BENT
"If I fall a long way, would you pick me up and dust me
off? . . .Shouldn't be so complicated, just hold me and then, just hold me
again. Can you help me I'm bent. I'm so scared that I'll never get put back
together. . .and this is how we will live, with you and me. . .I know you think
I need a lot, can you help me, I'm bent."- Matchbox
20
She looks
thinner. And breakable. I wonder if it's from the weight she's lost, or because
of her aura that radiates hurt.
I can't take the
look in her eyes. She looks sad and angry and confused. Is it visable only to
me because I knew her?
No, stop lying to
yourself, Max. You never knew her.
She stares right
through me with this puzzled look, as if she's looking for answers. She had
beautiful eyes. It wasn't the color (deep brown) or even the shape (kind of
like an almond, but a bit too small for her face) that I admired, it was the
light that shone in them. She laughed at me when I said her eyes were hazel,
once I even said blue. She knew I had every inch of her memorized.
"They're dark
brown. Like yours. Why don't you know that?"
"Sorry."
The sky shone
through her eyes, so I thought they were blue. And they were so light from
happiness, I thought they were hazel.
But now I know
they're brown. You couldn't convince me of anything else. They are like mud;
deep and pitch dark.
And I know that
I changed them.
I'm sorry for
that.
I've been
following her lately. I'm sorry for that, too
It killed me
when she said the bad words.
"I don't
want to see you anymore."
It wasn't even the words, but the way she said it.
Nonchalantly. The same way she would say 'I'm done with dinner, can I be
excused?'
And it hurt
that I wasn't important enough for her to care. I sat still for a moment when
she said it was over. I was wondering if it hurt her to say it.
After, I
couldn't bear to face her. I ducked
into the men's bathroom at school whenever she came my way at school, I ditched
classes that I had with her. I didn't see her.
And I couldn't
bear that. Even before. . .everything, I knew her. We were friends. I became
dependant on things like seeing her, smelling her hair, hearing her laugh. I
knew that it was weak of me to need her when she so obviously didn't need me.
But with me it was like with any other addict, I thought I could quit at
anytime.
"Hello, my
name is Max Evans and I'm addicted toLiz Parker"
In the back of
my mind I wondered if there was a support group for that sort of thing. Like, Stalkers
Anonymous.
She was my
weakness. Stronger than anything, controling me. I was her streangth. But maybe
not, if she could throw me away so easily. Anyway, I needed to see her, to
watch her life if I couldn't be part of it. And I couldn't bear for her to look
at me.
So, I've started following her. It was easy at first. When you know someone for 8 years you pick up on their habits.
But as I got
sucked into it, I realizied how much I didn't know.
I didn't know
that at night, when she's sure her parents have gone to bed she sits on top of
her father's car and counts the stars.
I didn't know
that she curls up into a ball in the corner of her room to write in her diary.
I didn't know
she talks in her sleep.
I didn't know
that she will try to catch lizards with some of the kids on her street when she
doesn't think anyone is looking.
I didn't know she
sang along to Celine Dion when she went running before school.
I didn't know how
much she cried.
It seems the
more I learn about her, the more I lose touch with myself.
I hate who I've
become.
I know she knows
I watch her. She seems to sense it. Her movements will be so airy and graceful.
I might get to watch her for a few minutes like that. Then, she senses me, and
tightens up. Careful, cautious of what's being seen. Every move will be
calculated, and precise. Find the goal, prepare for the goal, reach the goal,
done. I liked it when she would stand still and throw her head back, admiring
everything around her.
But she doesn't
do that anymore, she doesn't allow herself to be vulnerable.
I see that,
and pain explodes in my heart. I don't want to do this to her. I want to stop.
I will stop.
Only, I can't.
When I realize
this, I fall to my knees, ashamed. It's then I want to kill myself. I shouldn't
live, only to torment the one I love.
I can't bear
to kill myself. She gave me a tiny part of her. It lives in me. I couldn't hurt
any part of her, no matter how small.
I wonder if she
misses that part of herself.
I think she does.