"Can you tell I'm faking it?
But I want to be myself
A counterfeit disposition
Can't be good for my health…"
Chapter Six: Counterfeit Disposition
- Seventh Year -
There's this pond, down the road and around the corner from my house. It's sad and neglected; the surrounding land overrun by weeds and litter. The pond itself has gradually developed into this murky and festering cesspool. Filled with algae and muck and most likely disease, turning it into a putrid shade of deep brown. I used to think how terrible it would be to fall in. Not only was it disgusting, but the water, if you can even call it that, was so dark there was no discerning its depths. All around you would be just darkness, an enveloping darkness, too dense to see through. Stuck in the middle. And not sure how far off the surface is or how close you've come to hitting rock bottom.
I think I've fallen in. With Fred.
And I can't find him and he can't find me. If he's even looking.
- - -
I don't think I've ever actually been in love. There have been mutual attractions. Struggling commitments. Tempestuous lusts. Boiling tempers. But never love.
I've never been a walking Valentine.
But now…I've got this tingly feeling that races down my spine and my heart is beating loud enough to shake the earth and my mouth can't form words and I think thoughts that would never appear in a children's story and it's all because…well, of him.
It's not love. It's a disastrous head cold, hormones on speed. A detrimental heart condition. My loneliness getting the better of me. Causing me to hallucinate. And imagine. And dream. And hope.
A few minutes ago, Katie practically forced a Hufflepuff seventh year on me. She believes I'm still going through a "dry spell" and she's attempting to do her part to cure me. She still has no idea. What's really going on. But I was polite. Charming. Witty. Flashed a smile, batted my eyelashes. All that flirtatious shit. I was composed and in control.
With him it's another story.
I'm a puddle at his feet he doesn't realize he's splashing in. I'm lying in wait, teeming with desire and a pinch of something else. He's bubbling over with excitement and frothing along the edges with pride. I'm anxious, nervous. White-knuckled. He's a breeze on a sunny summer morning.
And I see him now.
He's across the way. In the Great Hall. Talking to a pretty blonde. No name. No shame. Tiny waist. Perfect hair. Me: Tall and angular. Hip bones jutting out, shoulder blades, protruding. She: Curvy and petite. Round in all the right places.
I hate her. I fucking hate her.
His hand is inching towards her ass. And I hurt.
And I hate myself for that.
- - -
Dinner that night is no better. Katie sits there next to me, singing the praises of Mr. Hufflepuff, whose name escapes my memory. According to her, he's perfect for me. The usual: smart funny good-lucking nice. The generic attributes just about any conscious man could possess.
I tune her out. I idly finger the spoon before me. I bounce it back and forth like a see-saw, imagining I can see the future reflected off its cloudy surface. I can't. The spoon never leaves my fingers. I stare. And sit there. Playing with the spoon. The spoon who just longs to be paired with the butcher knife, but is instead stuck being paired with the muted cutlery it shares a napkin with. I feel your pain.
Oh fuck. I'm making up stories involving flatware.
Katie's still talking, but Alicia's still listening. Nodding her head attentively. All the audience she needs. And he's there. Filling Lee in on his latest conquest: the blonde he fucked last night. And later toyed with. In front of me. And I want to cry into my pea-soup and chuck biscuits at his head. Bounce forks off his freckled face. Run until my knees give out.
And I can hear him, words traveling through my ears. Words I never want to hear from him when pertaining to another. And it hurts more than it should. It hurts, hurts, hurts too much.
The green-eyed monster is wiping the floor with my ass.
I need to come up for air.
And my mind is fighting and struggling and kicking. I can feel the confession, the admission, forming. Deep within me. It's all clear. Too clear. Right there, as I continue to be ripped to shreds at the dinner table.
But I refuse to say those words. Even if they're only uttered in my head.
I don't want to be those other girls. I don't want those other girls to exist. I want them to poof off in a cloud of hairspray and never return. I don't want things to be just about sex, void of any meaning. I want to be me and I want him to be him. And I want to be the only one.
I want us to be together.
- - -
They say that in order to truly love someone you must first pour your soul out and reveal everything there is to know about yourself. And I've always wondered, what exactly does that mean? To reveal everything. Does it mean admitting that sappy movies can make your eyes tear up and contrary to popular belief you do actually cry on occasion? Does it mean confessing that you hog the covers and have ugly feet and never seem to remember to put the cap on the toothpaste? That you bite your nails and can't carry a tune? That you hate to shave your legs, and some days, you don't even bother at all? Or…does it mean allowing someone to see you at your very lowest, see you red-eyed and snot-nosed, releasing a treasure trove of loot you've even kept buried from yourself? Or is it all a joke? A Hallmark card, a needlepoint saying?
They say a lot of things.
I wonder if half of them are true…
- - -
Next to my bed is a vase of flowers. In front of an open window. Their petals shake as the cold air bites.
White petals in a white vase. Alicia says they're "daisy mums." I don't really give a fuck.
They look perfect. Swaying in the wind. Perfect.
I tip the vase over and wait for the splash, and then the crash. It happens. Painting a beautiful mosaic on the hardwood floors, shiny despite their age. Scattered petals, abandoned stems. Cold, wet puddles. Shattered porcelain.
Just as quickly as it fell, the pieces are all reassembled. Vase back on table. Water back in vase. Flowers back in water.
Perfect as a picture all over again.
I slam the window shut and pull the covers over my head.
I wish I could say I felt better.
- - -
I'm scared. Admitting the truth to yourself has that effect. Fear. Mind-numbing, teeth-chattering fear. I'm scared of what comes next.
Once you've admitted something to yourself, it's only a matter of time before you confess it to another.
And I'm not ready for that yet.
Owning up to my emotions is something I have always failed at. Putting myself out there, on that proverbial line, goes against my creed. I lie and deny; refute and refuse. It's called self-preservation. And I have been preserved. Like a jar of jelly. Strawberry, maybe blueberry. I'm collecting dust in a cellar somewhere, waiting to be taken out. Letting the seasons pass. Attempting to stay fresh inside.
And I wonder why I've never been in love.
I have been lying and denying, refuting and refusing for so long now, the truth is foreign and fuzzy to me. It's that waking up to sunlight feeling. Where you have to shield your eyes because it hurts too much to look. I've tried to keep them closed. I've tried to hide myself, keep the real me under wraps. I'm a different me for a different person. I can be smart and ace the test. I can run and jump and kick your ass. Soar through the air and score the goal. Lead the troops to victory, or just the team to a win. I can listen and I can gab. I can smile and I can flirt. I can be whatever you want me to be.
But what am I to him?
Somehow he's become the one that matters…
He scares me though. I'm afraid to be honest; I'm afraid to be open. I'm afraid to spill my guts and let him see and let him judge every fucked-up insecurity and eccentricity I possess.
I'm afraid to go after what I want.
Him. The one lying next to me. Chest rising and falling as the night rolls on.
And I want him. More than anything. And a part of me feels free from admitting this. It makes me feel light, like I'm dancing on tip-toe, grazing over the ground. I want him to feel. I want him to want, to care. I want him to…
I can see his profile in the dark. His nose, his lips, his chin. I can feel the heat emanating off his body, hear the air go in and out. Feel him tense and shift his weight. Feel him. There. Next to me.
All of this…is becoming too much to ignore.
- - -
"If you bore me then I'm comfortable
If you interest me I'm scared
My attraction paralyzes me
No courage to show my true colors that exist
But I want to be the real thing…"
- - -
A/N: Song lyrics from Magic's in the Make-up- No Doubt
I'm back! After a glorious week at the beach, I am back here. Behind the computer. I apologize for the wait, and well, this story really didn't have too much "plot-action" to speak of. More of a "stream-of-conscious" kind of thing. But I am rambling, and hope that you enjoy this installment, and I will attempt to get another out soon! Please review!