The tense changes in the beginning were completely intentional. I'm sorry to anyone it bothers.
This was written for One Man Writing Games. I apologize for any mistakes.
There is a ghost in my mirror.
A bleeding, scared ghost. It should be the one standing tall, it shouldn't be cowering like it is. It's an ironic ghost. It's supposed to be the scary one, it's supposed to be in control. It's all his fault; he scared the ghost.
Razor blades disguised as words are hurled at him. One after the other. One after the other. Something smashed loud and hard and he jumped in fright. He let his eyes drain out until the sting makes him feel empty. He wants to cover himself and hide, but the knives always found him. His ears are a vulnerable target.
The linoleum of the floor smiles at me. I should lay down and sleep. My head aches. My arm is flowing. The rag soaks it all up. There's not enough room in the rag. My head aches.
"Who do you think you are?" he says. "What are you trying to be?" he screamed.
"I can't, I cant!" comes the response. His eyes were like fire, angry. Out of control. Burning. No room for mercy.
"That's because you're nothing! You'll never be anything!"
Nothing. Nothing, it's all about nothing. I hum the word behind my lips because it's the only thing I know. The alcohol stings my arm but I steel myself because it can't hurt more than it already does. I'll get through it. I always do.
His head cracks open and stings ice as it met the wall. The hand on the other side clenches spider-like and released him. The words flew at him and glaciers are rutting grooves into his cheeks, he's sure of it.
Almost positive. I stare at the ghost in the mirror, at its pale appearance, at the horrific purple bruise crowning its temple. I want to reach out and touch it, to convince myself it's not what it is. Maybe if I can just touch it, the broken image will disappear and an angel of sorts will take its place.
"You really think you can make it, don't you?" he yells. "You really think you have it in you!" He snaps his head to the side and spits sharp, razor laughter, eyes alight with frenzy.
"No, no, I don't- I can't!" it hollered back. He drew back and snapped forward, knocking it down, letting the sandy floor take it in instead. Its fingers scrabbled and its eyes bled diamonds. No, it moans, no, no, no.
"No, no, no," I repeat, shaking my head and stretching the white across my flowing arm, because the rag was too small and if it doesn't stop I'll be greeting the linoleum like it wants to greet me. It's cold, but only on the inside.
"Just try!" Tears, tears, raining down, streaming down, flooding down. Screams of agony, screams of torture. No, no, no. "Just try, so everyone can see you fail, and laugh. They would laugh because they would see how pathetic you really are." Blurs and smudges and meeting the wall, floor, chair, counter, table, not for the first time. Never.
My arm is white as a ghost now, almost like that one that keeps staring at me. No, exactly like that one. Its eyes are so sad, so melancholy. Lost. But what am I supposed to do?
A glass broke. It shatters over his arms and the bits and pieces sink into him like it was always their destiny. It stings. The knives relentlessly pound into him, driving deeper and deeper each time. Screams and shouts rose up, laughter in his ears. He rang.
"Stop it," I murmur with chide, shuddering. My arm stings and my head, it still aches. There's a sharp ring in my ear. The crystal rivulets spiral down and down and down until everything is one. It's so cold on the inside, but it will get better. It always does.
"Jay, I love you. Jay, I'm sorry.
"Jay, I love you."
...
Four knocks, I give him. A steady, unbroken stream. One, two, three, four. He knows what it means. Yes or no.
The door pans open and his face appears between it and its frame. His lips vacuum in a sharp blade of air as his eyes settle on my forehead and he instantly opens the door all the way to let me in. I accept his warm embrace, returning it willingly as he pulls me in and shuts the door behind me. Neither of us speak as he leads me into his bathroom. I stand motionlessly, feeling small, while he puts the toilet seat down and then sits me on it. He sits on the edge of the bathtub, opposite me, and meets my eyes.
"Want to talk about it?"
I let the words hang heavy in the air, solitary in their weight. I let out a breath of air through slightly parted lips.
"He smashed my head into the wall."
He inhales sharply. "James, you could have a concussion," he says in a serious, worried tone.
"I think I probably do. But... I need help with my arm." Swallowing nervously, I carefully remove my jacket, revealing my gauze-wrapped arm. The white material is stained with a dark, rusty crimson. Logan watches with dark eyes as I slowly, cautiously unravel the gauze, piece by piece exposing the angry, ragged, shiny red skin beneath. My arm is almost glowing, a bright cardinal, adorned with small scratches that seem to frame the one long gash that stands out, sharply capturing the light and reflecting it easily. Logan makes no move, no sound, just stares at my ravaged arm. I bite my lip. He raises his gaze to meet mine. How did that happen?
I break eye contact, swiftly swiping my tongue across my lips. "There was a glass on the table, and... he... he hit me with it and it broke and a big piece cut me and a bunch of the little pieces got stuck in my arm. I- I could only try to stop the bleeding and wrap it up, but I need you to help get the pieces out." I blink and flash my gaze back up to his. His face has become rigid and stony. He sees me, nods once, and motions for me to hold out my arm. I scoot forward on the seat and comply, and his dark, analytical gaze sweeps over the limb, taking everything in, seeing the tiny crystals and diamonds poking out as if poorly hidden, the darkened red of dried blood futilely attempting to assist in their concealment. His fingertips are light and gentle as they hold my arm, carefully placed so they don't touch the cuts. I don't blame him for being so careful- that big gash looks as if it could reopen at any given moment. He releases me and stands, heading for the sink and pulling open a drawer to receive... tweezers. He closes the drawer, heads back to me, grabs a small towel off the rack beside the shower, sits down again. I give him my arm, trying to hold it still as such an awkward angle, and he sets to work.
It stings, every second of it. He digs deep into my arm with the tweezers trying to retrieve the most difficult pieces. My teeth are clenched hard, my left hand clutching the edge of the toilet seat without thought, my breath constantly escapes me in a rush, and Logan keeps telling me to relax the fingers of my right hand because clenching it into a fist makes it harder to work with. Other than that, he works silently.
I don't know what it is; the pain, the stress, the hurt, everything combined- it's none of those things. The only thing I'm focused on is the stingingprickingpulling of my arm, and usually I can endure a lot of physical pain. For whatever reason, though, I'm suddenly crying, unable to stop myself. The tears fall hard and the breath in my lungs comes out in shards- broken. Logan stops what he's doing and looks up at me, meeting my teary-eyed gaze, his own still the same dark eyes he came in with. I can't look away, just keep staring at him and biting my lip in a failed attempt to muffle my sobs.
"James, you have a concussion, and a lot of these pieces are lodged too far into your arm; I can't get to them. You have to go to the hospital."
Fear drops like lead inside me and I cry harder. "N-no, Lo-ogan, I c-can't, you can't- you s-s-said you wou-ouldn't- ngh-"
"James, shh..." he soothes, holding the washcloth over my wound gently, voice pained as he speaks. "I know I said that, bit I didn't think it would get this bad. This is serious, James. Please, you need this."
"Th-they'll know," I whimper. "The police will arrest him."
"We won't tell them," he answers with a melancholy air. "We'll lie."
"Lie?" My tears won't stop, not for anything. I don't know why I'm crying. I'm not supposed to be. My breath is made up of broken glass, the shards trapped in my bloody arm- they've made their way into my lungs. They spray out in choppy waves, and I hope I'm not hurting Logan with them. I lower my head so they'll come out on my legs instead of over him.
"We can tell them you tripped while holding a glass and fell on your forehead. We can say that the glass broke and when you fell your arm landed on it." His voice is smooth, calm, monotonous. "Alright? Can we do that, James?"
I give a series of broken, frantic gasps, freezing for a moment before choking out another sob. I don't want to do the hospital. The hospital will hurt him. I can't hurt him. But Logan is scared. He likes hospitals. He wants me to hospital. I don't hospital, no, no, no...
"H-hospital hurts," I whimper. "No..."
"For me," he pleads with muffled words. "James..."
I don't want to answer him anymore. Hospital's a bad place. I can't. They'll take him away. Away. Away. Away. No, that's bad. Can't hospital, never, never.
He speaks from within a thick bubble. "Me... For me... Please... Need to..."
All I can say is no, no, no. I can't go. I can't.
...
Logan's pleading dwindles off to steady, prominent blips that ache my head further. I try to tell him to stop, but it feels like my mouth is taped shut. Something else comes out, and I dearly hope I'm not the one who made that noise. My head feels tight and pressured. It could explode any moment. I wish it wouldn't. I have places to be, people to see- even if some of those people probably aren't the greatest people to be seeing.
"James?"
What? My head does this weird thing where it fees like it's being sucked into something, but it stays where it is and then the feeling stops and there's the same tight pressure again.
"James, are you awake?"
Wh-what? What am I supposed to do when my mouth is taped shut? There's glue caked onto the rims of my eyes; they won't open either. Something catches my hand- the left one. More pressure flips through me, why are there acrobats in my body?
"James, come on, wake up."
No, I don't want to. I'm way too tired. I need five more... hours, yeah. Don't you dare wake me up. My head stretches and snaps again. My whole body jerks. I moan.
"C'mon, buddy, let's go. They won't let us leave unless you wake up."
"Uhhhh..." I groan, a shaky, shuddery breath escaping my lips. The hold on my left hand turns into another hand, squeezing. I make a vaguely disgruntled noise, going to reach up to pull my eyelids apart- there's a hand on my left that holds it down. Oh yeah. "Kkkkkkkendall? 'Ssat you?" I mumble groggily, trying to work my eyes open.
"No- it's Logan." I grin, my mouth's movement restricted somehow.
"Mmmm, Logan. Ilku, Loghn." I smack my lips loudly and lick them wet. "Logan, yer good t' me. Donch'yever hurt me, else I'll be all 'lone..."
"I won't. I'll never hurt you, ever." There's something strange about his voice...
"Mm, good. Yu'll never take me t' hospill, mm?"
"No, James... We're at the hospital right now."
"Wha..."
"We're at th-"
"No, no, Logan, we can't hospill, is bad. So, so bad. C'n we jus' stay here?"
"James, we're already at the hospital. They fixed your arm up and now we can go home if you just wake up."
"Mnn... 'S... 'S K'ndall here?"
"Kendall doesn't know you're here."
"Is... 'S he at th' hospill already?"
"We're at the hospital and Kendall is not."
"Let's stay home. I don' wanna hospital. Can we not go to th' hospital?"
"We are at the hospital."
"Where's Kendall?"
"Shh..."
I think hard, trying to remember everything that's happened. I remember Kendall, yelling at me, hurting me. My head slamming into the wall so hard my vision blanked for a split second. Kendall, raising the glass high over his head, my body flinching inward, arm raising to protect my head. The glass shattering over my arm. My voice crying out high.
I shiver, not wanting to remember anymore. Logan, though... he helped me, he wouldn't hurt me. I went to his house for help, and he let me in. He took me to his bathroom like he always does now and washed me up, and I felt better. It hurt at first, but the scalding water was soothing to my bruises and aches. He washed me down and kissed at my forehead, just the way I always wished Kendall would. I remember, if I closed my eyes and relaxed into the soft, massaging hands, I could pretend it was Kendall, and I was able to smile at the thought. I wished it was real. I slept over at Logan's house that night, cuddled in close to him for comfort, pretending some more. He was warm, and he made me feel safer. The next day Kendall found out and beat me for it. I didn't go back to Logan for a month.
I don't know why he hurts me. Honestly, I don't. He doesn't do it all the time, only when things get really bad. I don't know if he means it or if it just happens. Logan hates it, though, and I know he does.
"Logan?" I speak up hesitantly. His hand tightens around my own, but it's comforting rather than restricting. "...Are we... We're at the hospital, aren't we?" I can hear the heart monitor speaking in short, evenly spaced blips.
"Mhmm," he murmurs softly, squeezing my hand, massaging it. I let out a soft noise like a whimper, fearful. He squeezes my hand.
"I didn't tell them," he soothes reassuringly. My breath catches.
"No?"
"No." He sighs. "And we're the only ones who know you're here."
"Kendall doesn't know?"
"No."
"What about my parents?"
"I took care of everything."
"Logan." My eyes drift open and blur slightly before focusing on his face, close by and soft. I finally squeeze his hand back and offer a weak smile.
"You're okay."
"What happened?"
"You have a grade three concussion. You passed out. I took you here. I told them you fell and hit your head."
"Is my arm okay?"
"You needed very minor surgery, but they still had to put you under. That's why you were so out of it when you first woke up. You seem better now, though..."
"I feel better," I agree truthfully. We fall into a short silence. "So... you didn't tell them?" Logan shakes his head. I can see regret piercing his eyes.
"No, I didn't..." His eyes fall to our hands, contemplating them. He looks back up at me. His voice takes on a slight pleading quality. "James-"
"I know," I interrupt, maybe a little too harshly. I break eye contact, staring past him down at the cold tiled floor. "Logan, I know."
"So why don't you do anything about it?" he challenges. When I simply continue to stare blankly at the floor, he continues, "You can't keep living like this. What are you going to do? Let it draw out further and further until it gets even more out of hand? When are you going to stop this, James? When he's broken every single bone in your body, will that be enough? When he paralyzes you? When he puts you in a coma?"
"Stop!" I cry shrilly, tearing my hand from his grasp, raising both of them to cover my ears. "Kendall would never do any of those things to me- never! So shut up! Stop it!"
"Why don't you?" he returns, snarling. "It's only gonna get worse from here on out."
"No, no," I moan, whimpering, my eyes filling with acid tears. "No, stop. Leave me alone..."
"I'll stop when you do." A sob wrenches from my throat and I cover my eyes with my palms, digging the heels in hard.
"S-stop," I gasp, feeling the tears seeping out. "Stop h-hurting me..."
"James..." His voice has lost all severity, dropped in both volume and intensity. Now he's gentle, now he's caring. His body fold close against mine, arms encircling my trembling shoulders. "James, I'm sorry... I would never hurt you, I'm so sorry."
I don't answer. I'm trying to stifle my cries, but it's impossible. The tears won't stop, and my breathing won't piece itself back together. But it's okay, because there are arms around me, arms that care, arms that aren't trying to crush me, break me, and I can pretend. I can close my eyes and imagine another place, another person, another situation. I can smile. Logan holds me until I stop crying.
...
It's warm. The bed is soft and the dim yellow light of the lamp sifts lightly across us. His arms have me in their grasp, his nose buried into the back of my neck. He kisses softly. It's all I could ever want, is right here, right now; wrapped up in his embrace, no one else, nothing else. One of my hands' fingers entwined with his. He's so warm, so comforting. I never want this moment to end.
His lips move up, slowly, mouthing affection along the way. He kisses at the side of my neck, my jaw, my ear. My eyes are closed.
"You're so beautiful, James..." he murmurs softly as his thumb soothes at the back of my hand. I hum slightly, inching back into him, trying to get more warmth. "I love you..."
"I love you too," I respond, cherishing his words. It's so perfect, every time he says them. I never want to stop hearing it. His lips move back down to my neck again, and he nuzzles. I'm still smiling.
"James?" he speaks tentatively. I lightly squeeze his hand.
"Mm?"
"D'you think... Never mind."
"No, what?"
"It's nothing." He sounds restricted and uncomfortable. I open my eyes.
"C'mon, it's okay. Please?" He sighs in resignation.
"I... Okay." He doesn't say anything, though, and I have to give his hand a little squeeze to make him talk. He buries his face into the back of my neck, breath hot as he mumbles with a small voice, "Do you think my parents still love each other?"
He sounds so scared and insignificant, the exact opposite of what it should be. I let go of his hand and turn around in his arms to face him. He looks... vulnerable. "Kendall..." My hand reaches out and brushes back against his forehead, fingers moving his hair away from his eyes so I can see them clearly. His top teeth cling desperately to his bottom lip as he stares into me, searching. I pull him close into a hug, his face finding refuge in my shoulder. He shudders slightly, leaning in, returning the embrace.
"Kendall... whatever happens, I'll be here. Alright? Remember that, okay?"
He nods into my shoulder, sniffles slightly, muffles something. "But you didn't answer my question."
I don't reply immediately, thinking hard. It's hard to do so, though, because I'm so unused to seeing Kendall like this; it scares me. But I have to suppress my fear for him, because he needs me right now. "I think... Yes. Deep down, they do. They got married, there has to be something."
"Sometimes I don't think there is," he admits into my shoulder, still sounding small and scared.
"Well, when that happens you can come over here, and we can spend the time together making up for it," I murmur soothingly into his hair, kissing softly. "Alright?"
"Mhm," he whimpers, sniffling again. I pull back so I can see him again; he stares back with watery eyes before averting his gaze to the bed.
"Hey," I say softly. He blinks and looks back at me. I give a small smile, what I hope is a comforting smile. "I love you."
"I love you too," he returns, a smile of his own making an appearance, albeit small and short. My eyes dim, my expression sobers, as his does the same. We simultaneously meld together, and when our lips meet, it's soft and slow and everything I could ever want right here, right now. We kiss, we separate, we hold each other, and it's just him, just me, and nothing else in the world.
...
I lay curled up in my bed, alone. It's stupid, but I feel swamped, overwhelmed, because the bed is so much bigger than I am and I have no one to help me best it. I'm lost in the middle of an endless desert, a ship capsized in the open ocean. I'm so small.
Logan said to rest. He said I'll never get better if I don't rest. Laying in bed and staring at the wall is doing absolutely nothing, but I don't find myself in need of getting up and doing something. So I'll just rest until I'm better, and then maybe a little more. Maybe I'll just rest forever and never have to worry about anything ever again. My dreams will keep me company. They'll lie to me, like a good friend does. They'll tell me that Kendall loves me, and that Logan is going to stick with me until the end. But even if Logan doesn't, it'll be okay because Kendall will love me.
He tells me he loves me, sometimes. He won't do it when he's thinking about it, only after he's hurt me and I'm hurt and scared and crying, that's when he says it. His love is a follow-up to his "I'm sorry"s, to his "I hate you"s and his "shut up"s and his "you're nothing"s. He waits until I'm bleeding and I need him to come out and say his "I love you"s.
Sometimes I don't believe him because he hugs me and kisses me and pretends to be soft, warm and in love, but behind my back he clutches a knife, and when he needs me, his hugs and his kisses turn into fists and blades. I take it, though because he need it. He needs to let it out, he needs to be angry. He needs to hurt someone, because if there's no one else, he'll just hurt himself. I can't let that happen. Who would I be? I suppose I'd be what I already am: nothing. He tells me that all the time.
I suddenly realize that I'm staring at the small end table beside my bed, where my sky blue iPod lays. Its casing stares at me with the honest promise of escape, to temporarily forget. I wonder briefly if listening to music will have a negative effect on my healing concussion, but then decide that the prospect of being able to immerse myself in a new world, even if just for a few minutes, is so much more inviting than continuing to lay here, staring at nothing, thinking depressing thoughts. The music will steer my thoughts. Reaching over with the arm that isn't pinned beneath my weight, I manage to grasp the device and bring it back, switching it on as I free my other arm to insert the buds into my ears.
It's much too loud and I jump before scrambling to turn it down, realizing afterward that I could have just taken the earphones out instead of subjecting my brain to five seconds of complete and utter torture. My head aches thoroughly and I decide that yes, the music is going to have a negative effect on my concussion. I'll just have to keep the sound low. Playing is, ironically, The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus' "Face Down"- I've been listening to it a lot lately, which sort of takes the irony away from the moment. The funny thing is that Logan was the one who suggested it to me a year ago, way before Kendall even started using words against me. At the time it was funny to me because it was such a... strong song, something that I'd never imagined he'd listen to, but he really liked it, and we'd shared music multiple times before so it wasn't random or anything.
Mostly I listen to it when Logan is putting so much pressure on me that it seems like too much to handle; it helps me see things from his point of view- the frustration, the helplessness, the anger. I don't want to be mad at Logan. He's the only one who's able to keep me sane through all of this, even if he doesn't understand. He's the only thing I have; if I lost him, I don't know what I would do. So I have to keep him close, even if sometimes he adds to the stress. It's not his fault. Nothing is his fault.
The song ends and I thumb the back button adjusting my head against the pillow in a vain attempt to stop the earphone from digging into my ear. Sighing, I shift over onto my back and stare blankly up at the crevices of the ceiling.
For as long as I can remember, I've always wanted to perform. Not theater or dance, but singing. It's still my dream to be a singer. My whole life has been filled with singing along, humming if I didn't know the words yet, and later, school choirs. It's the best thing in the world, getting up on a stage and just letting yourself go, and singing has brought me so much; I get positive attention, I meet new people, I go places, and most importantly, I can feel so free when I sing. It's like my mind and body are two separate things when I sing, and my mind can soar as high as it wants while my body watches, smiling, from below, and I just let it all go.
My thoughts wander to The Performance. It's supposed to be huge; apparently a big critic is supposed to be attending, so there's a lot of pressure on the whole choir. I have a solo. Of course, I've had solos before, but with an important face in the crowd, watching my every move, listening and waiting for me to screw up- I'm not sure if I can do it. I want to be recognized, I want to be picked up, I always have. When an opportunity finally comes up, though, for the first time in my life I'm experiencing stage fright. I'm almost positive I would be screwing this up if it weren't for Kendall.
We've known about The Performance for months, the critic. It's what we've been practicing for, to give our town a good name. It's so much pressure, especially on us soloists, but Kendall has encouraged me the whole way through. When I first told him about it, that I was nervous, his response was, "I don't get it. You're scared that you're gonna fail? James, that's impossible."
He's going to be there. All this time, he's told me, I'm going to be amazing, I'm going to nail it, the critic will be blown away. He's going to be there for me, he's going to be watching, he's going to be cheering me on with his presence, his eyes, his smile. I haven't seen his smile in a long, long time. I want to be the reason for his smile.
Through the music I hear my phone vibrate on the end table. Logan said not to talk to Kendall while I'm trying to rest because stress could make things worse, but I can't ignore Kendall- he'll just come over and see my bandaged arm, my bruised head. I pause the song and reach across the bed again to retrieve the persistent device, flipping it open and holding it to my ear.
"Hello?" My voice is hoarse.
"James? I can't- I'm so, so-"
"It's okay," I interrupt softly, trying not to strain my voice. I need something to soothe my throat.
"No, it's not, I-" He lowers his voice. "I hurt you, James."
"You didn't mean it," I tell him. "I'm fine, anyway. I went to sleep for a long time and when I woke up, I felt better. I'm okay now."
"But I feel horrible."
"Kend-" I break off as my voice catches on one of the crags of my sore throat. I start over, my voice softer. "Kendall, it's okay, really. Don't worry about it. It's behind us now. I forgive you."
"I'm so, so sorry," he insists brokenly.
"Kendall. Stop it. It's okay. I swear."
"I- Okay. I'm sorry. I love you."
My voice catches again. "I love you too."
"I'll see you later, okay?"
"Mhm. Bye."
"Bye, James. I love you."
"Love you too." I hang up, and I'm positive I wasn't able to keep the shaking out of my voice on the last one. Hopefully he didn't notice.
I love you. The words stick in my mind, in his voice, but they mean nothing. They used to mean the world to me, coming from him, but now when he says them, I feel heavy. Like there's a weight to the words, but it's a bad weight that pulls me down and makes me feel like I can't do anything, like I'm trapped. I want to believe him, so badly, but every time he says it I think of his fingers, curled hard around my arm, forming bruises, curled into fists to smash into me, to break me down- and I can't believe him. I imagine his eyes, harsh and spitting like hot coals, his mouth opening to reveal that his teeth have turned to knives, his tongue a rapier. I love you.
He holds me to him when he apologizes endlessly. Twice he's cried. I don't know what it means, but he says he's sorry and he loves me and holds me tighter, squeezing my bruises, the ones he's given me, making them ache. And I can't believe him, I can't trust him. But I love him. And he needs me.
The song is still paused. I press play and curl up on my side, closing my eyes and letting the music encompass my completely.
He needs me. He needs me.
...
He always forgives me. Why does he always forgive me? How can he go around pretending that he's okay after I physically hurt him? I say the most horrible things to him, I break him down, and for what? To have him turn around and say that he's fine and to forget about it? He's not okay, I know he's not. I've noticed, he hesitates when he says he loves me, he shies away when I'm close to him, and he's rigid when I hold him. He's scared of me, and it hurts so much, more than I could have ever imagined. I want to ask him, "Why do you still stay with me? Why do you come back? Why don't you leave me? Why do you still love me?"
I don't know why I do it. I love him so much. I don't know why I do it. I don't mean to. I don't want to. I just always get so angry, I can't control myself. And then it happens, and he forgives me every time.
He's such an incredible person, I don't deserve him. He's every one of the clichés from the movies, and more. He has the most beautiful singing voice; I could listen all day. He used to sing to me, before it all started. When I could hear the echoes of smashing and screaming, hateful words, and tears, his voice would softly seep through the chaos, finding me and gently slipping tendrils up all around me, soothing me, letting me know that I wasn't alone, and I could let myself relax. He would lull me with his beautiful voice, and everything would feel right. He never sings to me anymore; not when we're together, not when I'm hurting. I miss it, but it's okay, because tonight, he's performing. He has a solo tonight, and it's going to be amazing. I've told him that time and time again, and I believe it. I want to hear him sing again, it's been so long. We've known about it for anticipation-filled months, and I'm about ready to explode. He'll get up there, and he'll be nervous, He'll look at me. I'll smile. He'll sing. I'll close my eyes and drift away, letting the song carry me away, just like it used to, and I'll be whole again. It won't matter that I'm lost, alone. Because I won't be anymore. He'll sing everything better, just like he used to. And maybe we'll finally be whole.
...
"You're nothing!"
"Please!"
"I hate you. I hate you!"
"Stop! Please!"
"Shut up! You don't matter- you're nothing!"
The words swirl in a torrent of hate and frustration and pain and helplessness, echoing over and over again, I hate you, I hate you, you're worthless, you're nothing. Pleading cries of stop, of please, of don't. Torture, stop, stop stop.
Broken up machine voices, "I- l-l-l-lo-ve y-ou-ou." It doesn't sound right. "Please!"
"I hate you!"
Nothing works, because the harder he tries to block the noises out, the louder they become. He claps his hands over his ears, palms digging in hard, but there are invisible earphones plugged into his eardrums, electrified copper wires snapping and crackling and twisting haphazardly all the way into the amplifier of his brain, the completion of the circuit. A million broken records file one by one into his being, repeating over and over- "I hate you! You're nothing! Shut up! I hate you!"- until he can stand it no longer. Screeching wildly, he reaches into his ears, into his head, and tears the wires away, breaking them, snapping them in half, letting the physical sounds die pitifully, but it's far too late, because they are forever embedded in his brain, into his memory.
"I hate you, I love you. I love you, shut up, shut up, I hate you, please, I hate you I hate you Ihateyou."
Crying. So hard that he starts falling apart; first his arm, then his other hand, and his torn ears and his nose until everything slides off and he's stuck in a pile of worthlessness, curled up so tightly that nothing can get to him, save for the broken records. "I hate you. I hate you. I hate you."
"I l-l-l-love y-ou-ou." Machine noises, broken voices. Broken will, ruptured spine.
"You're nothing!"
Tears engulf him. He's drowning. He's blind. He can't see. Where is the world he's known so well? Where is the beauty? Where is the solace? Sobs upon sobs rack his devastated body, and no matter how hard he tries, no matter how desperately, all he can hear are the words and the words and the words.
"I hate you!"
...
Shivering, wide-eyed, I sit up, trying to will it away, to make it stop. I don't know who I am anymore.
My eyes shut and I can breathe out, deeply. Stop. Calm down. I will it away.
My ears strain to hear, to analyze. I hear movement somewhere in the house, but nothing loud. I sigh in relief. My knees bend over the side of my bed and I sit still for a moment before standing and stretching my arms high in the air. It's dark outside. Singing. James is going to be singing. I can smile. I want to smile.
"Kendall!" calls a voice from beyond my door, footsteps signaling the approach of the voice's owner. She sounds... happy. This is new. I can't remember the last time I've seen her upbeat, or even simply neutral. I'm curious as to what might have caused this turn of events; the door opens and she enters, and my goodness, is that a- smile?
"Hi, mom," I greet her, slightly confused, but I'm not complaining. "Do you need something?"
"We're going out," she informs me, my eyebrows furrowing at the news.
"Going..." I prompt her. Oh my god, she is smiling. A genuine, happy smile, not the sad kind she always uses to empathize with or attempt to comfort us.
"To dinner. Your father and I have agreed that we should all try to bond more. This is a good way to start."
My heart just stopped, I think. Stunned, I sit back down on the bed. Bonding. My parents want to have a family dinner, everyone together, no fighting, no yelling, no hurting. The prospect is just so alien that I can't help but be rendered speechless. Memories of hate and pain plague me, making me shiver slightly, my eyes slipping shut.
"Kendall? Did you hear me?"
"Hm- What?" I reopen my eyes and look up at her- she looks worried. I bite my lip. "I'm sorry- What did you say?"
"We're going out for a family dinner tonight," she repeats warily. "Honey, are you okay?"
"I-" No fighting. No hate. It doesn't make sense to me for the longest time. It's so- foreign. I can barely remember a time in which everything was peaceful. I'm starting to wonder if there ever was one, because I'm struggling to remember even a single kiss between my parents. I think back to a conversation James and I had once upon a time, when he assured me that my parents must still love each other. Even if that was months ago, maybe there can still be some truth to that statement. Maybe he was right.
Something unfamiliar spreads through me, an emotion I left behind long ago, so long ago that I barely recognize that I've felt it before. I can't put a name to it, but it's definitely in great contrast to everything I've been feeling recently. It's... positive.
"I- Yeah," I nod, suddenly feeling like I have energy. The energy to do something, to not just lay around in bed all day, trying to sleep everything off. Something like a real smile breaks out on my face. "Yeah, that sounds great." And now I can't stop smiling. Is this it? Is it finally over?
She sits down on the bed beside me and leans over to fold me into her arms, my head resting against her shoulder. "Good," she says, rubbing my arm slightly as she embraces me warmly. "It's good to see you smile again, hon," she murmurs, before kissing the top of my head and releasing me to stand again. "Be ready in ten minutes, alright?"
"Kay," I answer as she shuts the door, my mood drastically brightened. I have no idea what might have possibly brought this on, but the only thing I can do is be thankful that it's happening and hope for the best for the future.
Maybe things are finally starting to heal.
...
Just an hour ago, those seats were empty. Now they're filling with hundreds of people- hundreds. I don't know how so many people would want to come and see something like this, but I suppose it must be something big if a real critic is coming.
He's sitting right over there, towards the middle of the auditorium, near the front. He looks all big and official in his suit and tie, like he's ready to take on the world. I'm ready to take on the world. Or at least, I used to be. I don't really know how I feel anymore. My life has sort of fallen apart as of late.
Uncertainty rises up my throat like bile, and I hide behind the curtain again. This is stupid. I've done this a million other times. Why am I so afraid to get out there? It would make sense to say that the critic is making me nervous, but deep down, I know that I really have no problem performing in front of him. What makes the situation so ludicrous is that I'm anxious to impress not the critic, but Kendall.
Kendall. He's not even here. Or, at least, I haven't seen him yet, I reprimand myself. He'll be here. I know that despite the serious problems we've been having much too frequently, he's not going to break his promise; he'll be here. He'll be here. I repeat it to myself over and over, hoping that it'll give me the strength to stop my hands from trembling and my knees from going weak.
What if you mess up? What if he hates it? He hates you.
No, I can't think like that. He'll smile. He'll smile for me, and he'll love me. He doesn't hate me. He hates me when he's hurting, but he really doesn't hate me. I know he doesn't. Deep down, he still loves me.
My thoughts are interrupted as the choir director tells us to take our positions, that we're on in thirty seconds. My heart is in my throat. I shouldn't be nervous. I shouldn't be nervous. I'm not going to mess up; I'm James Diamond, I never mess up. I own the stage. Why can't I do this tonight? Kendall. Kendall. No, it's not Kendall's fault, because in no way does he affect my performing ability. It's not his fault. He...
The curtain is raised and the music starts up, and without thinking, I fall right into the routine. A lot of the people in choir still have a hard time with dancing while keeping their voices clear and strong, but I never really seemed to have that problem. I've been told that performing is my calling, but when it matters, is that really true? I'm extremely nervous this time, and I refuse to blame it on Kendall; the critic is here, so am I expected to believe that his presence is just a coincidence? I've never been nervous about performing in my life. I don't know how to deal with these trembling hands, these weak knees. Real fear weaves its way into my brain, asking me mockingly, over and over, what if you mess up, James? With all those people watching, with that critic, with Kendall; what will he think if you mess up, James?
No. No, stop. It's not Kendall.
He'll hate you even more.
My step falters slightly and I jump forcefully into the next move, trying to shake it off. I need to stop thinking. Shutting my eyes briefly, I let the sound and the flow of the routine take over me, flooding myself in passion and strength. The moves come to me, the notes build up naturally in my throat, and when I open my eyes again, it's only the stage, the crowd, and me.
...
We go to a nice, average restaurant. It's not a fast food restaurant, but it's not ridiculously fancy either. True, my dad hasn't smiled once tonight, but my mom can do nothing but, which is all I can really ask for.
Honestly, I hate my father.
I hate him for everything he's done to my family, to my mom. She acts like she's okay whenever either of us kids is around, but we know she's not. The whole situation is stressing her out. Sometimes she can't sleep at night. Sometimes I'm up, lying awake in bed, so that I won't have to face the nightmares brewing in my subconscious, and I can hear her moving around, constantly moving; cleaning, fixing, whatever it takes to keep her busy. Even in the odd hours of the morning, she's bustling around in the kitchen, or the livingroom, or the diningroom. She submerses herself in work because it gives her a one-track mind, so that she doesn't have to think about anything else. I wish I could find something like that for myself, because I'd much rather be focused solely on one thing and only one thing than lie awake in the middle of the night, staring at the ceiling through the thick cloak of shadow.
Our food arrives then, and it smells like the most gorgeous thing I have ever encountered. I'm not sure the food itself really tastes all that amazing, but the fact that I'm here, getting it, instead of at home listening to the crashes and the screams, is a miracle in itself. Still, I can't get myself to completely relax- at first, at least. While we sat and waited for our food, I was tensed up, ready for the catalyst that never came. Once my mom provoked conversation, though, everyone was able to join in easily and I let myself go a little more slack, loosening up enough to attempt small grins and comments relevant to whatever came up. Underneath the light, flittering words are scars and wounds, but for the moment, we're able to ignore that, and honestly, it feels good. I feel better than I have in a long time.
I'm just letting myself believe that everything might be okay after all when my father asks, "So, how does it feel to eat some real food?" And really, that comment could have been completely harmless, and we could have all simply continued with our dinner and got along for the rest of the night, but it evidently strikes a nerve with my mom, inducing her to give him a look that anyone could tell is saying to back off.
"I would say it feels like every other night we have dinner," she answers testily, catching his eye. I've frozen, my fingers curled limply around the handle of my fork with my wrist resting against the chillness of my plate. My dad raises his eyebrows as he returns her gaze.
"Well, if that's your opinion, I'm not going to say it's wrong or anything, but-"
"But what?" she challenges. "But my cooking isn't the same as a restaurant's?"
"I never said anything about your cooking."
"But you implied it." Her tone is dangerous. I watch despairingly as a spark lights my father's eye; it's the kind of spark he always gets just before one of those "arguments" is about to happen, the kind when he's ready to defend his point with his life.
"If you want me to be honest, then yes, I was implying that your home cooking isn't the best I've had. What point are you trying to make?"
"What point am I trying to make?" she seethes back at him. "Have you ever slaved in the kitchen for an hour trying to make enough food for everyone so we can have dinner every night?"
"Well, it's not my job to."
It's ridiculous, the things they attack each other over; the smallest, tiniest little things can turn into something so huge they end up screaming at each other. Nothing goes unnoticed between them, and everything has to be "fixed." Never do they listen to each other, and never do they actually solve anything. It's our personal little Hell, and I'm not sure how much longer I can take.
As the argument gets more heated, I feel more and more lost. I had it, it was there, I could feel it. I had it, and now it's gone, slipped from my fingers, disappeared in the blink of an eye, the slight sliver of a second I wasn't paying attention. It's gone, and I'm never, ever going to get it back.
Things are never going to be alright again.
...
The show flies by. There are five songs before my solo, and it feels like we've only gone through two when the time comes. I'm stepping up to the microphone, taking it in my suddenly shaking fingers, when my eyes scan the crowd for the thousandth time tonight, searching with dwindling hope that I'll see the one face I need to see, please.
He's not here.
It hits me so hard that it feels like the wind has been knocked out of me. I don't even know where the thought came from, but I know deep down in my gut, far from my delusional mind, that it's true, that he didn't come, that he... doesn't care. I feel like I can't even breathe anymore, but the piano's introduction swirls up and fills the room, and there's no going back now. I force myself to inhale as much air as I can before the first note swells deep in my throat, my lips parting to let it soar.
I'm not focused. Everything I let out sounds weak and insubstantial to me, completely devoid of all the passion I'm usually letting flow. I try to right it, but all I can think of is the crushing defeat, the pain, the sick, injured feeling rising steadily up my throat and interfering with everything I'm trying to be right now, everything I was supposed to be. I'm breaking down.
The music builds up, up, up, and I'm supposed to be rising with it, but it sounds so, so wrong to my ears, and it must be some sort of muscle memory my lips are thriving on, because every word in my mind right now is he hates me he doesn't love me he didn't come he hates me he hates me-
He's not here.
My high note, the one that was supposed to be the most powerful, snaps right in half on the threshold of my knotted throat, and it comes out like a broken, unwanted thing, crying desperately for help, but too hideous for anyone to even approach. The crowd, the lights, the microphone all blur before my eyes and my legs won't hold me up. My chest is shuddering when I try to take the next breath, and I can't do it.
The song isn't even over, but I just can't do it anymore. My voice is locked away in the tumultuous debris beneath my chest, and I can't get it out no matter how hard I try. There's a small, thin moment in which the piano flitters on, fingers skittering helpless and confused without the accompaniment of my voice, me staring out into the dark, faceless mass before me, my mouth open but uttering absolutely nothing.
Then, biting my lip, I turn and walk as quickly as I can offstage, leaving everything behind, trying my hardest to keep it all in until I'm out of sight. The music flutters pathetically and cuts off, a roaring in my ears following immediately after. The world is smudges and swirls of lines I can't even hope to interpret and navigating them is near impossible, but I blink furiously and manage to find my way to the door, where there are a few people crowded, but once I push them as politely as I can manage out of the way, I'm out of the room, and then I'm running hard.
...
The process of events between sitting at the table and collapsing to the cool grass just behind the restaurant is completely eliminated from my mind, and I'm not even sure it was ever there in the first place, but I'm on my knees and pulling out my phone, trying to make sense of things while my fingers think for me and press at all the little smudges on the screen before raising the device to my ear. Nothing is clear to me, and it's even harder to concentrate with all the loud, long beeps attacking my ear drums. My free hand is fisting at the grass so hard it's snapping under its grasp.
James, I need to talk to James, I need-
"H-hello?"
And just like that, there he is.
...
I found a dark, empty room halfway across the campus from the auditorium, far enough that I can't hear anything anymore, far enough that there would be no one to get in the way, no one to hear me, and I collapsed to the ground, breath shattered and impossible. My palms are digging hard into my eyes, and I'm gasping for air. My chest feels constricted; it's so hard to breathe. Either I'm going to hyperventilate or pass out from lack of air, but either way I'm lost, destroyed and defeated. Despair crashes down over me like a waterfall, and I'm sobbing, but there aren't enough tears. I'm just breathing deep but not deep enough, even though it feels like if I try any harder I'm going to suffocate. Nothing is making sense to me anymore. I just want to give up.
Then my phone vibrates in my pocket. I feel it, and I hear it. I'm ready to dismiss it as a text, easy to ignore, but then it happens again, and again and again, and someone is calling me. I'm in absolutely no state to answer, but a foolish hope is rooted inside me, that it could be... maybe...
I pull out my phone, and yes. I was somehow right, but- what does he want? Could he possibly be- apologizing? No. He's not. He's Kendall. The words "Kendall" and "apologize" don't mix. Still, like the idiot I am, the thought sticks and I flip open the phone, clearing my throat before hesitantly answering, "H-hello?"
There's a terrifying pause before I hear him respond. "James? J-James, can I come over?" And everything I had left inside of me breaks. Of course he wouldn't, how could I be so stupid? Over and over, I let him do this, every time, and for what? For the same thing to happen every single time?
It's hopeless. It's a lost cause. Nothing is ever going to change, and Logan was right the whole time. I can't do this anymore. How could I think, for one second, that he could ever change? That things could ever heal between us? It should have been obvious to me from the start that it was wrong. He doesn't care, and he never will. That's all there is to it.
The phone starts to slip from my fingers but I tighten my hold before that can happen, drawing a shaky breath and preparing myself for words. When I speak next, my voice is cold and toneless.
"No."
And I hang up.
...
The empty dial tone droning out is the most horrible, horrible thing I've ever heard in my life. That one word, that finalizing statement is echoing over and over through my mind, each one overlapping the last until there are ten thousand 'no's filling my head. I'm blinded and there's a dull, dramatized thud as the phone drops to the grass beside me. I'm in a sort of daze, my eyes staring sightlessly ahead and absorbing nothing.
I feel dizzy. I need to lay down. The thought manages to make it through the thick cloud of fuzzy words surrounding my brain, but my body does nothing about it. I feel numb. It's not even cold outside, but my skin fills with thousands and thousands of goosebumps and chills that shake me to the bones.
When it hits me, it hits me hard.
So hard, in fact, that I start sobbing, with absolutely no warning, my body shuddering violently as something is viciously battered around in my chest. It hurts. Shaking fingers reach up to clutch at my chest, clenching on the fabric of my shirt while the other hand tangles itself carelessly in my hair. My eyes screw shut so tightly that I see stars, and if I thought that I was a wreck before, when my worst problems were a few fights between my parents, well- I'm a disaster now.
Literally, a disaster. I wrecked his life. I did everything I swore I would never do. It's not just now, tonight, that I got so caught up in myself, in my own chances at happiness that I managed to forget all about James and his solo, his "big, special, important solo, his chance to shine, to show the world that he really is worth it." It's everything else before, everything I've ever done to him, and I'm...
I'm a monster.
My thoughts turn despairingly to my father, and I think of every word I've ever thought of to describe him: filthy, disgusting, horrible, selfish, rude, apathetic. My mind is in too much turmoil to even think about recalling the rest, but it's not too much for me to recognize myself portrayed behind the list. I think of my father, standing in front of a dusty, ancient mirror. His figure is blurry and dark, almost unrecognizable, but it's shifting and changing into the unmistakable image of myself. And then everything blurs and twists hysterically until I'm falling, falling, falling and-
Deep breaths, I tell myself when I get a little too lightheaded, deep breaths. I spent so much time hating him that I didn't notice myself turning into him. Now we're the same, and I hate myself just as much as I ever hated him. I've spent nights crying myself to sleep because of things I've done to James. He's covered himself up, hidden himself away from me because he was- scared, or hurt, or...
I've hurt him so much, and I can't even think of why I ever thought that everything was ever okay between us. I hurt him, and he just tells me that he's okay, that he's over it. Every time, he acts like he just wants me to forget about it, but why? Why would he put himself through so much hell? Why does he still love me?
He doesn't. He refused you this time. He wants nothing more to do with you.
Time is a lost cause on me, because I'm crying harder than I ever have in my life, and for now, there's nothing more in the world than me, my father, and James.
...
You messed everything up.
I know.
You can't fix it this time. You never even fixed the other times.
I know.
You're a monster.
I know.
He hates you. Even he can't expect himself to even try to forgive you this time. You're on your own.
I'm going to do something. I can't leave like this.
What could you possibly do that wouldn't make this ten times worse?
Nothing. But I have to try.
He won't answer. He doesn't want anything to do with you ever again.
I know. But I have to try. For him, not for me. I have to do this. I have to.
...
James,
I don't know why I did it. I love you so much. I don't know why I did it. I didn't mean to. I didn't want to. I just always got so angry, I couldn't control myself. And then it happened, and you forgave me every time.
Why did you forgive me? Why did you always act like it was okay? I hurt you so badly, and you would always act like everything was fine and that we could just go on, and then I just did it again. Every. Single. Time. How could you live with that? Why did you live with that? Why would you do that to yourself? I'm not worth any of that. You're so wonderful and amazing and inspirational, and I don't understand why you should ever have to hold yourself back for someone like me.
Words can't even express what I feel right now. Not even close. Everything I say here just seems so insignificant compared to inside, but I'm going to do my best.
I love you. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I've had regrets in my life, but nothing can even come close to comparing with what I feel now. All those other times I was so sure you were never going to forgive me; they're nothing to the knowledge that this time you really won't. You can't. And I don't blame you. What I did was horrible. Inexcusable. Unforgivable. And I know that. I accept it. I just hope that you can accept this letter.
I know it's hard for you. I know you go through so much, and it's hard. Sometimes I think that it's hard, but I know what I go through is really nothing to your trials. I want so badly to be able to take them away, or at least make them easier for you, but it's impossible, and it kills me every time you're hurt and I can't do anything about it.
I just want you to know that I care about you. I'm so, so sorry. I know I won't ever be able to forgive myself for this, and neither should you. No matter how many times you tell me you're over it, you were still hurting bad over it, and that's what makes it so unforgivable. I love you so much, and I just need you to know that. I'm sorry.
Kendall