Chapter 7

I was beginning to question myself more than normal and I couldn't understand why. What am I going to be good for in the future? Why am I always sitting at this damn typewriter? Why do I feel so helpless?

I could feel it starting to creep in on me, like it had before, tackling me to the ground like I was nothing more than a sack of potatoes. Was that what I was? Was that what I had turned out to be? A sack of potatoes; nothing.

Dragging myself through the days that only seemed to be getting longer was not worth it. I had come to realize this.

He called me. He came to my door. I didn't bother. I was sick, my mother told him again and again, which wasn't a lie. I even had medication that I took twice a day, but it didn't help me feel better.

Everyone all around me told me of the beautiful lights that had sprung up all over the town. Everything was doused with wonderful shades of green and red, and magnificent gold. Boys and girls huddled around their trees and hung all sorts of memories on them.

But I, I could only hear the street carolers muffled songs of joy and laughter. I could only smell the scent of the pine that filled the living room, most of all though, I could feel the cold.

Seeping in through the cracks of the windows and freezing my toes and my hands, the chill swept the house. My mom told me to put gloves over my fingers if I was cold, but what good would that be for typing? No, I just sat there unraveling the knot of words that was clumped in my head. I couldn't sort them out, but words kept flowing from my fingertips. Once a page was filled I'd pull it out crumple it up and throw it on a pile in the middle of my bedroom floor.

Eventually, I had trouble making my way to my door avoiding all of the wads of paper, but those trips were rare.

Then, after many days of continuous typing, I ran out of paper. I sat still for a while after that, pondering what to do. What should I have done with my fingers if they were not typing? I beat them in a steady rhythm on the desktop to keep myself occupied. Finally, I gave up and continued to click the keys of the typewriter anyway, paper or not.

The doorbell rang. I hated that ring. I slammed my fist down on my desk. Something fell over; I wasn't sure what it was. It broke and shattered on the floor. I didn't care, but I heard sounds shortly after. A sad tune, so familiar. I pushed my chair out of the way and landed on my hand and knees on the floor. Bits of shattered glass stuck to my hands.

I felt around, trying to capture the music, but it ended. I had killed it. I hated myself, I hated everything. I remembered this feeling from not-so-long ago and somehow the familiarity of it all comforted me.

"Joy? Are you alright?" His voice came from my doorway.

"No," I told him, "I don't think I am," my voice was calmer then even I had expected.

He took a few steps closer and put his hand on my shoulder. I could hear the paper being stepped on. "What happened?" He asked.

"I broke it," I said plainly. He was silent for a minute, I wasn't sure what to do.

"What's wrong, Joy?" He said, kneeling down next to me.

"Everything is breaking," it turned out differently than I had thought it would. "I hate Christmas." I told him.

"Come on, let's walk. We can go over to my house; the gang hasn't seen you in weeks." He said, grabbing my frozen hand and pressing it between his.

"It's cold outside," I turned away from him.

"Not if you wear a jacket," he said, not letting go of my hand.

"I really should clean this up." I told him.

"You can clean it up later," I didn't understand why he pushed me as he did, but something inside of me was glad to see him, to hear the voice that I had not heard in so long. Had that been my choice? Why wasn't he angry with me?

We went into the kitchen where the warming odor of sugar cookies roamed.

"Mom," I popped my head into the kitchen, "I'm going out for a while, okay?"

She didn't argue or ask me where I was going, she seemed glad to see me get out, "Alright, just don't be home too late, your father is getting back from New York tonight." She said.

"Okay."

"And make sure to bring Lady with you, too," She added.

"Okay."

I grabbed my coat and headed outside where I opened the gate to let Lady out. I was pretty sure that the sun had already set, it felt late.

Pony and I didn't talk for a while. There was not much to say to make up for all of the weeks of silence.

"Why do you hate Christmas?" He finally asked me.

"I always have," suddenly I felt stupid for locking myself up all of that time. "You act like it's so strange for me to have not been seen for that long of a time, but its normal. I can't explain it. All year everyone looks forward to this time of year and I always tell myself that it will be better than years past, but it never is. It happens every year." I repeated.

There were a few moments of silence and in the distance I could hear the sound of carolers. A slight breeze ran over my skin and I grabbed his hand.

"You're not missing anything," he said finally, "by not being able to see anything, I mean," His voice was soft and warm. "It's what you can hear that is the best part," he told me.

I smiled for the first time in a very long while. For the first time in my life I could feel past the cold, and the bells that rang somewhere near by filled me with warmth, or maybe that was his hand wrapped around mine.

"What day is it?" I asked him.

"The 19th" He told me.

"I have time still to enjoy it then."

"Yeah," he said.

"Thanks Pony," I said.

There was silence, but it was the most comfortable silence I had ever experienced.

Sorry it's so short and choppy, but I've really be struggling to find time to write lately. I'll probably go back and edit half of this chapter later. I'm really sorry took so long, but marching band season is over and I'll be able to write more now. Thanks for reading and please review with some ideas!!!