Humans are bipolar by their nature.
It's still a mystery to me, how you can want something as much as not want it at the same time. I'll probably leave this world with that mystery unsolved, just like so many before me did as well. Maybe you understand it before you go, maybe you get all the answers in that moment when all those answers seem pointless and irrelevant, when the only thing you can do I say one last oh and shrug it off.
When I close the doors of my bedroom behind me, I can release the stinging truth resting on my lips, surviving on my flesh. The walls of my room are soundproof, or at least I like to think they are. No one can hear my screams, and words just sink into them, like they're made out of rubber. They hold so many secrets, unwanted thoughts and words too raw for my gentle mouth. They take everything in, like a friend who's always there or an enemy that refuses to give up, I'm not sure which.
I feel comfortable here, away from everyone else. People who want to poke my body and the ones who want to take a peak inside of my head.
I want to go to this party. I want to buy a new dress, a short one that reaches that spot just above my knees, color of sunset stained with red wine. I want to leave my feet on the dance floor, to have my toes sore days after, a pleasantly painful reminder of the time spent among friends, dancing like we know life won't ever be as good as this again. I want to have coke in a tall glass and spike it with wine, I want to have shots handed to me between every new drink. I want to let my hair go wild, I want to remind my limbs what's it like to feel free, alive. I'm sure my whole body would feel like it's flying. I want to smile with that kind of a smile that just comes to you, not directed to anyone or induced by anything, a smile you wear in case someone is taking a photo, or if a cute boy might be watching you.
Then again, I'd rather stay home, far away from the crowd filled with sweaty, drunk people I don't want to talk with and music that means nothing to me. That way I'll protect myself from the illogical wish to be there again, next weak, next year, in ten years from now.
So I can either go to the party and regret it, or I can stay home and regret it. The only difference is that staying home won't bear any consequences. I'll be safe. I won't interact with anyone, I won't be a part of anything. Time will stop, just like it stopped all those years ago.
I throw myself on the top of my bed with such force that I get a mild headache as soon as I land. I take a pillow and press it against my face and I scream into it. Only a muffled sound can be heard, only if you're standing right next to me. Soon enough that will disappear as well and the only thing I'll be able to hear is a quiet hum my ears had gotten used to, like ventilation or the fridge making those unnerving sounds every house has, especially during the night, when everything else is quiet, or the shower running down the hall. My screams have become so frequent in this household that even if anyone can hear them they're not paying attention because the sound is always present.
If Caroline hadn't kidnapped me to look at dresses, if Bonnie wasn't her accomplice, if aunt Jenna wasn't asking questions about it, this party would probably be the last thing on my mind. It would be just another sting among all the other things I'm missing out on, all the things I'll be missing out on once I'm gone.
And Stefan.. Stefan.
He's the last thing I need in my life right now. I don't need another friend, another person to miss me. And I certainly don't need a boyfriend. I wouldn't even know what to do with him. I'm not actually that friendly with any of the girlfriend duties, even though from all the stories Caroline has told me I'm a theoretical pro on all things teenage boys.
I'm not sure why I care so much about Stefan Salvatore. He walked out of my life seven years ago and I've barely thought about him since. It's like having a walking, talking memory walk right back into your life, taking your breath away, because you have stashed it in that part of your mind you thought you will never have to reach for again. Where all the memories that make you sad, or hurt, for whatever reason, when you think about them, go.
I don't remember how I felt when Stefan left. He was my friend, so I can imagine myself being unhappy about it, but I can't remember the actual feeling. Maybe I was too young to remember. Maybe I've buried those feelings deep inside, refusing to remember.
I do know there's something about him - some fondness - like finding your favorite stuffed animal in a box in the attic.
He makes my insides smile and that's a dangerous weapon to hold over someone like me, whose insides are falling apart, rotting away. I'm not sure I can handle the weight of his smile.
He's here only, what, few days, and it feels like it's been weeks. He's on my mind a lot, either I'm thinking about him, or listening to others talk about him. They talk because he's big news. Well, every news in Mystic Falls is big news since nothing ever happens here.
I think about him because thinking about him makes me feel, well, everything. When you cut yourself out of life, when you go from day to day like a statue, all the emotions tend to flow away from you, like they're avoiding you. Or maybe there's a shield around you, keeping them from coming in. But when I think about him, I'm reminiscing. I feel like I own a part of him, I feel like these memories are worth too much to be exchanged or shared. I can feel the past pulling me in.
My limbs can't stay in this position anymore, I feel sore, and not in a good way. I get up from the bed and walk over to the window, removing the curtains to the side. Curtains I've basically glued to the window to prevent anything from coming in. This is my safe place, nothing can get in unless I allow it to. A beam of sunlight comes in and when my eyes get adjusted to it, I look in the direction of Stefan's house.
My eyes get filled with panic and a gasp gets stuck in my throat because I think he had seen me, but he didn't. He's not even looking in this direction. He's standing by the side as a car pulls into his driveway. An elderly woman comes out of the car, she's fast, her movements are ones of a young woman, but her face is much older than her body feels. I can see that even behind all of this light. Stefan kisses her cheek. I don't know why, but the corners of my lips start going up and they keep doing so despite my efforts to keep them down. The woman is probably his mom.
His hair looks so bright in the sun, almost transparent, see through. He says something to his mom and she smiles, widely. I wonder could he make me smile like that as well. I haven't smiled like that in quite some time.
I remember his mom from when we were little. She always looked tired even though she didn't have a job, she was a stay at home mom. Cooking, cleaning, washing, baking, taking care of the boys, that was her job. She was always nice to me and never asked me don't I think I've had enough when I reached for another cookie. I remember Stefan saying the doctors thought he's a girl, that his mom always wanted a girl. Now I realize that maybe he thought he's not enough, or that he's a disappointment, but I don't think that was the case. She was so loving towards him. I remember thinking they share the same eyes, even the amount of sadness in them. Because she always looked sad as well. Sad and tired.
Neither of them looks like that anymore. Her face seems old, much older than it should, but she looks happy. He looks happy as well as he helps her get the grocery bags out of the trunk. He towers over her, it seems that he towers over everyone now. Tall and strong, his muscles visible even through a hoodie.
I guess that has something to do with some other things he makes me feel. It's not that I can't see any other hot boys around me, or that I'm not attracted to them. I can see every one of them, but I've learned how to ignore those emotions every time one of them stands close by me, or every time Matt drops his arm over my shoulders. I've looked at Stefan's back few times I've seen him walk away. His muscles tensing and relaxing, staying in place even when every other part of his body is moving.
When him and his mom shut the front door behind them, I let the curtains fall back in place and press myself against a wall. My palms are sweaty when I touch the wall, so sweaty that I'm afraid they will leave ugly, gray marks on my sunny yellow paint. I close my eyes as my head sinks into the concrete like it's some kind of a comfortable pillow, and inhale deeply.
He makes me feel nostalgic. Seeing him makes me want to break free. I want to run and fly and swim. I want to climb the highest mountain nearby. He makes me want forbidden things, like kisses and wishes and plans and promises. He makes me think I should crumble my not to do list with my fingers, into a ball, and step on it. Burn it. Make it disappear.
He's a stranger. He's no one. He means nothing to me. But he makes me feel everything I've forbid myself from feeling. He makes me want things.
He's like an unwanted guest, opening the doors of my bedroom, inviting foreign things in. Things that don't belong here, things I never agreed to having.
I can't let him do that.
The night is unseasonably warm tonight. I'm lying in my bed in an oversized shirt, wide awake, unable to fall asleep. I've thrown the covers and pillows on the floor, and now I'm thinking about getting rid of the sheet which is constantly gluing itself to my exposed skin. I've even cracked the window open to let some air in, but it's not helping, it's only making the matter worse.
At one point I decide that reassembling my whole bed would be too much trouble so I decide to go for a run. I put on my running gear and quietly sneak out of the house. I've seen people running around with earphones wrapped around them, music blasting in their ears, cutting themselves from the world. I don't have that option since I'm usually running in the middle of the night so I have to be aware of every sound surrounding me. Even if I did have that option, I don't think I would take it. What's the point of running outside if you just tune everything out?
I start running after I move from my house so the noise doesn't wake my parents up. I have my usual rout, I make a full circle and come back home from the other direction. It usually takes me an hour, which means I'll have more than enough time to have a shower before I have to leave for school.
It's not completely dark outside anymore, the sky is in that transition where you can see sea blue color fighting its way through coal black colored sky. Street lights are still on, though, and there's not a living soul outside. There's no wind so my hair is still in a small bun I've managed to make out of my fairly short hair, but I can feel sweat coating my skin, especially under my clothes.
It feels incredible, to run, to move. Whenever I lift my feet of the ground I feel like I'm going to fly. Like at one point I won't come back down. I'll disintegrate and become a particle in the air, or a cloud in the sky.
I don't know for how long I run when I reach the clearance. This is my favorite part, just few blocks away from my house. Everything is so still here, no people, no sounds, no nothing. The only thing I can hear is the hum of nature and my own feet thumping against the ground.
Today is different. Today I can see someone running through the grass, in the never ending meadow. I can't see anyone, though, at least not until the shadow is so close to me that I have no time to react. I can see a long, fluffy yellow tail in the air and a small head with even smaller, bobbing ears appearing every few seconds.
It's a dog. I don't even realize it until it reaches me and cuts off my path. I come to a halt and stare at it, unsure of what to do. The dog stares right back at me. It seems I've scared him more than he scared me. When my body relaxes, he reaches me and stars cuddling against my leg. At least I think it's a he.
"Hey there," I sink my fingers into his long, warm fur. He must be so worn out by the heath underneath all that fur. "Are you lost?" I ask him. He has a collar, but not a pendant. He looks strong and well taken care for, so it's not likely that he's a stray.
He looks up at me and nuzzles my hand.
"Buzz," I hear a voice, and the dog hears it as well. I can see how well it catches his attention, how familiar the voice is to him.
I raise my look and see a figure of a human boy, far away, where meadow meets the sky. The dog barks like he's telling his owner where he is. When the boy hears the bark, he stars running in our direction.
The dog, Buzz apparently, is now sitting on my left sneaker, drooling all over my hand.
"There you are," the owners voice is now close to us, I can feel the proximity of his body.
Fuck, is what I think to myself. I don't even have to raise my look to see who it is. His voice is a frequent visitor in my head these last couple of days.
I keep my head down while petting the dog. He seems to be enjoying my touch because every time I pull my fingers through his fur, his licks them appreciatively.
"I hope he didn't give you much trouble," I wonder can he recognize me as well, or am I just a stranger by the road to him, "He never does that. He never runs away. I was messing with him and he couldn't find his ball so he freaked out," he's nervous, and I think about how cute that is. I give myself a mental slap because of that thought.
"It's okay," I smile at Buzz.
"Elena?" he says my name with a tone full of surprise, which answers my question did he recognize me or not.
I take a deep breath, mentally, and look up, feigning surprise as well. "Oh, Stefan, hey," I say casually, or at least I hope so. I hope that my voice sounds as calm on the outside as it did in my mind.
There's a confused frown on the bridge of his nose when he asks, "What are you doing here."
All of a sudden I feel really cold, despite all the heath. It's Spring, but it feels like Indian Summer, and I'm shaking like it's the middle of Winter. Goosebumps appear on my skin. "I couldn't sleep, so I went for a run," being casual is not so hard to fake this time because, this time, I'm actually telling the truth.
He looks at me, from head to toe. I feel.. small, as he watches me. There are sweaty, lose strands of hair flying around my head. My skin is probably shiny from sweat as well. I stink. My eyes are probably fallen in because I haven't slept at all.
"Oh, right," he says once he realizes I'm in my running outfit, "Well, this one couldn't sleep too," he looks down at his dog, "So he decided to not let me sleep either," he smiles a smile which makes me smile as well.
He's so beautiful, I realize, in a way boys shouldn't be beautiful.
He's wearing sweats and an ordinary green shirt that's obviously been slept in. His hair is ruffled as well. He's not even trying, but he makes my bones shake.
I don't know what to say so I just smile to him.
He seems rattled by the lack of words from my part. "We're headed home now, so we'll let you go back to your running," he says before turning his back to me. He starts walking away, but when he notices that the dog doesn't follow, he stops. "Buzz, come on," he calls for him.
But Buzz doesn't make a move. He's still sitting on my sneaker, cuddling against my leg, which is full of dog hair now. Stefan smiles and shakes his head as he approaches his dog. He crouches down and puts his hand on Buzz's head. The closed space between us cuts off my air supply. He's too close to me. "I see how it is," he says with a smile on his lips, "You leave me as soon as a pretty girl comes by."
He says it so casually that I almost miss it. I would miss it if my brain didn't soak his words in like a sponge. His words make my heart race faster. Pretty.
I try not to sound nervous, or affected by him, as I say, "I'll walk with you."
When I move, Buzz moves with me. I've met this dog ten minutes ago and I already love him.
"He likes you," Stefan says, and I can sense little bit of jealousy in his voice, "A lot," especially when he says those words. I smile as I look down at Buzz.
"He seems like a great dog," I say honestly. I always wanted a dog. I almost got one, but then my mom got pregnant with Jeremy and my parents didn't want the dog in the same house with the baby. When Jeremy got older, I got sick. They didn't want a dog then either.
We don't say much after that, and I fear this awkward silence will keep hanging above our heads the whole way home, which is good fifteen minutes by foot from where we are now.
"So, did you give another thought about the party?" he asks and I wish for the awkward silence to come back.
"What's it to you?" I'm annoyed by him asking me that question again, I'm annoyed by everyone urging me to go like that party is some life changing event, but my question doesn't come of as annoyed, but rather playful, something I didn't even know I'm capable of.
He seems stunned by my question at first, but recovers quickly, "Your friends seem really stoked about it, so I find it weird that you're not the same."
Oh. "I'm not really one of those party people," I say, but you can hear the doubt in my voice. I don't know if I'm a party person, because I never tried to be one. All I tried is to stay away from myself, from getting to know myself.
"That's okay," he says and I feel relief because someone finally accepted my answer, even if it's only half true, without asking any additional questions. "I just really hoped you'll come," he adds after few seconds of silence.
Apologize. Smile. Nod. Don't say anything. Do any of those things Elena, just don't ask what I think you're going to ask.
"Why?" the question slips off of my tongue, and I curse myself for it.
He shrugs. "It would be nice to have a familiar face there. I don't really know anyone else."
My bones freeze inside of my body. They're as hard as rocks, making my movements almost impossible. His words weigh too much for me to carry them on a rope around my neck. They're pulling my down.
My throat contracts. "You don't know me either."
I can see him smile from the corner of my eyes. His lips are like a well oiled machine, smiling comes naturally to him, like that's how his lips are supposed to be shaped. "Sure I do. Chubby. Pigtails. Pink dresses. Consumed a wicked number of cookies."
The world closes in around me. I can't believe we're having this conversation.
I can feel him digging his way in. He wants to crawl inside of me and live there. You can't plant a garden on a soil that has no life in it.
Run, run, run, I think, but I don't know if I'm talking to him or to myself.
Run boy, there's nothing for you here, my body is not your home. My body is an unstable building and I refuse to let it collapse on you.
"A lot of things have changed since then," my voice sounds foreign to me.
"Some are still the same," he counters me.
I can feel him looking at me, but I can't force myself to look at him.
It takes some time for me to speak again, "I remember too."
It's a mistake, what I've said. I shouldn't have said it.
But if it's a wrong thing to say, how come it feels so right?
"I know," he replies, then adds after some time, "I'm just trying to figure out why you said you don't," those words hit the red button in my brain.
I feel like my whole body is falling into shock.
At first I think I feel weak as a side effect to his words, but that's not the case. The nausea is real. The only thing I ate yesterday was a smoothie and few spoons of ice cream, I didn't get enough calories. I ran. I didn't sleep at all.
No, I say as I squeeze my eyes shut, not here, not in front of him.
I feel dizzy. My stomach is running in circles.
I can see my house, even though everything is hazy. I'm so tired. I wish I could lie down for a moment. Or a century.
"I have to go," I say in a hurry, those four words stumbling over each other to come out, to break free, that I'm not sure he even understands them. It doesn't even matter because I'm running across my lawn, dragging my body on my bony legs that at this point feel like matchsticks, trying to reach the back of my house. So my parents don't hear me. So Stefan can't see me.
I don't know if it's luck or fate, but I make it. As soon as I round the corner I puke in my mothers gardenias.
"Aren't you little old to be going to parties?" I can hear my mothers voice as soon as I step down from the last stair at the bottom.
"Miranda, I'm 24," aunt Jenna replies. I can see her rolling her eyes without actually having to see her face.
"Exactly," my mother answers with that tone of voice which indicates that she's always right, "24, not 14. You should be looking for a husband, and they're not hiding in a bar."
Now I roll my eyes. My parents have been together since High School. They fell in love at the age of 16 and were lucky enough to stay in love to this day. When you're a kid, you romanticize that notion, but as you grow up, you realize that kind of a love is one in a million. My mother means well, but despite the popular belief, she doesn't always know best. She doesn't know how it's like to be unloved. Or how it's like to have an uncertain future.
"I'm not looking for a husband," aunt Jenna says through her teeth. She's holding herself back, as usual.
"Well, maybe that's the problem," my mother answers casually with, of course, best intentions, completely missing out on Jenna's tone. Being subtle is not one of Miranda Gilbert's stronger sides, nor is picking up subtlety one.
"Good morning!" I barge in and greet cheerfully before my mother says another wrong set of words.
Aunt Jenna smiles at me, but my mother looks at me like she always does - like there's something wrong with me.
My father appears from behind me, planting a kiss on the side of my head. "Morning, sunshine," he says as he grabs a bagel, assumes his position by the kitchen island and opens today's newspapers. I often wonder how he tunes my mother and aunt Jenna out to concentrate on what he's reading.
"Hungry?" my mother asks, pointing at the rich breakfast selection on the counter.
I'm ready to say no when I remember I didn't eat anything yesterday either and now there's vomit in our backyard.
"Sure," I say with a smile. I sit next to aunt Jenna, scouting for something to eat. My stomach starts spinning at the mere thought of consummating certain food, so in the end I decide to eat banana pancakes.
"I asked Elena does she want to go to a party as well," aunt Jenna bumps me with her elbow, and I have to hold onto the counter not to fall off of my chair. I still feel weak, but I'm sure I'll feel much better once I get some food into my stomach.
My mother laughs. She actually laughs. I can't blame her, it's not like I ever went to a party. Still, it stings.
"I'm not sure you can just invite other people to parties," my dad comments, and I smile. Sometimes he's so old fashioned.
"Elena doesn't need my invitation, she's already been invited," Jenna says proudly, like getting invited to a party is an accomplishment.
My father doesn't even lift his eyes from the papers when he asks, "And what party is this?"
"Salvatore's welcome back party. Elena knows the younger boy, he goes to school with her," I hate it when they do this, talk about me like I'm not even present.
When my father doesn't ask another question, probably because a) he doesn't care b) his full attention is on the papers, my mother decides to release her voice, "Elena is not a type of a girl who would go to a party, anyway."
This upsets me. Irks me. But I swallow the bitterness because, again, I never gave her a reason to think otherwise.
"And what type is that?" apparently, aunt Jenna can't swallow hers. Her voice sounds hostile, and she rarely gets defensive with my mother. When I look at her, there's an angry frown on her face. My father has noticed it as well, and now he's not reading the paper anymore, even though he's hiding behind it. "A normal, teenage girl?" she challenges my mother.
I wonder will she actually say it. Will she actually say that I'm not able to go to the party because I have cancer.
It takes her some time to answer, but when she does, she does it so calmly, like she's discussing her flowers with our first door neighbor. She either didn't notice Jenna's unfriendly tone, or she decided to ignore it. "Well, she's not a normal teenage girl, is she now?"
Bingo.
"Miranda.." my father says her name calmly, gently, but she doesn't react to it.
Instead, she says, "There's something wrong with her. We all know it, so why pretend otherwise?"
Not normal. Wrong.
She's making me feel like I don't belong, again. Like I'm an alien who can't fit with the rest of the society. Like the only place I belong in is a hospital, in my gown, with others like me. People who have unwanted seeds in them, which grow into hideous, flesh eating plants.
She's making me feel abnormal just because I'm sick.
"There are some things she can't do that other girls her age can, and I think Elena is aware of that," she concludes, which is when it hits me.
I always thought it's my choice, not going to parties, not participating. But it's not. She's telling me that I can't do it. Has she always been telling me, have I always been listening to her instructions?
"But I can," I say, and all three of them shift their attention to me.
Aunt Jenna, most surprised out of three of them, fighting for a cause she doesn't even believe in. My father, surprised, but not necessarily unpleasantly. And my mother, looking at me like there's something wrong with me, again.
I feel like all this time I've been sleeping and someone finally woke me up. I can do it. I'm not my disease. I have all of my limbs. All of my organs are working properly. I walk and talk and learn and drive. I run without their knowledge. I can dance if I want to. I have friends who I love. I have friends who miss me.
I'm not attacking my mother, but I'm not attacking myself anymore either. For the first time in forever, I'm standing up for myself.
I'm defending myself.
"Elena, sweetie," she says gently, whispering, luring me into safety.
"I think she should go," my father says, surprising us all. Mostly me. "If she wants to."
I've been resenting my father for a very long time, because he broke down. When they told us I have cancer, my first thought was that my mother won't be able to handle it. I thought it will destroy her, to have an imperfect daughter, a living corpse in her house. I thought my disease will wreck her, as I've always perceived my mother as weak. I couldn't have been more wrong. My mother might be all sorts of things, but she's strong. When my condition was the worst, when the doctors thought I won't make it, she wasn't a warrior, she was the whole army.
None of us cried. I didn't cry because I knew if I started, I wouldn't be able to stop. Jeremy didn't cry because they never told him how serious my condition is. My mother didn't cry because she had time. If aunt Jenna cried she did so in the privacy of her own home, and if my friends cried they told me nothing of the sort.
But my father cried. He cried every chance he got. When he would come to visit me in a hospital, he would come with tears in his eyes, and I knew he was sitting in his car, crying, before he came in. When they sent me home, I've heard him crying to my mother how they've sent me home to die. I've heard her rocking him to sleep. My father, a grown man, her husband.
I resented him for being weak. Actually, I resented him because he was allowed to cry. I wanted to cry as well.
But it also made me realize how much my father loves me, and how much the thought of losing me scares him.
I've never been daddy's girl, but I've never been my mothers daughter either. I always had a healthy relationship with my parents, but the family member I'm closest to is aunt Jenna. She's old enough to take care of me, but young enough to be my friend.
When I got better, my father stopped crying. Instead, he started planning activities for us to do, and marking places for us to visit. I said no every time he would ask. I don't know why. Maybe to see the disappointment in his eyes. Maybe to give him a reason to cry.
Today, I wish I said yes to everything he planned for us. I wish he never stopped asking.
"Grayson," my mother sounds lost, like she lost her right hand, her backup.
"She's been locked up long enough, Miranda," he says, looking at me, "There's no point in preventing her from doing things she wants to do."
"So Elena," Jenna says excitedly, "Do you want to go?" she asks me again.
I feel like this is the moment when I'm supposed to decide. I feel like things are changing.
I take my phone out and dial Caroline's number. When she answers, I say, "I think I'll be needing that dress after all."
