Tragedy
A Craig Manning and Emma Nelson story.
Disclaimer: I do not own Degrassi: The Next Generations or related programs or products. CTV, The-N and Epitome Pictures do, however.
My heart is yours to fill or burst;
To break or bury - or wear as jewelry;
Whichever you prefer.
It was strange; she'd never looked so sad in the entirety that you've known her. You glanced at her as she paced slowly and uncertainly down the crowded corridors of the prison known as high school, and observed as her head tilted downward, allowing bits of her blond tendrils to fall across the fair skin of her countenance; it had to have been the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen. Emma Nelson, you noted, was the most tragic beauty in the entire universe - and you had to taste her, have her, save her. It became your duty, at that very moment; she became a sort of project in your hazel eyes; she'd become some sort of prayer to a higher being, a confession, a birthday-candle wish, a bedtime-story . . . Emma Nelson had suddenly - and most intrusively - become everything.
You followed her to her next class and realized that she'd been heading toward the basement of the school building, her arms folded across her stomach, as though she felt immensely sick - and you knew something was going to take place. And you knew it was going to be a tragic moment; tragic, though not at all beautiful. But you followed her nevertheless - not too closely, however; you felt the need to remain hidden and anonymous. But as she ambled awkwardly down the metallic staircase, the haunting silence of the moment encompassed you like a fatal deafness. Your eyes blinked in curiosity as she stepped through the basement door to the boiling room, and you caught the quickly-closing door with your fingers before it had clicked shut. (You wondered if Emma had noticed, though she made no sign of it.)
You gulped and thought you'd done so too loudly, but then realized it must have been impossible for her to hear something such as that; but then again, Emma Nelson never ceased to amaze you. You watched as she pulled a clear plastic bag from the inside of her shoulder-pack, its contents not visible from the angle in which you stood. But as she pulled a small metal object out of the pack just seconds later and poured the contents of the plastic bag on to a book she had lain on the floor, your mouth dropped open and you fought against a gasp. She lined the white powder so perfectly, and you almost moved to stop her - almost. And as she leaned close to the mysterious contents, you realized - Emma Nelson was snorting cocaine.
She seemed so weak, then; and you'd always perceived Emma to be a strong, sensible female. But, truth be told, the moment the rumors of a relationship with Jay Hogart had surfaced, you knew something had changed - snapped - inside of the girl who used to stand on your toes as you danced together. And it was terrible - terrible that you hadn't stopped her, hadn't at least done something. Maybe if you had called out to her as she first opened the door - but you didn't. And you felt as though the blame rested solely on your shoulders. Though in reality, you knew that you hadn't purchased the drug, nor had you forced her or told in any way that cocaine would alter her tragic lifestyle; because, in actual reality, it was only further damaging it, whilst suffocating it with a thousand more consequences than one curable STD.
A minute later - though it seemed like it had been an eternity - Emma peered up from the textbook and glanced at you strangely, as though she wasn't sure you were truly present. But as you smiled sadly and held out your arm for her to grasp your hand, you saw a lone tear course down the slight redness of her cheek. You wanted to ask her who provided her with the drug; who on earth would have given it to someone who'd been so promising. Emma Nelson was going to save the world someday . . . but, now, someone had to save her first.
No words needed to be spoken as she lifted herself from the floor and collapsed in to your arms. You held her close and tightly, wrapping your arms securely around her slender frame. (You'd never realized how tall she was until then.) She began to sob in to the crook of your neck, and you felt the need to cry as well, though your mind screamed to remain calm and strong for the girl who had become anything but. She was no longer beautiful, in any case - but tragic could describe her most perfectly. And you wanted shake the tragedy out of her system, because it enveloped her in to an inconceivable darkness that would ultimately claim her life.
"Craig," she said hoarsely, still sobbing in to your shoulder. "I'm so . . . sorry. I'm so sorry. . . ." She continued to repeat this phrase in verbatim as you held her close, rocking her slightly within your arms. You tried to quiet her shaky sobs, though you felt defeated as the wetness continued to drop against your skin. But as she broke down, you realized it was your mission to save this broken soul - in any way you could; and you knew - though you didn't want to accept it - that the only way she could truly be helped is if you intervened in the most horrible of ways. You knew that you had to tell Mr. Simpson - her step-father - and as quickly as possible.
You grasped her by the arms and pushed her away very slightly, observing her features. You wiped away her tears with the beds of your fingers and continued this action until she had stopped crying altogether. And then, you took her by the hand, entwining your fingers together and staring straight in to her eyes, not quite asking for permission, but rather explaining that you'd be betraying her trust in a few moments, whether or not she was ready to accept it. But she nodded and looked away, inhaling sharply and tightening her grip on your hand. A moment later, she led you out the door - and this time around, she knew you were there . . . and she was thankful for it.
The halls were empty, as every student was in class. (You hadn't even realized how long you'd been down there with her.) You walked beside her - hand-in-hand - as she led you toward where her father was, and frowned sympathetically when you realized that he indeed was at the moment teaching a class - a class very full of disrespectful and nosy teenagers. You decided, then, that she would wait outside in the hall by the lockers - and out of sight from any prying eyes - whilst you knocked on the door to the Media Immersions classroom. A tall, lanky, red-headed man greeted you on the other side of the door. "Nice of you to join us, Mr. Manning," he said facetiously. But as he smiled, you fought the urge to tell him then and there.
"Sir," you started slowly, "I need to speak with you . . . outside." Mr. Simpson frowned slightly, his brows furrowing and forehead creased. He asked if whatever it was you needed to speak to him about could wait until after class, and you shook your head, pleading with your eyes for him to follow you out the door. He nodded reluctantly, however, and turned around to tell the student-teacher to watch the class, while he conversed with you outside. And you couldn't help but think how heartbreaking this moment would prove to be.
You turned away from him and walked toward Emma, and as his eyes spotted his daughter's horrifying silhouette, his mouth fell agape and he glanced back and forth between the two of you, silently demanding for answers neither of you could provide. But Emma stalked forward almost effortlessly, falling in to the arms of her bewildered step-father, her arms limp at her sides, while he wrapped his own around her shoulders, listening closely to the sounds of her whimpers and incoherent mumblings. Emma Nelson had become a Shakespearean tragedy - and you wanted desperately to rewrite the ending to her story.
You had wanted to be there; you hadn't spoken to her for six weeks. But you didn't need her to verbalize the intensity of her need for you to be there on such a day. The sun beat warm against your skin and you criticized yourself for wearing a leather jacket, as the grey clouds moved further away and out of sight. And you couldn't help but notice the horrors of the place in which you stood - the white walls desperate for color and the bland environment desperate for excitement. But there was nothing exciting, you thought, about the purpose of this building. The words Rehabilitation Centre echoed within your mind. You wanted to leave and never come back.
But then your vision caught soft blond locks tied in to loose braids and the countenance of a strengthened woman with a few inner nicks and bruises as she appeared beyond the white double-doors. Her mother and father stood by her side, holding her arms as she walked slowly toward you, her eyes never leaving yours. And it wasn't until she rushed in to your arms did you realize how real this moment had become, because until then, you wished and dreamt endlessly that the incident in the boiler room had been a figment of your sick and twisted imagination.
She pulled away only slightly to observe your tired features, and whispered "Thank you," in to your ear. You wondered why and she answered, "You fixed me." You smiled and leaned your forehead against hers, pulling your arms tighter around her waist, as she mimicked your movements by strengthening her hold around your shoulders. And it was then that she leaned forward and pressed her lips to the corner of your mouth, barely grazing your lips as she did so; and you couldn't help but think it was the most wonderful kiss you'd ever had.
Emma Nelson was beautiful all over again.
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