He's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same
-Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights
1. Here come the Pacman and the Wolverines
Bella's story
With teeth hooking to chapped lips, I swing my legs as I bite on a piece of aged celery to occupy myself. I watch, with heavy eyes, Tyler as he chortles silently on his phone, hands slipped in the back pockets of his grey jeans. I lean back on the old-fashion high-backed chair, that is painted an awful green, and glance at the clock nailed onto the west wall. It is almost twelve and I am still in his makeshift dining room. Renee and Charlie will digress.
Tyler turns his back on me twice and whispers something into the receiver. His amiable, muffled words are barely audible. He is a good secret -keeper, but never the best of actors. I smile to myself as I throw the untouched celery to the edge of the ceramic plate which holds the remnants of my take-out dinner. I carry both the plates to the kitchen which is dimly-lit by a single orange light bulb, and dump them into the impeccable sink. I rinse my hands with the strawberry-scented soap and don't bother cleaning the dishes. I won't be here for any longer anyway.
I saunter back into the sitting room and sink into one of the threadbare armchairs. His apartment needs a good scrub, I think to myself, as I pull my calves up beneath me on the slightly-battered, floral-patterned cushion. The television is set on mute and I only see images flashing on the screen, their lips moving but nothing coming out of them. I decide to raid for the remote but my plan is intercepted by a pair of cold, granite-hard hands slithering over my neck. I remain motionless and mute, his face burying itself into my hair.
"Who was that?" I ask as he squeezes in beside me, half-perching on the sagging arm.
"A friend. Remember the one from the gig last night?" he answers simply, excavating the remote from beneath the pile of week-old newspapers and some orphaned Lays packages.
"Which one?" I question again, pink lips forming into a pout.
"Oh you know. The big guy who was with Ros, Emmet."
I merely nod, hugging my legs together. I have a throbbing headache and my eyes hurt. I need a couple of Tylenols and maybe a down of Peptol Bismol but I repress the pain and force myself to stay a little while more.
With nimble, slender fingers, Tyler toys with tendrils of my chocolate-brown hair. I consider pushing off his hands from touching my skin but I silence myself. Tyler's palm rests on my cadaverous thigh. I shift slightly, his warm hand slipping from my skin and glides across the coarse fabric of my dress. He doesn't even flinch and continues switching channels.
"You know I heard there's this gig in Smiths Street next Thursday. This band, it's my friend's, is playing that night," I tell him, my fingers braiding themselves into my hair as he continuously flickers the remote with his tongue sticking out.
"Oh. Which band is it?"
"Not sure. But I heard they got an offer in Medina. They played last night. And they have a show tonight too," I mention matter-of-factly, licking my salt-slathered lips.
"Cool."
"Yeah. Cool."
My eyes hurt more now. I feel like scooping them off with those ice-cream scooping things. I rub my temples with my thumbs, melancholy breaths slipping from my lips. We are watching Tom and Jerry but I know that we are really not watching it. We just have the muted television switched on for animated company. Instead, I scrutinize my paper-white arms with mixed emotions. Malik has always loathed silences. I learn to loathe Tyler more.
His arms are intertwined around my waist and his nails grip tightly at the hem of my dress. His right palm slips under the dress and strokes my thigh softly. I try to push him off lightly but his body insists. He pulls me up against his rock-hard chest that emits such heat that forces sweat to break on my forehead. I lick beads of perspiration that has formed on my upper lip and cup my hands around his expressionless face.
"You fucking piece of shit," I mutter to his ear, eyes sweeping fleetingly at the dull, grey walls.
"What?" he asks, eyes still glazed as though on drugs.
"You are a fucking lying piece of shit, love," I repeat, sardonic, eyes boring into him, observing every crease, every scar and every mendacious word that lie beneath his thin lips.
We sit in pointed silences. Our eyes meet and it feels like being in a tug war where I feel like I am at the winning end. His lips quiver but he doesn't give up. He pulls me tighter into his forced embrace. I struggle, scratching his long russet arms though to no avail. I successfully squeeze my way out of the armchair after having sunk my teeth into his flesh. I rapidly move toward the stack of amplifiers where my tote is abandoned and left to gather cigarette ash.
"Fuck," he breathes, holding his hand where there are prominent teeth marks.
I feel his frigid, trembling hands pulling me, so weak and child-like, when I turn to leave. I have to go now. I can't stay any longer. I can hear ripping sounds already.
I shrug his hands off me, refusing to speak and be subjugated by his vacant sweetness. I feel his dark, strong arms tightening over my waist and I struggle from his tightening grasp. He doesn't bug, attempting to mollify me in his grasp. I slap his chest repeatedly but he still is insistent. I can't cry, I tell myself though sometimes I betray myself.
"Let me go, Tyler. Let me fucking go," I scream, my nails piercing through the skin of his thick wrist.
He kisses my forehead, drawing me closer, and I feel like vomiting. With my heart beating in my throat, I stop struggling and he starts cradling me. I break from his weakening arms and press a finger on my lips.
"Don't talk. I don't want to hear a word from you. Just shut up. Shut the fuck up, Tyler," I instruct him, as I shake off his outstretched arms from reaching mine.
"We barely see each other, Bella. You were out working and I am practicing with the band. I missed you. I missed your very presence and I thought maybe, maybe, I can compensate it with someone else's only for a moment, while we are still busy with each other's lives. You can't blame me wholly on this. Please, she doesn't mean anything to me, Bella. She's like a stray dog, empty of love, in need of someone to rely on, to satiate her. Please, Bella," he cadges with that vexingly placating tone of his.
I breathe heavily, beads of perspiration lining my upper lip. I feel like my head is about to burst.
"Do you have any idea how stupid you sound?"I mutter, sounding choked.
"Forget about whatever that happened, Bella. Let's start anew. Let's do whatever to rebuild our relationship, whatever that we missed out. Please," he exhorts, moving toward me.
I jerk back, rapidly.
"No, Tyler. Don't bother. The relationship is on the rocks anyway."
"What do you mean? Just give me one more chance. I promise you I won't do it again," he says, whimpering slightly in his words.
"I've given you so many chances, Tyler. Now it's time for you to give me mine."
I leave quickly, slipping my feet into my sandals in record time. I hear him calling me from the threshold but I ignore it. I smile meekly to myself. I am strong enough. I am an independent woman more than any other. I will not cry. I must not. I will not cry over a bastard. I will not cry over a fucking bastard.
I half-run and stumble across the flight of steps. I end up with bruises on my ankles and I am forced to walk barefoot toward the bus stop. I cringe slightly at the rough concrete beneath my feet. I will end up with blisters on both my feet but I don't care. I just want to leave this blasphemed place.
I am strong. I will not cry over a fucking bastard. It's slowly developing into a mantra.
The bus arrives after an immeasurable moment to my utmost relief. I slip into the nearest vacant seat and gaze out the misty windows. I can't really see anything much-just blurry images of neon strobes and the human-strewn pavements. I feel sick. Bile rises in my throat again. I feel my brain internally bleeding into goo. .
I cry my way home.
Edward
The austere room smells of unwashed clothes and oddly, of carpet cleaner when all I see is the floor made of smooth, white stone. Home now is a cheap apartment which I am grateful is commodious enough to throw dinner parties which often consist of the dregs of a bag of Doritos and some stash of lukewarm coke. Some guy may bring in pot which makes the party even memorable though we'll wake up the next day having no memories at all of what had happened and whose grey walls we're staring into. Today, I have half a loaf of bread that has bred molds at the edges and a packet of instant coffee I have been saving for three nights, for supper.
I am pretty drained-out tonight. I chase two Tylenols with bottled water (which costs me my last seventy-five cents and tastes vexingly bitter) before brushing my teeth twice; all the while scrutinizing my emaciated self on the bathroom mirror. My lips are chapped and the yellowish skin of my cheeks is stretched so tightly over the bones of my face, looking it could split. My uncultivated ebony hair is a train wreck. I need a haircut.
I rinse and extricate my shaving things from the toiletries cabinet. I squeeze out the remnants of the aged shaving cream and spread it over my jowl unevenly. I shave and my stomach gurgles. I make a mental note to get some shampoo and cream the next time I go grocery-shopping with some cash in my pockets.
I am sprawled across the white-off couch, head wedged between the lumpy, powder blue cushions with Tom and Jerry cartoons on re-loop. I munch off some stale bread and swallow it with hot coffee which makes my whole day. I desperately repress deathly hunger pangs as I pick out the moldy crusts from the bread and give up halfway. I polish the washed-out Ovaltine mug of coffee and swing my legs indolently off the arm of the couch.
I decide to switch channels. I grab the remote from the coffee-table; beneath a layer of general debris that consists of used tissue papers, peanut packets and coke cans left from the after-party gig they held here without my consent. My body feels tired but my eyes just refuse to claim the victory of sleep. I have called Bella several times but she doesn't answer. I am growing quite worried.
I haven't seen her in years and she goes disappearing off again, though this time is worst because she hasn't even bothered to inform me where she has gone off to. I have tried all means of contact with her throughout the three days she has gone but failed. My only fear is she has traveled back to Arizona again and has no intentions of coming back. I must drive to her house tomorrow to confirm my
I think I dozed off for a moment when I am awoken by an indignant ringing from the depths of the cushions. I hesitate, attempting to put off the thought of answering whoever is calling. But then, it could be Bella so I fumble for my phone and feel the smooth, incandescent plastic against my palm.
"Bella," I mutter but there is no response from the other end. I look back at the tiny screen on the phone and Bella is splayed across it in little, black fonts. I put the receiver back onto my ear and all I hear is a soft, distant sobbing. I should have known.
I hang up, flipping the phone close and place it on top of the stack of amplifiers near the kitchenette. I walk toward the door and open it slowly. The door creaks when it is being opened notwithstanding, making a headache-inducing noise.
She is a quivering little thing, with a threadbare white dress hanging off her skinny frame and a wooly mauve cardigan over her bony shoulders. Her face is partially hidden by a curtain of chocolate-brown hair and her feet are covered with brown espadrilles. I breathe heavily through my mouth, holding the door with slippery hands.
I move slowly toward her and we stand there, under the flickering bulb that emits a pale, yellowish glow that illuminates the narrow, dingy hallway dimly. I wrap my arms around her carefully, gently combing strands of her hair with my fingers. She takes me in with reluctance, her hands nimble and soft lips muttering something inaudible. I don't tell her to stop crying, because she shouldn't. Her ivory kneecaps brush softly against mine.
"Edward," she murmurs softly, almost inaudible.
My eyes locked on a pair ebony velvet eyes for a small portion of a second, set in a pale face whose complexion is as white and smooth as sweet milk. My eyebrows knit. It hurts just looking at her cry.
Her mascara runs in messy streaks across her cheeks and her eyeliner has smudged around the rim of her eyes. Simply, she looks twice a wreck compared to me. At least she still is beautiful. Slowly, she walks towards me and wraps her arms around my neck. She sobs on my shirt silently. I rub my hands in disproportionate circles on her back and move her into the apartment. Her ivory kneecaps brush softly against mine. I feel her shiver a little in my arms as I shut the door behind us and the comfort of a familiar, warm place.
"Shh,I'm here."
"I like this song. It's so sad," she says, eyes glazed as we perch our bare feet up on the coffee table, toes touching and knees brushing.
With an airy sigh, I twirl a lock of her hair in a finger as we both stared at the blank television screen, imagining intricate patterns into the cracks that run through the plaster in the insipid walls. A fraction of my shirt is drenched with a deluge of Bella's tears that has refused to dry and her hair is greasy with perspiration. She feels so small in my arms that I fear of breaking her bones.
"Sometimes sad songs can do more harm than good," I assert thoughtfully, shifting myself slightly on the couch with her head lolling against my chest.
She looks up at me, curious. I feel my lips gather, forming a meek smile. I weave our fingers together, softly guffawing.
"Because we might drown ourselves in our tears," I reply quietly, eyebrows pulling together, as we wrap ourselves closer, curling comfortably in the couch.
"That's kind of stupid, Edward," she mutters as I dry her tears with a lock of my hair.
She breathes in deeply, burying her face in my chest as Ne Me Quitte Pas does a re-loop on the stereo. I should have played something else; this only makes her feel worse. But she refuses to change songs, content with her choice. I stare into those oddly deep black eyes, feeling a twinge of perhaps desolation. I keep my eyes on her. She seems confuse, probably scared too but her countenance is arduous to fathom. She sniffs, her head leaning to one side.
"I'll never be good enough, beautiful enough for someone to fall madly in love with me," she murmurs in a low voice, and then purses her pink lips, blinking her wide eyes.
I comb back the tangled strands of her hair with my fingers as she clings to my wrist, firmly. I simply loathe such tenebrous situations that seem almost prosaic, impotent even. I fluidly rise from the couch, much to Bella's lucid ignorance, and extend a palm, gesturing for her to rise as well. Reluctantly, she slips her hands over mine and stands. With a plethora of emotions, we dance. I have never danced in my entire nineteen years of existence and I am dancing. She giggles at my inept moves around the tattered carpet. We swirl around without the faintest of what we're doing.
We're in our own solitary bubble.
"No one will ever be good enough, beautiful enough as you," I whisper into her ears, pulling a lock of stray hair behind her ear.
She finally chuckles, leaning her head against my chest, wrapping her warm, thin arms around my neck. "You're only saying that 'because you're my best friend."
"You're right," I say, nodding my head. "If you're not, then I'll say you're a fucking ugly person who'll remain a virgin until she's forty."
"Forty's not that old."
"I won't unvirgin a virgin forty year old."
"Who told you to?"She scoffs with a sweet smile as we stop in our tracks but continue swaying to the remnants of the song.
We begin untangling ourselves and Bella settles back on the couch, rubbing her hands on her stomach. I stop the music and retrieve the CD from the disc player. I wipe it with a napkin and place it back into its cover. I spin and my eyes are directed at Andrena before me. She seems a little happier now. But her eyes. There's still sadness in them. A sadness I can't decipher, I can't eradicate.
"I'll go get you a drink," I say and step off the cushions, walking to the clammy kitchen and begin raiding the cupboards for the packet of Milo I have been saving for who knows what. The kettle boils and I pour some of the hot water into a chipped mug. I stir the drink with a plastic spoon and move back into the sitting room where Bella is slumped, staring wide-eyed into the blank television screen.
I hand her the mug and she folds her hands around it, blowing. She takes a small sip and puts it on the coffee table. I take the remote and switch channels as I hear her fumbling around in the couch and extricating something from the cushions. "Collected Poems, 1948-1984," she reads quietly, browsing through the book with a mixture of curiosity and wander splayed across her soft features. "Where did you get it?"
"It was my father's. One of my meager inheritances," I answer simply and let my head plummet back into the dented cushions beside her.
"You never told me about it," she says, sounding slightly offended as she leafs through the yellowed pages, chagrin plastered over her emaciated face.
I shrug, my leg dangling on the arm of the couch. "Didn't think it was important to."
"Wow, that's considerate of you." She sulks and I am tempted to giggle. I softly take the book from her weak hands and flip to one of the marked pages.
"The time will come when, with elation, you will greet yourself arriving at your own door, in your own mirror, and each will smile at the other's welcome, and say, sit here. Eat. You will love again the stranger who was yourself. Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart to itself, to the stranger who has loved you."
I look at her and she is momentarily silenced, all the while listening to me read with expressionless eyes. I love the way she is taken off her feet at such tiny acts and gestures. How she appreciates every word from a mouth of a person, even those she have not an inch who. But she isn't aware of that. She doesn't know the beauty in herself.
"What is it?" she asks softly, gazing at me with powerful eyes.
"Love after love, Derek Walcott. One of my favorites."
She smiles and lays her head on the headrest. We watch television and she stows the bulky book back into its position wedged in between the cushions. "Your father read poetry too? He didn't seem the type at all," she suddenly says, tone saturated in somewhat awe.
"And I am?"
She regards me with mock-serious eyes and I stifle a laugh. "No, not at all."
I guffaw and shrug my shoulders. "I guess it's in the genes."
Bella chuckles so softly, burying her face into my chest, her hands clutching to the fabric of my shirt as though clinging to dear life. She doesn't sob. Instead she remains motionless, her nails digging into the flesh of my nape as to draw blood but I am silent. The pain I felt is so prosaic.
"Are you going to be okay, Bella?" I ask, combing back strands of chocolate-brown that had strayed to my shoulders.
She doesn't answer. She keeps on clinging.