Chapter 22
"Live" I had told the old man. "Live". At the moment it had seemed the perfect thing to say, but days later I realize the irony.
Blind leading the blind.
I wonder if he would be offended that a walking zombie told him to get a life.....
I think what really bothers me is another self-realization has just occurred, and I really can't say I like it--
I'm a hypocrite.
I mean really, that's fine Em-- go around spouting romantic notions of carpe diem, but you're still hauled up in this motel room. And you know what the worst part of realizing you're a hypocrite is? There's absolutely no one to blame-- no one--
Except yourself.
Not an alluring option. What am I kidding? No option-- no blame game-- this is all me.
I look around my adopted home and feel the tremor work its way from my insides out.
"Live, live, live......"
Am I speaking? I'm speaking.
The walls feel like they're closing in-- moving closer and closer. I feel like I can actually see them with their menacing glares. So I close my eyes. Then I realize there's something more menacing than these walls--the darkness of my own mind.
And I can't breathe.
It's strange how there was a time, still are times when I welcome the idea of not breathing. I wish that I could just stop-- my body wouldn't fight me and force me to respire and I wouldn't mind. But now that my body's not allowing me breath, I do mind. I mind alot.
Hypocrite.
I'm out the door before I know it-- my hair blowing in the dark night as I run down the litter-infested street. I have no idea where I'm going, or what exactly the hell I think I'm doing-- but I'm moving.
See this? Alive girl-- moving. Running. That's what we alive people do. Run-- I guess.
I just keep going. I have no concept of navigation, and even if I were to take the time to worry about such a thing right now, it wouldn't fit in my head. I'm consumed-- completely-- totally. Was there ever a time in my life I was truly alive? Living in Arizona with mom? Meeting Lucky and Sly for the first time? Thinking I had feelings for Nikolas? Finding my 'passion' in modeling?
No, no, no, no, no.........
I think I felt most alive when I was in my coma-- When I shouldn't have had any reason to feel alive--When he touched me.
He's gone now.
I run harder, blind to the people and places whizzing by me. There's a burn behind my eyes, but I don't cry. I don't know if it's because I won't allow myself, or because I simply can't.
"Live, live, live....... die, die, die"
I feel myself stumble, and I know I've officially lost any coordination of my body. My feet leave the ground, and for a second my vision comes back to me--
And I'm greeted with the friendly sight of grass flying at my head.
I lay in the heap on the ground, allowing myself a few pathetic ponderances as to where I'd find grass in this concrete hell, and realize I'm in a park of some sort. I can see the area in the sallow yellow street lights. Is park the right word for it? I've always associated the word park with swings and children-- couples on picnic blankets...... this is definately not that kind of park.
I should get up. I should run. I should at least check my hands to see if I've fallen on any dirty needles.......
I lay where I am instead- I wonder if I've sustained a head injury? Probably not-I wouldn't be so lucky. But man it'd be nice to just be another fatality of this park. A shadow falls over my body, and I look up in pure curiosity.
"Took a header huh?"
"Yeah."
Not a very intelligent answer I know, but the only one possible right now. I squint against the light and study the figure over me. He's around my age with unkempt, poorly dyed black hair and piercing blue eyes. He wears baggy jeans, and a faded black hooded sweatshirt with holes cut into the cuffs for his thumbs. He watches me with an air of indifferance, and I blankly study him.
"Want help?"
I respond immediately.
"No."
I slowly pull myself off the ground and meet him eye to eye. He's only slightly taller than me.
"What's your name?"
I don't even have to think about it. I don't think I even remember my old name.... It's like an unliked and forqotten alias. I no longer am Emily Quartermaine.
Maybe she never existed at all.
"Paige Spencer."
He nods, unimpressed.
"So Spencer, you messed up or somethin'?"
How to respond to that? Yes? No? More than you can imagine?
"Just havinq a bad night-"
I expell a hallow sigh and look at him wearily.
"A bad life actually."
I laugh the laugh that has become all too familiar to me lately-the sound that has become painful to myself. Maybe if I ever get brave enough that will be my next resolution-to not laugh unless it's real.
The kid is really studyinq me now and I can read the sympathetic but understanding expression on his face. Part of me mentally cringes at the thought that I am low enough in my own life that this poor kid feels bad for me-part of me is grateful.
He flashes me a smile.
"You want to go to a party?"
Time around me seems nonexistant as I stare at him. To live or not to live.... That is the question.........
"Live" I had told the old man. "Live". At the moment it had seemed the perfect thing to say, but days later I realize the irony.
Blind leading the blind.
I wonder if he would be offended that a walking zombie told him to get a life.....
I think what really bothers me is another self-realization has just occurred, and I really can't say I like it--
I'm a hypocrite.
I mean really, that's fine Em-- go around spouting romantic notions of carpe diem, but you're still hauled up in this motel room. And you know what the worst part of realizing you're a hypocrite is? There's absolutely no one to blame-- no one--
Except yourself.
Not an alluring option. What am I kidding? No option-- no blame game-- this is all me.
I look around my adopted home and feel the tremor work its way from my insides out.
"Live, live, live......"
Am I speaking? I'm speaking.
The walls feel like they're closing in-- moving closer and closer. I feel like I can actually see them with their menacing glares. So I close my eyes. Then I realize there's something more menacing than these walls--the darkness of my own mind.
And I can't breathe.
It's strange how there was a time, still are times when I welcome the idea of not breathing. I wish that I could just stop-- my body wouldn't fight me and force me to respire and I wouldn't mind. But now that my body's not allowing me breath, I do mind. I mind alot.
Hypocrite.
I'm out the door before I know it-- my hair blowing in the dark night as I run down the litter-infested street. I have no idea where I'm going, or what exactly the hell I think I'm doing-- but I'm moving.
See this? Alive girl-- moving. Running. That's what we alive people do. Run-- I guess.
I just keep going. I have no concept of navigation, and even if I were to take the time to worry about such a thing right now, it wouldn't fit in my head. I'm consumed-- completely-- totally. Was there ever a time in my life I was truly alive? Living in Arizona with mom? Meeting Lucky and Sly for the first time? Thinking I had feelings for Nikolas? Finding my 'passion' in modeling?
No, no, no, no, no.........
I think I felt most alive when I was in my coma-- When I shouldn't have had any reason to feel alive--When he touched me.
He's gone now.
I run harder, blind to the people and places whizzing by me. There's a burn behind my eyes, but I don't cry. I don't know if it's because I won't allow myself, or because I simply can't.
"Live, live, live....... die, die, die"
I feel myself stumble, and I know I've officially lost any coordination of my body. My feet leave the ground, and for a second my vision comes back to me--
And I'm greeted with the friendly sight of grass flying at my head.
I lay in the heap on the ground, allowing myself a few pathetic ponderances as to where I'd find grass in this concrete hell, and realize I'm in a park of some sort. I can see the area in the sallow yellow street lights. Is park the right word for it? I've always associated the word park with swings and children-- couples on picnic blankets...... this is definately not that kind of park.
I should get up. I should run. I should at least check my hands to see if I've fallen on any dirty needles.......
I lay where I am instead- I wonder if I've sustained a head injury? Probably not-I wouldn't be so lucky. But man it'd be nice to just be another fatality of this park. A shadow falls over my body, and I look up in pure curiosity.
"Took a header huh?"
"Yeah."
Not a very intelligent answer I know, but the only one possible right now. I squint against the light and study the figure over me. He's around my age with unkempt, poorly dyed black hair and piercing blue eyes. He wears baggy jeans, and a faded black hooded sweatshirt with holes cut into the cuffs for his thumbs. He watches me with an air of indifferance, and I blankly study him.
"Want help?"
I respond immediately.
"No."
I slowly pull myself off the ground and meet him eye to eye. He's only slightly taller than me.
"What's your name?"
I don't even have to think about it. I don't think I even remember my old name.... It's like an unliked and forqotten alias. I no longer am Emily Quartermaine.
Maybe she never existed at all.
"Paige Spencer."
He nods, unimpressed.
"So Spencer, you messed up or somethin'?"
How to respond to that? Yes? No? More than you can imagine?
"Just havinq a bad night-"
I expell a hallow sigh and look at him wearily.
"A bad life actually."
I laugh the laugh that has become all too familiar to me lately-the sound that has become painful to myself. Maybe if I ever get brave enough that will be my next resolution-to not laugh unless it's real.
The kid is really studyinq me now and I can read the sympathetic but understanding expression on his face. Part of me mentally cringes at the thought that I am low enough in my own life that this poor kid feels bad for me-part of me is grateful.
He flashes me a smile.
"You want to go to a party?"
Time around me seems nonexistant as I stare at him. To live or not to live.... That is the question.........