Title: Twangs
Summary: "You can never remove the essence of anything, ever to be or that once was in this world, but you can sure as hell try." She will feel these different twangs forever.
Rating: Um, I guess T?
A/N: I think it falters a tad bit towards the end…
A part of her feels a twang when he looks at her. It is in the subconscious of her subconscious, though, and the conscious of her conscious, immune to the private ears of her mind, is faintly whispering: Here we go. Now wait. Just wait.
The next twang comes when he looks, with his eyes partially glazed over (In what, love or just spur-of-the-moment infatuation?), at her. And she is not jealous. Well, not of him being with her, really, just of the essence of the two at all; just the general fact that they were together was enough to give her twangs.
No, she tells herself. She does not let herself feel the things that the stereotypical girls her age feel. And in truth, she knows that she does not sigh and desire because of a common wanting, nor because of specific, personal envy, but rather due to the fact that she had something that could have been everything he and her friend were sharing, and possibly--though not plausibly--more.
Now she feels twang every time he looks at her, but they are not the same. Of course, the subconscious of her subconscious, the physic, almost divine part of her that she thankfully will never be able to hear clearly, knows all, but that is only the tiniest (and yet perhaps most paramount?) part to a person, and so she glares at him every time he is in view. She cannot believe (well, yes she can) what he did to her friend, and if it were up to her, he would never even be allowed near any girl in the country ever again…
Now she feels twangs every time he looks at her, but they are not the same. The untimely yet well timed departure seemed to push that feeling, that knowing, that thing that was similar to a prediction, forward from the subconscious of her subconscious to just her subconscious, and as the air and the humidity gripped her tighter, and the sun beat down stronger, the feeling began to pulse. The grip was becoming an engulfment, but even when she felt restricted, the last thing she wanted to do was turn around. The last thing she wanted to do was call it quits. She could not, and would not, leave. Everybody else left him, standing in the heat or the cold, alone with his emotions and people that did not even start to fill the hole. As the summer wore on, the feeling seemed to venture out of her subconscious: A-ha! Look at me now!
But then she thought of her tear streaked face, and for one more brief moment that proved to be too late, the tears of her friend were more important to her than his tears were. Still, she felt a twang upon knowing that he had cried in front of her, even if he was abashed.
She tried to say that her twangs of that feeling died down, as much as she did not want to, but just because the twangs of unadulterated though often suppressed anger were more prominent than that feeling for five minutes did not mean that she was, for lack of a better term, over him. That should be the kind of girl she was, she told herself; forgetting about somebody as soon as they found somebody else, because what was the use of pining for something totally unachievable? But what in the world was she supposed to do, say, think, want feel if that feeling had moved? So she lets the twangs of both sentiments wash over her, and throw her back and forth, pushing and pulling, dreaming of the Cinderella moments, the breakup of him and that stupid girl, and the day he comes running for her,and yet, she laughs at herself and then figuratively kicks herself. No, she says in her head again, because she does not and will not think like another stereotypical girl her age. She feels a twang when she sees him with her, and she wants to exclaim right then and there, every time, that this is how it is supposed to be. Look at me now, she wants to shout. Look at him with his arms around me. And yet, this torture is all just the beginning. The real pushing and pulling, along with the tedious gnawing at the binds that held her together, would come later.
She feels a strange twang as she encourages him, because this is not her subconscious or the subconscious of her subconscious or her regular conscious, damn it. It is her not knowing what else to say. It is her putting his happiness before her own, because is that not the way it truly should go? Somebody look her in the eye and tell her that that has not been the way her whole ridiculous, screwed life. So this is her trying to do the right thing, to fix something, to be a good friend or whatever, to make absolutely positive that everybody else is happy, overjoyed, pleased, et cetera, because she gave up on herself ever feeling any of that a long time ago. Instead of telling the truth, she babbles on about lies, that everyone will all be perfectly fine. When she gets to herself, however, she sees that ugly word 'lying' in her mind's eye, and she cannot. She cannot lie like she did all summer and all year. She cannot suppress for any longer! So she tells what is, in part, the truth, because she has to.
She feels a twang when he comes back. Everything rushes, and some people become onlookers as they realize they were just passerby in her damned life. They shrug those feelings off, however, because come on, it really has not been that long since they got together, and he is not going to let some washed up loser steal her away from him, especially since she may feel inclined to soon enlighten him of these past conflicts and emotions. That loser may have to hurt her for her to confess, or at least for him to be able to unearth these things (and yes, he will have to dig and dig to discover, but he knew that would go with anything the moment he met her), but he does not care. Really? He will be the one who wraps his arms around her and wipes her frustrated tears away when he screws it all up. He just did not expect it all to hurt him so much, and so he lets his aggravation get the better of him, and she will get over it. If she ever even finds out, that is.
Meanwhile, she is feeling twang after twang after twang. The twangs of that feeling, and then of the anger that just keeps increasing, and that is in fact why she bit that stupid girl's head off earlier. Now, every time she smiles her fake, giddy smile, she feels a sickening twang in the pit of her stomach. Stop overly faking it, that feeling's personality, if you will, is reassuring her yet again. And just give it a little more time.
When she passes by a mirror, she cannot look. She knows her own reflection will make her sick, but you know what? Screw it. Screw it like everything else has, is, and will be screwed. She is going to take what she can get.
She feels a twang when she eats her own words, and an incredibly different kind of twang when he finally kisses her, emphasis on the 'finally'. It is just an initial sort of twang, because she is a little bit shocked, though most certainly unabashed at her reaction, because this is what she has been waiting a million years for. She also feels a click, put before the click can finish sounding, that Just wait rings and rings some more.
Some of those twangs have resonated, though mostly in her subconscious (Damn her subconscious!). But the twangs that followed were like her scars. Even when they would fade, as her physic of that feeling knew they would, they would never quite disappear. It is the twangs when he lies to her, the twangs when he tells her the truth, and the twangs where she has misinterpreted it all that hurt the most. Even the truth is keeping her up at night, and she pounds her head against the headboard every time she thinks of the face of her current boyfriend, and why can she not just love him, and actually not rip her own heart open? She grips at her sheets and thinks to herself, We have enough people living here who have trouble breathing when they're stressed. Go be crazy some other way.
She feels a twang emerge from the past when the metal meets the skin, but then she stops, the faintest sour smell of blood tickling at her nose, the metal longer to be pressed harder into her skin that has not been pristine since the earliest stages of her childhood. She starts to laugh, finally succumbing to a fit of giggles, and as she stands up to see her flushed face in the mirror and the blood trickling down her arm, she guffaws at the sight. She is doing all of this…because of a guy! Where was her head? She would typically deem this utterly ludicrous!
The next day, it is not so funny anymore. There is an odd comfort, however, that comes from knowing that the only twangs she felt were of momentary physical pain that was imminent anyway. The thought of her being over him makes more giggles erupt, but she makes them cease abruptly, and lets all those who love her (save him, of course) believe that she only willed herself to finally stop laughing so that they did not think she was going any crazier than she already is.
As time goes by, the aches seem to cool. She stills feel a twang whenever he is mentioned, which is thankfully (or perhaps not so thankfully, but she does not have the time to contemplate, or else feel the twangs gain control of her over and over again) not very often, but they diminish, as most things do, even if not entirely. You can never remove the essence of anything, ever to be or that once was in this world, but you can sure as hell try.
She lets herself believe in this world where she walks brightly, and does not feel the twangs of him anymore, nor of the regret and remorse that he should be (and was, though not to her then current knowledge) feeling. She shoves that feeling away every time it even remotely threatens to reappear, having come to grips with it ages ago.
She feels a twang when she sees him again. It is the weirdest, most awkward of all the twangs, and she feels it a few more times when he looks at her (because God, he looks good now), but is soon replaced by the twangs of that feeling. I told you so, something inside of her says, and for the first time, the words are prominent and apparent in her body. Look what happens when you wait.
She feels a twang when she has to shove that feeling away again, even if she only had to first hand for an hour. She is quite sure she is going to be sick. And hooray! After the whole façade of "I'm over him", all she had been working on, all she had been building up, was shattered once more. She always knew she would feel the twangs forever; now she could scream it from the rooftops unashamed. At this point, really, just damn him. She is not what he wants, she concludes. And he really is tormented by the thought that he is not good enough for her, though she only has the slightest inkling of his worries.
She feels a twang when he shows up by her side, but it is more of a tedious twang. She wants to see him, to be in his presence, to stand closer to him, but not now. Not when her stomach is in knots, and she is sweating cold, and the words of her mother are pinging in her ears. Not when she has a death grip on an ugly bottle. Not when she is so angry, and ashamed for more than one reason, and a little intoxicated.
She feels something that she thinks is a twang when he pulls her to him, and damn, the water is much colder than she had previously noted, and as the tears continue to roll down her pale face, she wants nothing more than to bury her head in his chest and weep, but oh right, he is also here, and shoot, that is enough embarrassment for one day.
Still, she is more than ready and able to confess. She always has been. If she has to hold this in any longer, she does not know what she will do: Move on? Cut? Wake up in the middle of the night in yet another somewhat catatonic cold sweat? Stalk him until he accepts her? The latter almost makes her chuckle, but not merely at the idea, but more because of the plausibility.
She feels twang from the past, a twang from the future, and a twang full of utter sadness from the present as he talks some sense into her. He is being a good friend, the best friend, and it is almost like a flashback to that one summer, except with the roles reversed. She wonders what rehabilitation did to him, and what it was like to have a taste of fame, because when did he get full of the advice and the been-there-done-that wisdom? She wants to laugh, but the rest of her is collapsing. Sleep is inviting her, although she would much rather just talk to him. But oh, there he is again, advising her, and sleep is something he suggests. She is too weak to argue, and she does not know if that has ever, ever been the case before.
For a brief moment, she thinks he is going to kiss her forehead, or the top of her head, but she is practically grateful when he does not, because she most likely could not resist the urge to pull his face down to hers if he got that close.
The last thought she has before she drifts away is more or less where the hell is his girlfriend?
They talk more, and she feels all these various twangs with every word he speaks. Occasionally, they are comfortable, laughing (though sometimes nervously), but then they get to slight confessions (a little sheepishly), and she is tired of knowing that somebody who knows her inside and out, why she does everything she does, what she is or was thinking about something, and how she may or may not handle something later, is going to coast in and out of her life.
She knows, as she stands before him at the airport, with all the unspecified tension hanging around them, that this is the last time she is going to put herself through this. He is going to have to take her or leave her. Or else she will leave him. She is tired of being a constant, the only person who has never left him, when he just keeps pushing and pushing until she is at her breaking point. She has been there many times before. It is far from pretty.
So leaves him she does, lying to herself to whole time she walks away: She does not need him. Not if he keeps on doing this to her.
Doing what? That nagging little voice in her head ponders. Being a great friend? Being everything?
When she turns around, knowing her vulnerability is plastered all over her face (because she loves him, even if she denies it forever), he has hardly wavered from his original place, and that makes her forget about all her recent theories as to why he is not right for her and such.
She cannot take it anymore, and it is clumsy, but really not uncomfortable, that kiss, and oh, she had almost forgotten, but that is why she will never get over him. She feels a throbbing twang with each second, and there comes that now more distinguished click again.
She has to leave, and they both know it. But "forever" has been strangely redefined, and nothing in fact feels over. She feels a twang of delight as she realizes that this is just their beginning. That feeling remains.