Hello peoples – this is my story. I'll leave most of my author's note for the end.
Every night we would lie close together on that old creaky mattress before falling victim to sleep. Sometimes I would play with the stray hairs that bordered her pale face, sometimes run my fingers from her bold shoulder to her much less intimidating thigh, but mostly I would stare at those eyes, those beautiful eyes, until her rhythmic breathing captured my own. She knew she was torturing me when she laid on her side with her face towards my chest, her thin, long, wavy brown hair outlining her slight hourglass shape better, if possible, than the worn light blue camisole she often wore to bed. Her long, some - what tan legs intertwining my own looked even more seductive in the dim light of our repaired alarm clock than in the black knee – high stilettos she liked to wear during the day. Those, accompanied by her regular navy trench coat and loose white blouse, made her appear very bold, but I knew better than to think her strong. I knew she still had many weaknesses locked inside her head; they seemed to enjoy forcing their way into her dreams, making her stir and kick under the thin sheet we slumbered with in the summer. When it would finally slip to the floor (much to the delight of our shaggy pet Roger, who liked to snuggle in the wrinkled fabric) I would wake from the cold and turn to shake her from the deep trance by calling her name.
The fear that penetrated her dreams caused us both trouble going back to sleep, and so I would hold her very tight until the salty liquid on her face disappeared and her hand loosened it's death-grip on my shirt. We would then begin the staring game, the game that would fascinate us many a night without failing, at least until the dawn gave us permission to stop. But in those hours before sunrise that never seemed to last long enough, I was happy to stare at her eyes, her beautiful eyes, as she stared back at mine.
Sometimes the nightmares would subside for a week, maybe two, before starting up again. Those nights in-between I was grateful for, when I could sleep without being interrupted and know that her mind was safe. Unfortunately, the days that continually came after the nights would put me in a sad, blank state; I was left to brainstorm the reason of her constant harassment.
She left me wondering until one night, when I woke her from her repetitive dream with a kiss, the same concerned kiss that we often shared and came to understand all too well. It was then that her eyes, her beautiful eyes, flashed with an emotion, maybe pain that I rarely saw. This time I thought that look was accompanied by something else, an understanding of sorts. My suspicions were confirmed when she spoke.
She told me a story that night as I held her in my arms. The story was unusual, I thought, and painful, but with a strange, under-spoken ghost of hurt that could only be put to rest by someone who understood it's unfortunate predicament. I often sought her gaze through her long, bluntly cut bangs, not sure of how spilling these thoughts was affecting her, but when at last her eyes met mine, they looked strange. The face of the one I loved was not only shadowed by her ruffled hair, but also with a nostalgic glaze that was not to be wiped away by blinking. After I realized that she was too far back in her sorrowful past to hear the words I was planning on saying, I tilted the tip of my nose tenderly to the top of her head and closed my eyes, patiently waiting to hear what she had decided to tell me.
She kept talking, sometimes pausing and then continuing with a different voice. I could not decide what her current feelings were, if one was even there. When she swallowed before going on her eyes were just as blank and expressionless as before, though slightly narrower. Once she stopped and looked down, ashamed, I thought, about the condition she had been in before meeting me. She was obviously aware of the fact that leaving had helped her, but until this night I had wondered if it was what she had really wanted, if I would ever find out. The limp figure beneath my loose grasp was beautiful, but not well. Though she wasn't delicate, I knew she was breakable, and I suppressed a sigh as she continued her story, never once looking up at me. Every now and then her eyebrows would frown slightly to emphasize confusion or frustration at points before returning to the serenity her face held throughout the tale. When she paused to gather her thoughts and let me take in her words I realized that she was still in that dark hole she had just described, part of her still stuck in a depression with that boy and whatever she still felt towards him. I knew then why she often cried - cried, but never sobbed. Her eyes leaked tears – what her mind would not recognize the need for. It made me upset and frustrated, for it would always sidetrack me during my frequent brainstorms of why this girl's short life was so complicated, and how her skin, so tender and pale against her bohemian clothing, could possibly have held her together during the time when she was alive.
Tears then started flowing unconsciously across her face without warning and I immediately felt more sympathetic. I clung to her tighter than before, scared to let her slip too far back in the past. I never thought to brush away the drops of water on that pretty face; she usually wouldn't have let me touch her in this state. I felt grateful that she was allowing me to do so now, but at the same time I was fretful, wondering if explaining this chapter of her life was slowly ripping up another part of her obviously broken heart. I blinked my eyes as a tear ran down my own cheek; I knew I could not stop her by telling her to.
I didn't know whether or not she would go on with the story; she hadn't said anything for a few minutes. I released her with one hand to tilt her chin towards mine and look into her eyes, her beautiful eyes.
They made a chill run up my spine.
Naturally a light, watery gray color, shaky streaks of indigo helped compliment a dark plum, almost black iris. Now wide and looking very surprised, not at the fact that I was crying too but because she had just remembered my presence, they were much more astonishing than before, being magnified with tears that had yet to fall. I had woken apart of her, as her eyes never failed to do to me whenever I found them. Suppressing the urge to lose myself inside her, I wrenched my thoughts back to the present and saw that she was staring at me, both our minds and bodies locked tight with the others'.
We had never been afraid to look away, nor were we then. We both knew that we were a permanent part of this earth, together or apart, happy or sad, innocent or guilty. But now my hard, demanding gaze was penetrating hers for another reason; I was determined to finish this never-ending maze by finding out what happened next, even if she wasn't going to tell me. Her small mouth opened and closed soundlessly a few times before it stopped to rest her front teeth on her bottom lip. When she spoke I had to suppress a surprised jolt – her voice was deep and solemn, unlike earlier.
She looked down once again as she came to a missing element in the story, the part that had obviously torn her into the pieces I had found her in, the ones that all seemed to be from different puzzles and that wouldn't fit together no matter how hard I tried. My eyes then widened and my hand, which had been subconsciously stroking the wisps of hair that shadowed her features, stopped midair as the impact of it hit me. She wasn't crying, so I had no clue of what she thought, but never had I wanted to know more than I did then.
I took a long time to accept that climax, the one that was definitely not wanted but had been put in the unfortunate story anyway, and when my mind rejoined present time I saw that neither of us had moved from our close position on the bed, and that her eyes – her beautiful eyes – were staring at mine once more.
She tried to start again but instead choked on her words and buried her face back into my chest. I could feel a wet spot on my shirt becoming steadily larger as more and more of her warm tears hit my skin, and my hand ran up and down her back in turn. I didn't want, nor need her to go on anymore. I knew the rest of the story.
I had found her in a rehab center that we were both checked into. She had come saying she had an addiction to men, or that she used to, but over time I thought that sillier and harder to believe. I think she mostly wanted somewhere safe to stay, like me. I was there to bum a bed and food, as my father had kicked me out earlier that week. Being a useless freeloader I agreed to head group discussions when the regular leader wasn't there, missing out on as many classes as I could until I spotted her. After that, I came to every one.
It wasn't the slim physique or particularly generous breasts that I was after. It was her eyes. I was amazed, and still am, at how they could maintain that chillingly blank feel and color so effortlessly. I think she understood, too, for she began to relax under my stare and gradually return it to me. I tried to start conversations with her but stopped after a couple times, giving into the fact that neither one of us had much to say. Even so, she began to pick seats next to mine, and after our fingers finished playing nervously with loose strings on one another's jeans, they interlocked.
I left my door unlocked after a few sessions, hoping maybe one night she would come in. She eventually did, and just as I wished, she stayed there all night beneath my hold. That night we slept, only slept. I had no intentions of having her that night. It was due partly to the fact that my mother had instilled in me (before she left) a great respect, telling me that women could do whatever they wanted whenever they wanted and that I had no control whatsoever. I found her words very true over time, and though I had never been in a very long or serious relationship, this advice had come in handy whenever I had felt like messing around.
I woke up the next morning to the minor tickle of slender, slightly callused fingers toying with the soft cotton of my tee shirt. She seemed very happy, happier than I had ever seen her in group or during our frequent encounters prior to that morning, and it was shown in the small curve made by her usually slack mouth. When she heard me laugh at the sensation her hands were giving me she immediately pulled them away and looked up as her expression changed to one of apologetic fear. I then smiled the same smile that she had worn just seconds ago, which seemed to calm her immensely. To prove my feelings even more I slid my hand around her waist and laid a light kiss on her pale pink lips. The kiss was long, sweet, and passionate, but tender just the same, and slowly, very slowly, she returned it.
The tears had now stopped, and I released her only to scoot down a few inches on the bed and look at her, as I had done earlier, but in a much gentler way. I planted a few light kisses on her lips, her forehead, and her nose before she returned the comforting favor, giving me much pleasure. I wrapped my hands loosely around the small of her back, my forearms resting lightly her abdomen (which was just beginning to swell) as she smiled and stroked my chest with just as much love. We lay there for hours unsure of what to say, and eventually the awkward silence made her serene face break into a very familiar smile. Sometimes I would look at her and do the same, but mostly I felt like playing the staring game. I stared at her eyes, her beautiful eyes, and she stared back at mine.
I wrote this in the summer of 2006, and after I got some great reviews from my friends, teachers, and even some professional authors, became desperate to publish it. This is my first EVER published story on . If you're reading this and are really picky about this being in the right format for a screenplay I'll say this – imagine it as one big monolog. Thanks for reading everybody!! PLEASE LEAVE ME A REVIEW!!
