Beta'd by the ever-lovely summersetlights, go read her stuff. Enjoy!
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There are 86,400 seconds in a day.
Over 25,000 of them have already passed by the time you wake up, facing Toronto and morning and the light paneling across your bed in uniformed boxes.
Wiping the crusty remains of dreams from your eyes, you notice the day, notice you're out of clean clothing, notice the rancid aftertaste stuck in your mouth from the beer you had with Jake last night.
You're loosing yourself, you think, cringing as eyes dart to your alarm clock. Notice the red numbers; the blinking duo of crimson dots. Your inability to focus in the early morning makes everything blend together, a scarlet smeared blur. (BlinkBlinkBlink)
Silly you, you notice everything. The writer. (Observer)
300 seconds have gone by.
.
It's cold this morning. Despite the label of Spring, you still have to cuddle yourself inside of your coat.
As you shiver, you notice a little girl. She's wrapped in scarves of every color, and she's gazing up at her mother, the hand of whom she is holding. Her eyes are bright and beaming, shining with unspoken praise.
Mommyyou'remymommyyou'remyheromommyIlovemommy.
Your breath catches. You used to look like that, didn't you? You used to think of your mother like a goddess. The bane of your existence.
Time passes. Bus rumbles, crashes, moans, grumbles to a stop, as unwilling to start the day as you are.
Clare Diane Edwards, it's 8:00 AM. You've spent 540 seconds today already on self-pity; 540 irreversible, irreplaceable seconds.
And it's only 8:00 AM.
You board the bus.
.
Of the 86,400 precious, fleeting seconds in your day, you only dread approximately 5,400 of them.
First period. 8:00 AM – 10:00 AM. Eleventh Grade English. Each step towards the classroom makes you feel like you're sinking. You dread it like you dread nothing else.
It's ironic, right? You were so excited for this class. Proud to have gotten in. Excited to get a chance to show your talent. Thrilled to have a class with your boyfriend. It was great, right?
Wrong.
You hate English now. You hate writing. Pressing your fingers to the keys make you feel sick. Pencils are atrocious. Words make you nauseous. In a half-assed attempt to create something for yourself, you've joined newspaper.
Newspaper is fancy talk for writing as informally, unemotionally as possible.
Journalists have no soul. It's all observing, third person, un-biased, watch out for libel. And you've voluntarily chosen this path.
Why? Because you hate writing, hate it now. It reminds you of him.
.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
In front of you, he taps his pencil. You tense as his pencil coincides with the seconds wasted, passing while you're stuck here.
You're getting older, every moment you're growing up. And how are you spending it? In English class, getting preached at by an ex-hippy as the boy you're in love with demonstrates acutely just how pathetic you are.
The boy you're in love with.
The two of you spent three months together. Ninety days. 77,760,000 seconds, not that you're counting. Just thinking about those three months brings a flush to your cheeks. There are too many variables, too many problems for the two of you to create a standard, easy equation, but god, you wish there weren't. You wish he could be your one.
You wonder if he is.
Around you, people are moving. He turns to face you, and you swear to god you can't breathe. Heart hammering, you avoid his green eyes.
"Guess a break up doesn't constitute for a real reason to switch English partners, huh?" His voice is sarcastic, rough, untouched by emotion.
You nod, avoiding his green eyes further.
If you'd just looked, you'd see that his eyes are as sad as yours.
.
When you get home, your mom is gone. A note on the fridge reveals that, surprise, she's off on another date with her prince charming, Mr. Martin.
You roll your eyes. You can't help how acidic you are these days, but all it seems to you is that your mom's a floozy. On principle, you should go to hell for thinking that.
But who cares about principles nowadays?
The beer taunts you from the counter, and you wonder if your mom would notice if one, just one, disappeared.
It seems that more and more lately you find yourself fighting with your morals. Rolling your eyes at your foolishness, you bite your lip and quickly grab one, pulling it out of the cardboard it comes in.
Your mom's on a date. Jake's working tonight.
You've got to have fun sometime, right?
.
You drink until you fall into a drunken slumber. Adele's voice is heavy and lulling and it travels with you between dreams and through a fitful sleep.
You sleep for 7 hours. 23,800 seconds.
.
You wake up too late, too early. It's two in the morning and, shocker, your mom's not home. You're lounged on a bean bag in your room and you find yourself thankful that you woke when you did, noticing the mostly-finished bottle that you didn't get a chance to dispose of.
Flipping open your cell phone, there's 2 unread messages and one voicemail. Idly, you plow through them. One from Alli, expressing that she misses you. (Yeah, right.) One from Jake, asking for you to call him. Rolling eyes, you go on. There's a voicemail from Jake, and so you listen to it.
"Hey, Clare-bear." You hate that nickname. "I know we said we were casual… So. I just thought you should know, I went on a date tonight." She freezes. "I like her, and, you know. It's been great, really swell, but I don't think this should continue." There's a pause and she can hear a high-pitched giggle, definitely not Jake. "Take care, okay?"
He hangs up. Click. A coward.
You doesn't know what to do now, but you realize you've been dumped, so you do what you're supposed to do. You follow the rules. And you cry.
Only it's not so much Jake that's upsetting you. Right now, you just want to rewind.
Usually, Clare, you keep your head up.
Usually, Clare, you're not so lost.
What's wrong with you?
.
School passes in a blur. You can't keep track of the seconds you let slip by, they seem to pass in a smear of waste. Wasted, wasted, wasted.
Alli pretends to be worried, threatening to sue Jake. You don't bother explaining, It's not Jake, it's my mom and my dad and it's E-.
There's no use, she wouldn't listen anyway.
You don't even react in English class, those dreaded 5,400 seconds of agony. He sits in front of you, and when time comes to work together, you don't react. You don't flinch. You look him straight in the eyes and he narrows his, eyes searching your face for traces of emotion.
"No offense, but you look horrible."
You grit your teeth but don't say a word, averting your eyes to the clock and watching the seconds steadily tick by.
"You okay, blue eyes?"
Not even the nickname can weaken your anger. You throw down your books.
You run out of class.
What right has he to care?
.
Slamming the door doesn't do much, but it makes you feel better. The feeling of destruction is what you want right now. Who cares if you left school early? Who cares if you're loosing who you are? This is raw emotion. This is slamming and pushing and crying because, fuck! There's nothing in your life that isn't crazy or unreal or wrong right now.
You consider stealing another beer but decide against it, knowing your mom would notice. Beside, dulling emotion is the last thing you want right now. You want to feel, you want to feel the seven deadly vices rushing over you and you want to feel the emotions coursing through you.
You've numbed all your life. You're always dull.
The first step to resurrection is destruction.
The empire of Clare Edwards is collapsing.
You count the seconds pass by. You're going to be okay.
.
He calls later, too late. You hesitate but answer, feeling remarkably saner than you did that afternoon. Finally, you flip open your phone.
"You walked out." He says, sounding confused and maybe shocked.
"Yes." You say simply, not making excuses.
"I didn't mean to offend you, Clare. I'm just." He sighed, and she could hear the sorrow in his heart from here. "I'm worried about you, okay? I know we're broken up and you dumped me, but I worry. You've lost your… Spark."
"I know." Your teeth grab your lip, gnawing. "I think I know how to get it back."
There's silence, and in that moment, you realize how stupid this all is. You and him, playing games. Pretending like the only thing between you two is a reservoir of nice memories and wasted chances, it's stupid. There's only 86,400 seconds in a day. You're wasting them, being apart.
"How?"
You open your mouth. Impulse.
"Can I see you?"
"Now?"
"No time like the present."
He doesn't sound surprised, you realize, but he agrees. And you plan to meet in the ruins you both used to visit during "urban exploration".
You grab your coat. It's late, but for you, the day is just finally, starting.
.
"Soo."
"So."
"You invited me here. Why?"
"…"
"Stop being such a Claredy cat. Just talk to me, okay?"
"I broke up with you."
He was silent.
"But nothing's right."
"Were things right when we were together?"
"Maybe. Yes. No."
"Make up your mind."
"I think they could be."
"Could? As in… Present tense?"
"I don't know, I don't know anything right now, Eli. But I know I want you. I know I need you, to some extent."
"You've changed."
"I've grown up.
"Time does that to you."
"Believe me, I know."
They stood in silence, and he moved closer.
"I got help. I'm on meds now."
You nod. You know.
"You've grown up too."
The seconds tick by, you're getting old together, already.
.
His lips are getting closer, so close, and you can't help how your heart beats almost painfully against your ribcage. Suddenly every agonized second, every wasted hour doesn't seem so frivolous anymore; because they've lead you to this second, this second now where Elijah Goldsworthy presses his lips against yours and you taste sunlight.
You pull away and there's light on both of your lips, and it's the color of sunflowers and it's gentle and soft and it's not something you could wipe away. (Not that you'd want to.)
You exhale. "Did you know there's 86,400 seconds in a day?"
His eyebrow is raised, perplexed, but doesn't say anything.
"An eighty year old will see more than 2.5 billion seconds, on average, in a lifetime." You breathe together. In. Out.
"I want to spend them with you."
He doesn't say anything, but you know his lips are curled into a smile as he pulls you closer.
Maybe it's his lips or the smell of sunrise, but for the first time in your life you realize that you're not feeling your life passing by. The ticking seconds taste, finally, sweet and savored, melting on the tip of your tongue.
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Note: If you survived that novel, I'm thankful. Excuse the OOC-ness of Clare, but uh. Review cos you're stunning?