Shattered Light
It's Saturday night and I've spent the last thirty-three minutes in the bathroom where I washed my hair and shaved my legs. There's a cloud of jasmine scent that now follows me around, and intensifies if I happen to flick my hair over my shoulder. I flinch when the door swings open of its own accord - the lights flickering as it does - and my eyes shut in dread, hoping that Frida is already in my room.
I walk across the hall to my room and find it strewn with the contents of my wardrobe, Frida stood near the bed holding a leather skirt and a sparkly black cami in her hands. I can feel the exasperation radiating from her as she tries to piece together an outfit. She pulls on the cami over her head.
"This always looks so good on you," she doesn't even turn her head to look at me as I walk through the door, "But on me…" She pauses, assessing herself in the mirror before sighing loudly, slapping her sides. She returns to the wardrobe where the search continues.
Letting Frida be my own personal stylist for these Saturday nights took months of persuasion, and was only allowed on the condition that she was never to try and make me wear anything with too much colour.
Clothing as dark as your mind? Never let the light in.
I push the thought away.
A flash of their faces follows and it's almost enough to make me cry out in shock. I'm always caught off guard by the memory of the friends that I left behind.
It's only when Frida has said my name for the fourth time that I snap back to reality. "Sorry," I apologise, shaking my head as though to clear the haze.
Frida laughs, it's a light and tuneful sound, and throws the sparkly top at me. "Hazel, Hazel, always away with the fairies. I'd love to know where it is you drift off to." She doesn't know that the places I disappear to would haunt her for the rest of her life, much like the way that they have been haunting me for the past four years.
I was seven years old. Sat in the backyard on an autumn afternoon. The burning oranges and optimistic yellows of leaves lazily descending from trees were scattered around me. In my peripheral vision I noticed a leaf that had fallen moments earlier begin to lift itself back up from the ground as though it planned to reattach itself to the tree, regretting its decision to fall. I turned my head slowly, scared of what was happening right next to me. It defied everything we had been taught about gravity at school, clearly I was dreaming. That's when I felt it, the itch beginning on my fingertips. Was I doing this?
I lifted my hand, palm down and fingers pointing in the direction of the leaf and I willed it to stop. It stopped in mid-air, two feet from the ground. I lowered my hand, the leaf followed suit and I froze, eyes widened in shock. The itch began to magnify, and I had never felt fear like it.
If I'd taken Deaton's advice and learnt to embrace it, maybe things would have been different. Maybe Allison would have still been alive. Maybe I'd be happy. Maybe I'd be home, with my friends and family. Maybe I wouldn't be living with this excruciating invisible wound.
I should've stayed gone the first time.
He was my mistake, my downfall. He brought me home.
I almost killed him. I wish it had been the other way around.
He was by no means made up of only light; it was the darkest parts of him that I loved. It was some kind of comfort to know that it wasn't only me who had imperfections and was ripped around the edges, darkness seeping in.
We always start our night in the same bar, one just two blocks down from our apartment. It's called Jude's Place and it has a vast array of different flavored tequilas, because Jude is particularly fond of tequila. Jude has joked several times about the fact that she ought to change the name to Jude and Hazel's Place because I spend too much time there. Not always drinking, though, it's mostly just when Frida is out.
Dressed and made-up, we reach the sidewalk outside our apartment and begin the walk to Jude's Place, and Frida begins to sing. This loud and excitable part of Frida earns her plenty of eye-rolls from the people that we pass. A man with a red woollen hat and big, warm looking black gloves actually makes a tut at her. I've grown accustomed to her tendency to sing as often and as loudly as possible. She has a lovely voice, at least. I think that's the only reason I didn't tell her to stop the first time she started singing like this. We walk past the many shop fronts that lead us to Jude's place, a florists called The Watering Can, the falafel place that I once got food poisoning from and have vowed to never step foot in again, the mini mart where I often end up at around eleven at night with a craving for something sweet; normally Reece's Peanut Butter Cups just after I watch Frida eat the last one. A shoe shop that at this time of night is already closed, the metallic shutters pulled down over the shop window and locked firmly.
Across the street is a head of dark hair that sticks out on end. It's the kind of hair that looks as though it's completely untamable, even with the best of efforts. My chest starts to tighten. The owner of that hair is wearing a red plaid shirt. I can't breathe. He turns to cross the street to the side Frida and I are walking on and I see his face. Exhale. The tightness eases, it doesn't dissipate completely and I'm not entirely sure that it ever truly does.
We head into Jude's, walking straight to the bar. There's not much point in pretending to search for a table because we sit at the same booth every time we're here and Jude always leaves a placard on it that reads "Reserved." At the bar, Frida orders us both a shot of the mango flavoured tequila and a vodka lemonade to take to the table with us. Frida busies herself chatting with the man next to her, twirling a strand of her peachy dyed hair around her finger, and I'm sure I can see her fluttering her eyelashes at him. She's probably hoping he'll pay for our first round of drinks. He looks behind her at me and I offer him my best attempt at a smile, but the look on his face when I do tells me he knows exactly what kind of girl I am. He makes some lame excuse and wanders off to the other end of the bar.
"What a jerk." Frida says, rolling her eyes and pretending like she has no idea why he left. Men are never very fond of me and my stark contrast to my adorable friend who is sweetness and light personified.
"I can think of words much better than jerk to describe that guy," I say, raising an eyebrow in amusement at Frida's inability to ever say anything truly mean, even about complete strangers.
Jude places our drinks on the bar in front of us and gives us this first round on the house, I smile gratefully at her and clink my shot glass against Frida's before throwing it back, the sting of tequila hitting the back of my throat.
"If you could pick absolutely anywhere in the world, where would you go?" Frida asks the table of our friends, and while some of us stop to think about it for a moment, thoughtful expressions on faces, there are a few who answer without a second thought.
"Amsterdam."
"The Maldives."
"Australia."
The true answer is already in the back of my mind but I know better than to say it. I know that if I do, I risk falling apart in front of these people who may call themselves my friends, but are under the false impression that they even know me at all.
"What about you Hazel?" Frida asks before taking a sip of her drink through a bright green straw.
"London." I lie with a shrug. The door to the bar opens, but my back is to it. The atmosphere shifts, and I suddenly feel tense in a way that I can't quite explain. The itch begins, and I inhale sharply as I feel it. I've been in control for a while now, but there's no telling when that might change.
He's here. My drink starts to move across the table slowly and I reach out and grab it before anyone has chance to notice, but they do notice that I can't seem to breathe. Frida's eyebrows knit together in concern and she places a hand on my back, I can see her mouth moving but I can't hear what she is saying. He comes into view.
I've seen flashes of him here and there over the years, but never right in front of me. Stood at the bar, laughing with a pretty blonde. He turns to take in his surroundings when the blonde heads to the restroom and for a moment I think he's not going to see me. Luck has never been on my side.
His jaw clenches, and neither of us can break our gaze at each other. He's not close enough to be within hearing distance, but his voice is ringing in my ears.
"Haze." He says under his breath, "It's you."
The lights go out, some of the light bulbs even shattering. Although the room is filled with the varying sounds of people's shock, all I can hear is his light chuckle at the sudden darkness. It's not the first time he's seen me plunge a room into darkness by accident. I slip out of the booth and head through the shadows to him, there's no use in hiding. People are holding up lighters and inquiring about candles. I pay no attention to Frida's stare that I can feel following me as I cross the distance from the booth to the bar.
In the limited light, I can see the subtle changes in his face since I last saw him. I reach my hand out to touch his cheek but he takes a small step backwards so that my hand falls through the space between us. He doesn't say anything, just watches as the hurt registers on my face.
"The moment I stop searching, here you are." He says, rolling his eyes. Although I had hoped he'd move on and stop looking for me, I can't ignore the fact that it feels like a stab to the heart that he actually did. People start lighting candles, the room slowly illuminating.
"Oh my god, the lights went out and I was the only person in there, that was so scary." The blonde is back, and she doesn't quite register that he's talking to someone else until she's stood between us, and then it clicks. "Oh, um, who is this?"
"Someone I used to know." The bitterness in his tone sends shockwaves through me and my chest tightens. I look down at my feet and push past the blonde, heading straight for the door; ignoring Frida calling my name.
When I hit the fresh air I pull it into my lungs in loud gasps. I start to run.
"Haze…" He was looking out of the window onto the street.
I mumbled an acknowledgement from the cocoon I had created for myself with blankets.
"There's a storm brewing out there. You'd better ride it out here, I mean, if you want to?" It was the first time he asked me to stay. We were just friends then. But that's the moment I always return to when I start to question where it all started.
"I love thunderstorms." I said, burrowing further into the warmth. "The buzz of electricity in the air, you can practically feel the storm building, y'know?"
Once that door is opened, the memories of him engulf me and I begin to drown in them. Gasping for air, desperately trying to keep above the surface.
"You shut everyone else out, but not me. Never me." He'd looked so hurt, eyes wide and sad. I had tried to run from him after a fight. He let himself into my room and pulled the comforter over his head when I tried to hide underneath it. We sat there for a while in the wannabe fort; he wouldn't leave until I promised him that he was still my best friend.
Holding out a mug overflowing with cream and marshmallows, a goofy smile on his face to try and cheer me up. I'd spent hours curled up in his bed feeling like the world was falling to pieces around me.
Shuffling closer to me in the cafeteria surrounded by our friends, so that our legs were touching. I thought no one had noticed that I was trying not to cry.
He always did quiet things to show he cared. He knew not to use grand gestures that would send me running.
He knew me better than anyone.
I almost killed him.
There's a voice behind me, calling my name. The voice is breathless, taking all of its might to carry on shouting after me.
I stop running when I realise I don't know where I am. I bend over, hands pressed against my thighs as I gulp for air frantically. I focus on my breathing in a futile attempt to not panic about the footsteps I can hear approaching - footsteps that I'd know anywhere.
"Years of practice makes near perfect, huh, Haze?" He wheezes out, scrunching up his face in pain from running when I look up at him, still trying to catch my breath.
"Looks like you took up some cardio too," I observe. He couldn't run more than two hundred meters when we were at school without dramatically collapsing in a heap. He shrugs and I straighten up, finally being able to breathe a little more regularly.
"I didn't think about what I'd actually say when I caught up to you. I mean, I've thought about it constantly for the past what, four years? But now that you're here and I'm here…" His forehead creases in a frown. I'd been the only person I'd ever seen make him speechless, and it was rare for him not to have something to say.
"You should turn around and walk away." I say, not meeting his eye. I fold my arms across myself, the itch growing out of control spreading its way up the lengths of my fingers, reaching my wrists and spiraling up my arms.
"Hey, either of you got a lighter?" A girl approaches us, she doesn't look old enough to be smoking but there's an unlit cigarette between her ruby stained lips. I pull a lighter out of the back pocket of my jeans and hold it out to her. She smiles gratefully as she leans forward toward the flame, before she heads off.
"You smoke now?" He asks, raising his eyebrows as I slip the lighter back into my pocket.
"I'm sure that you've changed too." I bite back, defensive. A car alarm starts ringing, and we both laugh a little awkwardly. I clench my fists though, willing the itch to fade.
"You haven't changed too much." He says after a moment, noticing my curled fists even though I'm trying to hide them beneath my crossed arms.
"That's the problem." I say, and I know he has to stop himself from rolling his eyes. He steps forward cautiously, probably waiting for me to back away but years of protecting others from myself has been exhausting, so I stand still, selfishly willing him to come closer.
"Stay." He says, and I smile sadly. "Don't run, not again." His hand reaches out towards my face, and the moment his palm touches my cheek the world plunges into darkness; the kind of never ending blackness where I'm lost and simultaneously at home. The kind of darkness where someone like me truly belongs, but spends a lifetime fighting her way out of.
"Not all monsters do monstrous things," someone once told me. I'm counting on it being true.