'd survive because she's a witch, apperate out or something, but he's focused on hate, and so pushes this voice of reason to the recesses of his mind.
He hopes that she tells her new friends about him, about her fool of an ex back in the UK, the one who would do anything for her, and he hopes that they come to hate her as much as he does.
That won't ever happen though, and he knows that really.
If he's honest, it's not the fact that she left him that rankles so badly, but the fact that she's able to go out into the world whilst he's stuck here, in a job he hates with a demanding ex-wife and a three year old.
But the scent of her perfume still permeates the air, so he retains the right to hate her.
He throws out every piece of clothing that reminds him of her, the shirt she slept in every night, the jacket she left her note in, the jeans that she said were her favourite. He wears old sweatpants, grey and misshapen, and grows his hair long enough to cover the scar she left on his neck when she was five.
He spends his days wishing for a hurricane to hit New Orleans, torn between his desire to be rid of the girl that plagues him, and guilt for wishing such a thing. He writes her letter after letter and tears them up, paper shards covering his floor like snow.
If you ever said you miss me then don't say you never lied.
He swears every time that it'll be the last letter he writes to her, after this one, I am done.
Lily, I'm without you.
Lily, I'm nothing without you.
Lily, I'm stronger than you think.
Lily, you're never gonna get it right.
Lily, you're gone. I'm done.
He's laying sprawled out underneath the stars, on that same park bench, three years later, cigarette between his lips, and sees a flash of red hair, green eyes, Lily clinging onto some blonde haired, blue eyes stereotypical all-American guy's arm.
He watches as she laughs, her green eyes sparkling as he makes some corny joke. She goes up on tiptoe, presses a kiss to the corner of his lips, the tip of his nose.
He stubs his cigarette out on the bench, tips his head back and drains the bottle next to him.
That genie owes him one last wish.
He walks right by her; she smiles out an insincere greeting: Teddy, it's been ages! How are you?
He doesn't reply, he just drinks her in, this girl who has haunted him for so long, this girl he hated for so long, the girl he's always loved.
This is Logan, she tells him, holding her hand out so he could admire her ring, platinum with a princess cut diamond, nestled in a bed of emeralds.
It's oh-so-very Lily.
I would've done anything for you, he tells her.
She watches him go, he can feel her eyes on his back, but she makes no attempt to stop him from going. He dumps his bottle in the trash as he leaves the park, turns the corner and slowly makes his way to Vic's front door.
I'm leaving, he tells her, she tells him she's not surprised, that she's been expecting it. She tells him to sort himself out, but not to take too long about it.
I don't want my child to grown up fatherless.
How did you do it, he asks her, I left you and you've never hated me.
She smiles sadly, and pushes the door closed.
He collects up every letter he ever wrote to Lily, and pushes them through her letter box, here's a present to let you know I still exist.
He tells her he hopes that she and Logan are happy together, whist wishing with all his heart that they crash and burn and she knows the all consuming hatred and anger that he has lived with for the past four years.
So tell all the English boys you meet
about the American boy back in the States
the American boy you used to date
who would do anything you say