ENTRY #86 - AH
Truly Anonymous Twilight O/S PP Contest
Pen Name(s):
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Title: Seven Years
Picture Prompt Number: 19
Pairing: ExB
Rating: T
Word Count (minus A/N and Header): 2342
Summary (250 characters or less, including spaces and punctuation): Edward and Bella, 2005 through 2011.
Warnings and Disclaimer: None
x
The year is 2005
And I am thirteen years old
And I stand in front of the mirror
And I stare at my naked body
And I wonder why I'm not keeping up
And I wonder why I'm so defective
And I wish I could pull apart myself
The hair
The clothes
The teeth
The eyes
Make them longer and better and whiter and bigger and
I hear his guitar the first time that year
Outside of the middle school
In the back
Where all of the druggies come out
Druggies: cigarettes, sporadic weed
He's the only one not in class
He's the one who required a learning aid
He's the one who got caught having sex in the bathroom
He's the one who doesn't speak
Not to me
Not to anyone
I sit by his side
He doesn't even look up
Doesn't even notice
(Doesn't even care)
I rest my head on my knees
And listen.
The year is 2006
And I am fourteen years old
And I stand in a sea of people
Crossing my fingers
Clutching my books to my nonexistent chest
And try not to get run over
I am one of the masses
Not just because we all wear the same uniform
But because we all have the same parents
Tall
Wealthy
Cold
I am wearing designer perfume that Mom gave to me
It smells like flowers
Mixed with acid
No one notices
(No one cares)
I have three friends
Which are indiscriminate from each other
They are not worth my time to describe
I am not worth my time to describe
He is in my English class
Freshman English
All of the good kids are in honors, you know
They look down on us, you know
The main track kids, you know
Whose parents aren't quite smart enough
Whose parents aren't quite rich enough
Whose kids aren't quite good enough
To be on the Ivy League track
He sits in the back
Feet crossed
Resting on the wooden desk
Pen behind one ear
Pencil behind the other
During roll call, he raises his hand
Edward Cullen
Which I knew
Which I've always known
Which I always will
On the first day, the teacher asks him a question
Something along the lines of
"Have you read To Kill a Mockingbird?"
I don't know
It's really irrelevant
He stares back
Eyes ringed with red
Straight to the pupil
A curious gold, mixed with a curious green
"Um," coughs a girl
Blonde hair, blue eyes, pink lips, you know
"He doesn't talk"
The teacher blushes
Turns away
Edward leaves the room
And never comes back.
The year is 2007
And I am fifteen years old
And I have never been to a party
Or snuck out of the house
Or played hooky
Or lied to my parents
Or didn't do my homework
I have numerous acquaintances now
And we share history homework, English homework, what have you
It's December
When the snow is just beginning to fall
In light little flurries
That he comes back to class
He is taller
Lankier
Eyes sunken deep into his face
Baby fat gone
Hair thinner
Ears larger
Knuckles red, red raw
He brushes past me
Into creative writing
The class I'm taking to make me look
You know
"Well-rounded"
He sits in the back, again
He smells sweet, smoky
Marijuana
A smell I don't yet recognize
He's right next to me
And it's like I can feel it
The body heat, I mean
Waves and waves and waves of it
Rolling over to me
Undulating
I can feel the tension in every breath
The way his eyes flicker to the window, to the teacher, to my face(?)
My fingers clench against my pencil
His fingers clench against his pencil
I avert my eyes
He averts his eyes
I take out my notebook
He takes out his notebook
A moleskine
The cover etched in silver colored pencil
Patterns and colors and circles and shapes
The edges frayed and raw
The paper, thin
He turns to an open page
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch
Hastily, he scribbles something
Then passes the notebook over
Circled,
In the top right corner
Reads:
I notice you.
The year is 2008
And I am sixteen years old
He likes to write to me
Sometimes short little blurbs
Sometimes long, rambling essays about existentialism and college and parents and the way his bare feet feel underneath warm sheets
He refuses to play for me, though
He writes:
I remember that time in middle school, you know. I let you listen because I knew you would feel it. But now, you'd only listen to listen. And that's not good enough. Not for me.
I try to tell him
That's not fair
I try to convince him
To at least let me try
To feel sad enough
To feel something enough
To be affected by his music
One time
On a late spring day
When the birds are just beginning to surface
And the puddles of water are slowly but surely evaporating from the sidewalk
I come to his house unexpectedly
Attempting a surprise
After all, he's leaving for the summer
Spending it with his aunt and uncle in Alaska
Working with the fisheries
Canning or cleaning or I don't know
He writes:
It's just to make money. But I'll miss you, of course. But I'll be back soon, of course. But I'll write, of course.
Which is all very underwhelming
For I've never even felt the skin of his lips
Of his bare stomach
Of his elbows and cheeks and scalp
Two days before he is to leave
I show up
His parents are gone
His door unlocked
I'm walking up the carpeted stairs
Hand trailing the banister
When I hear the gentle sounds of an acoustic guitar
Strumming and strumming and strumming
I hold my breath
Hand to my chest
Eyes clenched shut
Back pressed against the wall
I don't know how long I hover there
Inching closer and closer to his closed bedroom door
Without realizing
I step on a creaky board
And the music stops abruptly
He opens his mouth
So angry
His face red
The vein in his forehead, pulsating
But there is no noise
His hands
Shaking
Pick up the guitar
Beautiful, worn wood
Pristine strings
And his calloused fingers
Throw it down the stairs
There's a thundering crash as the instrument breaks against the hardwood floor
A boisterous groan of strings
He points
Points, points, points
Get out
It is rolling off him in waves
Get out get out get out
He isn't back soon
And he doesn't write.
The year is 2009
And I am seventeen years old
My mom calls it teenage angst
I call it clinical depression
But really it's teenage angst
I've shut off all of my acquaintances
Because I hate them
And I don't care
I do my homework and I put on my uniform and I pretend that every day is the very last day of my life
Yet I still don't care
Edward's house remains empty
His family's abrupt move to Chicago remains a mystery in this small town
But there's something in the pit of my stomach
Itching and gnawing and aching and moaning
That tells me it has something
At least a little
To do with me
My eyes burn as I stare at the biology lab
The words too small
My head too full
I'm just about to fall asleep
Head drooping lazily over the textbook
When I hear three sharp raps at the front door
The clock reads 1:45AM
Outside
On the porch shielded entirely from the rain
Stands Mike Newton
A boy I've known
Casually
For longer than I'd've liked to know him
Casually
He asks me to Prom
Which I've already planned on not going to
But I kind of like the way it feels
To talk
And to have someone
Say something in return
I don a blue dress
Which really does nothing for my complexion
And flattens my boobs in a boyish way
Still, he tells me I'm beautiful
Because he's obligated and my dad has a shot gun
We go in a group with people I dislike
In a limo with people I dislike
To Benihana with people I dislike
To the school gym with people I dislike
But we go back alone
After the night winds down
And the rain begins to pour
And the thick, ominous clouds cover up the moon
He walks me to my door
And I feel like I've popped straight out of a young adult novel
Where he kisses me on the lips
Politely, of course
And wishes me a good night
Instead,
He presses me against the front door
Hand up the back of my dress
My hands braced on his neck
Ravaging
In a way I didn't know he was capable of
My lips fumble in their virginity
But so do his
Sucking and pulling and haphazard tongue and clanking teeth
He pulls away abruptly
And the door swings open
My dad and his shotgun
Perched at his hips
"Tomorrow, Bella"
He says
Aloud
But a part of me
Deep down
Wishes it were written in the gentle, lilting handwriting
Of a boy with his notebook.
The year is 2010
I am eighteen years old
And the disappointment of my senior class
"A state school," they laugh
Barely hiding their disgust
As I announce the University of Washington
With their public funding and their public tuition
Even the principal
When reading my plans at graduation
Can barely hide his judgment
I guess I'm just another statistic
Bringing down his Ivy League average
Mike and I break up
He's off to Princeton or Harvard or Cornell or Dartmouth
They sound the same to me
After all
Long distance relationships are hard
And
To be honest
Way too much effort
He leaves before I do
As most everyone else does
Their school starting in early- to mid-August
While mine lingers late
The first class of my freshman year arriving early October
My public school
With its public funding and public tuition
Places me in a class with 749 other kids
All staring at a decrepit professor
Attempting to teach remedial psychology
To pre-med students needing a language credit
I doodle in the back balcony
Where we nap and play games on our phones
Still, I connect with no one
And begin to realize, maybe they're not the problem
Maybe I'm the problem
My head is gone
Away, somewhere
Filled with fog
Brimming
Overflowing
I nearly flunk out my first quarter
And when I hear the guitar playing in quad
Just one week into the second term
I think nothing of it
Until I see him
With that same god damn beanie
Pulled over all of his hair
A gaggle of coeds surrounding him
Laying on their stomachs
Faces in their hands
Calmly listening
(Listening!)
To his music
My hands ball into fists
Wanting to do nothing more than run over
And slap him in the face
Twice
Instead, I refrain
I calmly walk over
Hands in my pockets
He doesn't look up for at least an hour
Completely focused on the guitar
Students come and go
Listen and leave
Finally
At the end of a long, minor chord
He puts the guitar down
The rest of the stragglers trickle away
Except me
I stand with my arms crossed
He looks up
His mouth opens
Closes
Opens
Closes
Nothing.
The year is 2011
I am nineteen years old
Every day, the notes are pushed beneath my door
My roommate things I'm being stalked by a psychopath
Sometimes, I think so too
I ignore them
As he ignored me
For two years
Like I was nothing to him
Like I didn't even matter
Like he didn't even care
I don't read them
However
I do rip them
Shred them up in my fists
Claw through with my nails
Briefly, I consider buying a paper shredder
But decide I get much more satisfaction
Through tearing the paper by hand
One morning
As I hastily exit the dorm
Late for my 8:30
I trip over his body
Sleeping outside my door
"What the hell!" I yell
He blinks up at me
I stare down at him
A student passes us, writing a text on his phone, completely oblivious
He stands, brushing off his pants and taking out his notepad
"Jesus," I curse
He grabs my arm
I wrench it free
He hands me a paper
I don't take it
He follows me into the elevator
I don't look at him
He throws the paper on the ground
I don't pick it up
He tries to hand me a new one
I don't take it
He closes his notebook
I exit the elevator
He doesn't follow
Thirty minutes into the class
I reach into the pocket of my jacket
Searching for my cell phone
Instead, I find a crumpled piece of paper
With the words:
Quad at 9. I'll return the phone.
"Fuck," I curse (loudly)
No one cares
The quad is beautiful in the spring
With the setting sun
And the blossoming trees
And the crisp green grass
And the red, red brick
He sits on the steps leading to the art and music halls
His guitar in its case
Perched against the railing
He stands when I arrive
Though makes no other move
"Cell phone," I demand
With an outstretched hand
He holds up one finger
Wait
Quickly, he takes out his guitar
And holds out his hand
Come with me
And against my better judgment
I do
I've never been to this part of campus before
With the tree-lined path
And the strange, tall columns
And the overgrown grass
He sits on the bench
Pulls me down next to him
And rests the guitar on his lap
He takes out a piece of paper from his pocket
And hands it to me
Just for you, it says
I'm sorry, it says
Forgive me, it says
I was wrong, it says
Give me one more try, it says
And then he begins to play
Just for me.