I will Smile

He was staring again. Always staring. He didn't seem to have grasped the fact that she no longer wanted him, she had chosen me. Not him, me. She no longer wanted his hands; rough and demanding, nor his lips; harsh and taking. No, she wanted me: my hands; soft and giving. My mouth; gentle and loving.

She wanted me. And that is what I told myself every time. Every time I caught her staring too. I was what she wanted she said- I was enough for her. But still she stared; her eyes hungry and dark for something I couldn't give her, something I had never been able to give her and her words replayed over and over in my head as I watched them watching each other. I was enough.

I never had been though, even when we were younger and she was my world I was never hers. She captivated me, intoxicated and enslaved me even from that first charged moment when her eyes had sought and locked on mine across a grumbling old bus on the first day of school but I, I merely amused her: served my purpose in keeping her entertained and made boredom a stranger on lonely summer days. Where I worshiped she tolerated and humoured. A fair price I thought; a moment of her time in which I could pour out my adoration in exchange for the occasional smile or kind word.

Yes, the days when I was not in favour were bleak, miserable and dead but the days when she smiled for me were the happiest of my fragile existence. She would light up the world for me in those moments; the dark ever present clouds that constantly hovered over my life would lift and the sun would shine bright around us. Promises of sweetness and joy filled my mind like silent promises of Santa Claus on a snow-covered Christmas morning. It was in those moments that it seemed to me my life was worth living, as though I had a purpose. Her, she was my purpose. And If I never amounted to anything more than the sum of her happiness then I didn't care because it was worth it, she was worth it.

And even as we got older and drifted apart slightly it was still those occasional coy looks across the room that got me through the days; the unexpected moments when she would show up on my doorstep silently demanding I entertain her with a tilt of her head and that damn grin of hers. It was the arch of her brow and the secret messages in her eyes I felt only I could read when she was bored and wanted to be anywhere else having fun. It was those days that I lived for, that I longed for. I craved her like an addict craves a fix. I was addicted- pure and simple and nothing was going to make me give up my drug.

My parents saw it; saw my obsession with her and tried to make me give her up but I couldn't, it wasn't possible. How do you give up your life? To leave her would surely be to die. I couldn't survive without her. I wouldn't.

My mother knew she didn't love me as I did her and secretly I knew it too, but I didn't care. Why should I? All the agony and tears were worth it for one day with her. So what if every time we fought she tore my heart to shreds. I didn't care that every time she betrayed me I would cry for hours into my pillow or that whenever her words were so harsh I was sure she would leave me, I would make myself sick with worry. It was all worth it to me because eventually she would come back. She would come back to me and whatever I had said to make her hurt me would be forgiven; she would smile and her eyes would send the darkness that had been crushing down on me for the weeks I had been in exile into oblivion. My heart would heal and begin to sing the moment I knew she was mine again. The pulsing ever present nausea would disappear, replaced by an almost insatiable appetite to please her and ensure I was never again thrown from my devoted place by her side into purgatory because when she came back to me, it was as though sadness had never existed, I didn't know the meaning of the word, not when she was there; my whole life seemed full, perfectly balanced and as though pain could never reach me inside our little bubble.

I hated her at times though, even through the haze of my never ending devotion and love, I could hate her. The feeling was fleeting and agonisingly painful and it never ceased to leave me with a burning feeling of guilt at my treachery. Yet at times I revelled in it. In those moments I could scream and rage and let loose all the feelings I had to suppress in order to keep her happy. I could throw things and yell and punch a wall and vent all the self loathing I drowned in whenever I scampered back to her like a faithful dog after an argument I know she only started to get a rise out of me.

But then the feeling would be gone, the guilt would make me sink to my knees and pray she never found out and the next time she called on me I would run that little bit faster because I know how she loved to run. I would try that little bit harder because I know sometimes I embarrassed her and I would hope to god that when I reached her she wouldn't cause those horrible disloyal feelings to rise up again.

I never did understand how she managed to enthral me so. It was as though I had no free will when she was around, whatever she wanted was what I wanted and whatever I wanted was inconsequential as long as what she wanted made her happy. If the guy from next door made her happy then I would be happy for her too. I never was able to be sad in her presence and If tears would pour from my eyes at night when I pictured her kissing someone else then so what, they were probably just part of a bad dream and in a week or so the nightmare would end, just like it always had before.

But the tears began to last longer as did the hatred; it grew until it possessed me for hours at a time; it made me rage and scream and cry and it burned. The fury of it ripped through me with such intensity I felt as though my whole body was on fire; my entire being was consumed with it; my every organ twisting and writhing while the pain of yet another betrayal forced hot pokers of agony into my heart- each more painful than the last until finally, I was left a broken sobbing mess on my bedroom floor while choked whimpers escaped my lips desperately seeking answers as to how she could despise me so much when all I had ever wanted was a small measure of her love in return for my never ending devotion. The feelings would linger too, even when I was with her I would sometimes feel the now familiar feelings of resentment and anger building in me like a volcano set to explode. Even when she grinned her toothy smirking grin at me with that playful glint in her eyes that I knew meant hours of fun and trouble and excitement I could hear the spiteful voice in the back of my mind cursing her; whispering words of hatred, hissing threats and poisons into my ear.

She would break down the barriers again though; she would smile and cajole and whisper and giggle and eventually I would grin back, my wariness would disappear and I would let her back into the heart that had been dying- and just learning to live again it whispered- without her. The fun would begin again, the secret glances and whispers, the messages in codes only we knew, the games we had created that only we knew the rules to, the competitions that she always had to win. The excitement, the exhilaration-my adoration, her amusement. The slight squabbles, the arguing, the shouting, her violence- my desperation to fix us. Her betrayal- my heartache. It would all begin again until we were back at the beginning. The hatred grew stronger, the fun and happiness shorter. The angry whispers in my ear grew louder, my sobs became screams- the anger rage, the sadness, depression.

And then it all stopped.

She changed. Became almost- but not quite- the girl I had first fallen that little bit in love with. She became gentler, calmer and more hesitant with the words she used to hurt me- as though she cared again. She associated less with those who had made her hard and cruel years before when we first started to drift apart and instead would show up on my doorstep; a soft smile- not a smirk- on her face as she asked-not demanded- if I wanted to do something with her. I truly thought I could finally be happy again, that we had found a happy medium we could rest at together for a while before moving forward with our lives; stronger and better than ever because of all we had been through.

But I was wrong. It did work for a while of course. I was enough for her she said when I saw her becoming restless and craving what all those others could offer her- the ones she had betrayed me countless times for in the past- I was enough when I saw her gaze linger on the ones who stared at her like tonight. I was enough when she disappeared for days and came back slightly colder than when she left. I was enough when her words started to be thoughtless and cruel again and I was enough when she cried because I think she knew- deep inside that as messed up as I was in my devotion to her and my acceptance of her sadistic torture she was equally as twisted in her constant craving for that adoration only so she could then abuse and blacken it. She needed me as much as I needed her and as sick as it was it was what our whole relationship was based on: her needing and taking and I willingly giving because I needed the adoration too; craved it from her- she was my drug after all. And even if I rarely succeeded in my quest for her love it only made me try that little bit harder.

But as I sit here, watching her watching him I know deep down that we are never going to change. She is never going to change and I don't know if I would love her in the same half crazed- half obsessed way if she did. Our relationship is twisted and sick and deep at its foundation it is poisoned; has been since the first time I forgave her and she learned to trust that I would always be there, always ready to forgive and forget and even when everyone else had left her I will still be there- arms wide open, a hundred smiles ready in acceptance of all her flaws in exchange for one of her own. Any pain and hatred I feel still lingering in my eyes ready to be quickly hidden if she should ever take the time to glance there while at the height of all her sadistic glory. I see her twitch in the seat next to me and I know that in a minute she is going to declare her need of a restroom. Moments later he will rise from his seat and follow her. I won't see her for the rest of the night and tomorrow sometime she will arrive home professing her amazement at running into an old friend she hasn't seen in years. One who naturally insisted they do a late dinner and that she later crash at theirs despite her protestations.

I know the routine by heart now; we have been doing it for years- since we were children really. Only now it is for more than a spree of shoplifting or a smuggled cigarette that she leaves me for someone else. It is for a different kind of excitement and danger altogether. She lives for the excitement I think, the drama and the stories she gains every time she sneaks- not so stealthily- away for a few days. And I am her safety net, there to catch her when she falls from the high yet another seedy one night stand or illicit weekend affair has temporarily brought her. I am always there she knows; ready and willing to revel in whatever scrap she throws my way while at the same time forgiving and caring for her- my adoration never far from the surface even when I am in the depths of despair or at the height of my rage.

She expects me to be there tomorrow or the next day when she stumbles in; still half drunk and in the clothes from today spouting her story about old friends and late dinners. She expects me to be because I always have been before but this time will be different. I won't be there. I am waiting, waiting for her to rise from her chair and head for the restrooms, waiting for him to get up and follow. I am waiting for my chance to rise from my seat and walk out the door. When she stumbles home eventually she will not find me waiting there to help her from her crumpled dress and put her to bed; pretending not to see the marks on her neck. She will not find me the next morning sleeping beside her with one of my arms draped across her side. She will not find my clothes in the drawer or my mug in the cupboard. I will be gone. For the first time since we were eight years old Iwill be the one to walk away, and this time I don't want her to come back to me.

I will cry I know it; I will curse myself and desperately want to crawl back to her and beg she forgive me. I will become depressed and angry. I will isolate myself from everyone and spend days curled in my bed remembering the good times- the perfect times when she was my saving angel and I was her unworthy subject. But eventually I will emerge from my self-imposed exile and rejoin the normal world for the first real time since I became entranced by her way back when we were just children who knew nothing of what we were to become and how tangled the bond we foolishly and unknowingly created was to grow- so much so that eventually it ensnared us- choking us slowly of life but unwilling to let go no matter the cost to both our sanities.

We were the spiders trapped in our own web, the spider as helpless as the fly it had so easily captivated so many times before; unable to find a way out no matter how hard it tried until eventually suffocation was the only escape left. I wonder sometimes who was the spider and who was the fly? Was it she? Was I the silly little fly entranced by her and drawn in never to escape or was I the spider after all? Offering a safe warm cocoon where she could hide forever, the sticky and clinging sides of the haven being what caused her to fight and wriggle and crave something with more danger than safety and warmth. Maybe we were both, each of us the others spider; drawing one another in with promises of what we secretly craved only to imprison them and make them as helpless as the unwitting fly flown straight into a trap.

Perhaps I am the lucky fly then, the one in a million that manages to wriggle free- to escape. I was able to- if not fly away from the whole sticky mess we had created then at least stumble and crawl, my wings bruised and my body scarred but eventually I will heal and I will be able to fly again. It will take time and perhaps some days I will fly a little too close to the glittering promises my past holds but never again will I allow myself to become so lost I cannot find my way back to myself.

I can only hope that one day she manages to let go of it all too. She will have forgotten me soon enough, someone else will take my place temporarily; a one night stand or a random someone who catches her eye. It is when they run out that I worry for her, when she crashes and I am not there to catch her and assure her and adore her. When she hits rock bottom is when my fears will truly start. Perhaps it is what she needs though, to hit the bottom, to see what it feels like. Perhaps once she reaches the darkest of dark places she will start to rise again, find a strength I know she has never been able to reach. Maybe one day she can become that girl I fell in love with again.

And If not then I'm sure somehow I'll be somewhere nearby ready to drag her back to the surface and force life into her lungs just as I did when we were ten and she was drowning at the local pool. But only for a little while. I can't be her safety net anymore, just as she can't be my angel. Those roles were killing us. slowly but steadily. As a strangling weed does a beautiful flower, they had begun to choke the life and love from our once pure relationship, leaving us desperate gasping wrecks of the people we had once been. I had found my strength. It was time for her to find hers and maybe, just maybe one day we could start again.

dont own it, never have never will :(

re-done YET AGAIN, but this time only the grammar and punctuation has been changed. thankfully my english teacher DIDNT hate it and ive passed the class :D

hope you all enjoy this fic even if it is a little dark....its based off of my actual life so thats why.....thanks loads to everyone who has reviewed, it means so much to me. And lexi, i hope you like this ending better than the original :)

xoxox

Becca