Disclaimer: I don't own Degrassi.
You're a swaying fire. You move back and forth; to home and to love, and that's all you do. You move to no rhythm and you're stuck with nothing but black coal. Who are you, other than a troubled soul? Are you a secret angel, waiting to emerge? Or are you a crimson devil who lacks all good-hearted features? Do you even know who you are, Elijah Goldsworthy? Or are you stuck in this cycle of life that has you by the wrist?
You're a dying mind who's lost in their thoughts. How does that feel? That sounds like a question from your therapist. When she sucks on her mint and her lips pop when you talk. And she looks at you like you're a desperate young man who doesn't have a clue as to how to act. To her, you're just another dying flame.
How does that feel, Elijah?
Does it make you feel sick? Sick like when she calls you Elijah? Hm. Maybe you are just a dying flame. Maybe, soon, you'll be nothing but ash that floats around with no direction. It makes sense, because isn't that why you want her back? Isn't that why you want that blue-eyed girl back in your over-protective arms? Because, to you, she makes you big. She makes you something that you've never felt before. Isn't that right?
Her name is Clare Edwards and she hasn't spoken to you in fifty-six days. And it's slowly killing you.
It will be fifty-seven days tomorrow.
Cheers. You really are messed up.
.
.
.
Your mother has an addiction to the shopping network.
Because Bullfrog is gone on trips every other week, and you can barely get out of bed, CeCe Goldsworthy calls the phone number that's displayed on the TV screen. You listen to her babble on the phone to the poor man. She talks about her life, and you know that she still talks, even when the dial tone is ringing.
Sure, it makes you sad, but your bed is so comfortable. And your body is so weak. You can't take care of your mother when you can't take care of yourself. She tries to get you out of bed with making your favorite foods, but she doesn't know that you haven't been hungry for days.
Your dad once told you that when you decide to die, little things begin to happen. You stop looking both ways before you cross the street; not caring for the possible traffic speeding in your direction. You start answering the door without asking who's there; actually hoping that it's a raving lunatic who will take everything. You don't hold onto the railing when you go down the escalator; the metal steps gleam brilliantly in your wide eyes. You play with matches and let it sizzle close to your weak skin. You smoke, and breathe it in; actually praying it will make a difference.
And you think of that now and you realize that deciding to die is actually almost nice, in a way. You stop caring. Even if you are not pro-actively looking for ways to kill yourself, you stop looking for ways to survive.
Death is knocking, Elijah Goldsworthy.
And you want to open the door without looking who's there.
.
.
"Happiness is a choice" Your mother would say to you when you'd cry over disappointments. You'd wipe your nose on your sleeve and think about that statement.
It seemed believable to you. Anything that your mom said seemed believable at that time. But now, when the bitter hand of evil clenches around you, you can't help but cry false at her statement.
Hah.
It's nice to think about, isn't it? Having the choice to be happy is a wet dream to a very depressed young man. It's a thought that you ponder and mull over in the early of the dawn and the late of the dark night. And the more you think about it, the more it screams- Bullshit, bullshit!
Or maybe it's just you.
You- The cynical boy who is in love with a girl.
You- A failure of a man who spends his life wishing that happiness was a choice.
Seems like quite the life, doesn't it? A life of bitterness and anger and everything negative under the sun seems wonderful. Who'd want to trade in an angry life for a life of happiness and butterflies?
You're living the life.
One bitter step at a time.
.
.
.
She blows bubbles with her gum. The pink rubbery goop is forced out by her pink little tongue and it breathes out; and then, it deflates. And you can see the little remains of the gunk on her soft lips. But she pulls her lip in and when it pops back out-bam!-nothing is there.
You don't watch her all the time.
You only watch her when you're not being the cynical boy that hates the world and everyone in it.
You hate everyone but her, which, to be honest, gets in the way of everything. You want to hate her. You want to be able to not want her. But then, when you're almost done with that process, she stares at you. Her big doe-like eyes look at you and you're a dead man. Deaddeaddead.
But then, she turns away and looks at him; that cocky boy who likes to smile all the time. And he always looks back at me and smirks because he knows. He knows that you're in love with his lovely girlfriend and you'd do anything to be with her.
You may hate the guy, but he knows what he's doing. Which, you respect.
Pop, says her gum. And it's mocking you because it's stuck on her lips and you're not.
Are you crazy? Maybe.
But at least you can admit it.
.
.
.
"I'm going to fuck her at the party."
First, even if it wasn't the cocky asshole talking about the girl you were in love with, you'd still hate the guy. Because saying that you're going to fuck a girl is definitely the way into her heart. Especially a devote Christian girl who has her purity ring glued to their finger.
You try not to look at him. But all you see is him kissing her and touching her and pulling out the wrapper...and you want to puke. Because she's Clare Edwards and you're in love with her. And here's this guy who only knows her last name because of their parents. And you can feel my neck turning red from the jealousy and you want to hit him. And this violent urge isn't like one you've ever felt. Not with Mike. Not with Fitz. Not with the paramedic that called you Elliot. You just want to smack that cocky smirk off of his cocky face and you just want to take the cocky out of him.
"Do you even know who you're talking about, man? She's Saint Clare. I don't think that she'd give it up to you." The boy next to Jake says. And you want to clap him on the back. You want to congratulate him for saying that- Hey, man! You just told that asshole off because he was trying to sleep with the girl that fucking haunts me. Thanks! Let's talk again, shall we?-but it would probably be uncalled for and weird. And even after the boy says that, the cocky bastard smirks and shakes his head.
Denial.
You take out a piece of paper and try to write a letter to Clare. You know that she doesn't want to talk to you, let alone look at you, so writing it is. But every time you write something, it starts off with a sappy line. You write paragraph after paragraph and you can't stop, even though you know that it'll never get to her and it has nothing to do with what you're supposed to be talking about. After your third paragraph, you decide that it's a lost cause and you'll talk to her after school.
Your mind settles into listening to the teacher and your stomach unravels because you know that she'd never sleep with him. She would never. She's not that kind of girl. She wouldn't do that with him when she just started dating him...
"She bought the condoms last night." Jake-"the asshole"- Martin says to the guy again. And that's when you feel bile coming up your slick throat. And it's about to spiral out of you.
Clare Edwards and condoms is like heaven and hell. They aren't supposed to go together. And that's why your teeth are grinding together. And that's why your heart is pounding with something so fierce that it hurts. Because he's going to kiss her. He's going to try to lead her into the bedroom and kiss her forehead and hear her moans. He's going to work her up and hear her sing his name.
And you're going to work up your jealousy and hatred towards him.
Fun night.
.
.
.
"They're going to have sex." You blurt out, your voice strangely calm and it doesn't even sound like your voice.
"Oh, please. Everyone on the Jersey Shore has sex." Adam muttered, going through a magazine to try to find topics to talk about on-air. And so far, all he had as a topic was the orange men and women who somehow call themselves human.
"No. God, Adam. Not those idiots," You paused and squinted, trying not to think about what you were going to say, "Jake and Clare are."
"Yeah. Okay. And my mom isn't a bitch." Adam said, rolling his eyes. But when his best friend didn't laugh, his head shot up, "You're joking..."
"No. Condoms were bought. Things were discussed. Plans were made! God! Adam! This isn't Clare, okay? It took me two months to even see her without-…anyway, what I'm saying is that she doesn't love the guy. And hell, even if she did, she wouldn't have sex with him, you know? I mean, she can't have sex. That's like…that's…that's like…she just can't!" You sputtered, and you knew that you sounded like a complete imbecile, but you didn't care.
"Oh my god," Adam whispered and your ears perked up. You knew that he'd come through and understand where you were coming from, "Hilary Duff is pregnant!"
"Ada-!"
"Goddamn, Eli. I'm kidding. Calm down and take a chill pill-you are taking your pills, right?" Adam's once amused face turned into a glare of concern that you often saw on Bullfrog's much older face. You rolled my eyes in frustration and nodded. You loved that he wanted to take care of you, but sometimes, he was more of a parent than a friend, "Look, um. Maybe you could…destroy the condoms! Like, put holes in them or something! That'll be a sex killer."
You winced and shook your head at the idea. "Adam, I want them to not have sex, not to have Clare get pregnant," Adam shook his head in understanding and you stifled a laugh, "What if I talk to her? Maybe I can casually talk to her about the dangers of sex?"
"Yeah. That'll work! 'Hey, Clare! Did you know that you could get pregnant if you happen to take Jake's dick? Did you also know that many diseases are transmitted through sex? You knew that? Oh! By the way! Don't have sex with the lumberjack! Bye!' …Yeah. You should totally do that, Eli. If she doesn't want to say no then, I don't know what will change her mind." Adam scoffed and turned his head back to his magazine and started reading again.
You leaned back into your chair and felt your insides moving with every breath you let go. Everything was just falling apart.
"Is there a party tonight?" You whispered, looking directly at the boy flipping through the magazine.
"Yeah," He responds, and you lean closer, "It's at my house."
"Adam!"
.
.
.
You picked through your Closet and every couple of minutes, you turn around and flaunt the shirt around to the boy sitting on your bed. And at every little fashion show, the boy winces at you.
"Do they really look that bad, Adam?" You mutter, your eyes wide with frustration.
Adam shrugs and looks at the ceiling with his mouth clenched shut. But when you continue to stare at him, he snaps and rolls his eyes. "No, god, Eli. I just don't think that this is a good idea."
You walk closer to him, your eyes narrowed into slits. "Why not?"
"Don't you see? She's not going to listen to you, Eli! You're her ex. She has a boyfriend. She's allowed to have sex with him. We both know Clare well. She wouldn't be doing this if she didn't want to."
You plop down on your bed and groan, because you know that your best friend was right. You wish that he wasn't and that Clare Edwards would listen to you and give a damn about you. But you know that this is reality. That type of thing doesn't happen.
"I mean, Eli, maybe I can talk to her, but..."
But you cut him off and stumble to your school bag. Once it's opened, you pull out the half-finished letter and pour the rest of your bitter heart into it. And it's funny, because you can almost feel her beside you as you write. The words stream out and it's a mess of pain and love, and you slash and spray everything out. When you're done, you hand it Adam without and explanation, and he walks out of your room.
Once you hear the door slam, you crash down on your bed and hope that she will get the letter and actually read it. But you aren't sure, and because you aren't sure, you slip a cd in and listen to the classics that Bullfrog loves. After the second cd, you find yourself bopping slightly to the music, and after the third cd, you're full our dancing. Your shaggy hair is bouncing and everything is okay.
Everything is okay because you don't know that at the party, Clare Edwards is reading your letter.
Dear Clare,
When I ran over you glasses, something shifted. It was odd, but it was welcomed. Before I saw you, the sky was a cloudy mess of anger and thunder, but then, when your innocent features fell into perspective, something lightened. And I was sure, in that moment, that everything was going to be okay. You gave off that vibe and your pink lips were oh so tempting and I just wanted to see if your hands were as soft as I imagined. You stuttered, your blue eyes blazing with anxiety, and I tried to be suave. I tried to be smooth, but really, inside of my ever fragile body, I was shaking. Because when your saintly voice muttered out that heavenly, "See you around?" something inside of me snapped. It was a clean break down the middle of my spine. You - this beautiful and innocent girl - was something that I could corrupt.
From then, I learned that your name was Clare Edwards and you wore your purity ring like a shield. I figured out that you have exactly twenty-one freckles on your cheeks and nose. You were and still are something that I don't quite understand. But that's okay, you see. I like that you always keep me guessing. I like that you always keep me wondering, even when I'm not even with you.
Our relationship reminds me of the rise and fall of civilizations. We had something so great and strong, but stupid mistakes broke everything. And now, I'm left staring at my feet and you're left with a boy that's much better than me. You survived this ordeal, and I'm happy about that. I'm happy about your happiness, but I'm unhappy about my sadness. I'm unhappy that all I can see is you, Clare Edwards. I can't see anything but you and I used to not mind that. I truly didn't because you actually felt the same way. But now, I'm here. And you're wherever and I'm scared.
Fear. I fear many things, Clare Edwards. I fear the sun and the moon. I fear love and hate. I fear the way you laugh and the way you cry. I fear the things that can show my petty weaknesses. But, actually, very recently I began to come to the conclusion that maybe, just maybe, these so called "weaknesses" of mine are actually what fuels me. These things build me up and throw me out into the bitter world. These fears circle around me and set me stronger than ever before. To me, fear and love often go together. I fear you and you are love. You shine. And I fear loving you.
Do you remember when I first told you that I loved you? Do you remember how my voice was shaking and my legs were like jelly? And you just simply looked at me like I were crazy. I was just a crazy fool and you claimed that you loved it. I stuttered that you looked wonderful and that blush spread and I swear, my heart stopped when you giggled. And I blurted it out.
Iloveyou.
You squinted your eyes, and asked me politely what I had just said. And I choked, not being able to get it out again. But, it was okay, because you pulled me down and kissed me, muttering that you loved me.
And now, if you even do take the time to read this, you're probably wondering why the hell I'm writing this. What's the point of the letter? Well, it's not to confess my love for you, even though it does seem like that, doesn't it? But, I care about you. So much that it scares me. And I know that saying this will piss you off and anger you, but I just have to get it off of my chest.
Idon'twantyoutohavesexwithhim.
Did you catch that? I hope you did, because it's a little uncomfortable and I don't want to say it again. (Well, write it again.) I know that condoms were bought and plans were made, but I want you to truly think about this. Just think it over. I know that I have no right to ask you to do this, and I'm out of line, but I have to. And I don't want you to do anything that you'll regret.
...I guess that that's it. I just want you to be happy with your choice.
Sincerely (love),
Elijah Goldsworthy
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For the first time in ages, you are...happy. You tried reading a book, but every time a new song comes on, you start to dance again. And it's weird because you hate to dance. You despise it. Especially when you're dancing with someone, because you always step on their toes. But now, maybe it's because you're dancing with yourself and no one is watching, but adrenaline is taking you for a weird ride and you're dancing.
And you aren't even ashamed.
Oh, Elijah Goldsworthy.
But you've been having a good time. Before CeCe left with your dad, you gave her a quick peck on her cheek and asked her if you could talk to her over the weekend. Because you can't let your mom hurt anymore. She doesn't deserve that. And your mother smiled brightly and nodded, ignoring Bullfrog's obnoxious voice calling her to hurry up. When they left out the back door, and into the garage, you smile and run back up the stairs and into your room. While dancing, of course.
And when your bedroom door slams open, you leap back in surprise. Because what's in front of you is something...wow.
Clare Edwards.
With your letter in her hand.
Her hand is on her hip, but when she sees that you're in mid-dance, she stops and stares, before cracking a smile. You ignore her smirk, and move to turn down the music.
"How did you get in here?" You mutter and look at the ground, because her eyes are blazing with fire. She steps forward, and you step back.
"Your front door was open." She says casually and you immediately curse Adam out in your head.
"Oh, because when I want to talk to someone, I just barge right in-"
"You have no right!" Clare screeches at you and you wince as you realize that she has a fucking huge voice range, "You have no right to tell me to not have sex with my boyfriend. It's my decision, Eli! What was the point of writing that?"
"I was just looking out for you! I swear!"
"No," Clare snapped, "That's not even the point. The point is...how in the world did you think that I was going to have sex with Jake?"
You open your mouth but nothing comes out. And now, you start to realize that Jake is a hormonal teenage boy and says things that he doesn't mean. Oh. Everything is becoming a bit clearer in your mind.
"But...he said that you bought condoms...and-"
"No, he bought condoms." Clare sighed and shook her hair out of her face. And you watch her every movement in pure happiness. She wasn't going to have sex.
"And...thank you," She mutters and you look at her, your eyebrow quirking up, "Thank you for looking out for me...even though we haven't spoken in a while."
"No problem, Edwards," You smile and chuckle softly when she blushes.
"I should probably leave you back to your dancing, though." Clare jokes and you playfully stick your tongue out at her. She smiles smugly and looks around your clean room with a pride...a pride that's for you.
And that's why you cough once and open your dry mouth, "Would you like to stay...I can show you my moves?"
Clare winces playfully. "Oh, please, I've seen your moves. I mean, I'll stay, but please, if you have any mercy, don't dance, Mr. I-step-on-toes."
"Once! That happened once!" You shoot back, and turn on the music. You turn back to her and give a slightly sleazy smile, "Are you ready to dance?"
.
.
"Eli, you stepped on my toe."
"No...that was the rug."
"Then explain to me why it hurt."
"Don't ask me."
...
"Ow, god, Clare! You have fucking heels on! That hurt!"
"I didn't step on you."
"Yeah-"
"That was the rug."
...
"...You little devil."
What is this? I don't really know, though...
Review, please? :)