Sup. I just want to say that Darcy does not exist in this story. I'm sorry, I probably should have mentioned that earlier. So Clare's an only child.
This chapter is really important. It answers a lot of questions you may have been asking yourself. It was kind of difficult to write, because Clare doesn't know too much, yet I had to apply enough information without putting too much. Hopefully I did it. Let me know in reviews!
There comes a point in your life when you just stop crying. And it doesn't mean you are stronger or a better fighter or anything of that matter. If anything, it means the exact opposite.
People who don't cry, or rather, can't cry, for whatever reason, are so full of weakness and walls of secrets that the tears are being pushed backwards until they possess your heart. Every day, I can feel tears inside of me, crawling along the edges of my chest, yet every time I think they might break free, a barrier constructs inside myself and it's impossible to let them out. Sometimes the barrier is fortunate, for I don't have to hold back tears at random moments when pain strikes suddenly, but then there are the times when all crying is as tempting to me as water is to the dehydrated. Crying isn't a sign on sadness; it's the release of it. It's a therapeutic technique in which one can express their emotions in a healthy, non-destructive way. And sure, afterwards your chest feels tight and your eyes hurt, but deep down inside yourself, something feels better. Like a blanket is wrapped you to keep you warm on a cold winter's night.
When my dad first started hitting me, I would cry. All the time. So much that gray streaks would from underneath my eyes like bags that signaled lack of sleep. I vaguely remember putting on make-up, scrubbing it across my skin until the gray turned into an irritated red, but the memory feels more like a story I've been told then something that actually happened. I was eleven years old, much too young to be wearing make-up, yet I would go through a whole tube in one week. It's a sad, sad, story, one that would have the paparazzi starving for information and journalists using the strongest, most agonizing words and phrases: brutally attacked, viciously beaten, four years of pure torture. Part of me, the part that hides underneath the surface of my own disposition, knows that these words are not lies, but the honest truth. But the rest of me, the parts that never have it all quite in tact, but I listen to anyway because their points are never as sharp, tell me that these disgraceful lies would only make my life worse than it is now.
It's difficult to decipher the exact point for the reasons of my dad's ruthful actions. My theories change in synch with the clothes I wear, altering day to day, repeating, thrown away for good. I've been desperately searching for the day one makes me feel sick to my stomach, incredibly cold or burning hot, my head screaming in delight and fear all at once, but it never came. My dad wasn't abused as a child, or neglected; at least I don't think so. He doesn't keep in touch with my grandparents anymore. I theorize they stopped talking when my mom got pregnant with me. My dad's family was very wealthy, high class house with a white-picket fence, pounds of gold jewelry that were worth double digit karats, most expensive, newest cars, some that haven't even come out yet. He had it all going for him, especially the brains. My father was in the top 10% of his class, receiving straight As his entire life, with one never talked about again B+. Teachers loved him, colleges hungered for him, and kids envied him.
My mother is nothing but an assemblage of self-created hypothesis that will probably never be correct. The only information I have about her is that she and my dad met at a high school football game. They both hated each other's schools, but the feelings diminished when they realized their "soul-mate" was attending the now not so horrible rival. They were both seniors at the time, well, at least my dad was, and dated from then on out.
When my dad was eighteen, something happened. Maybe the condom slipped off or birth controlled failed, but my mother was suddenly carrying me. The news did not reach my father's family very well; they were, after all, high class, and having a knocked up teenage girl on their hands was not very efficient for their reputation. I presume a big blow up occurred, because my grandma and grandpa have never even met me before, which resumed the separation of child and parents.
Nine months later, I entered the world, unwelcome and not desired for. I was the rain on everyone's parade. The amount of time my mother gave to me is indefinite, if she actually gave me any time at all. But she walked out the door, sometime between my birth and first few months of life, leaving my father alone and completely unprepared for the world of parenting. He was originally planning on becoming a psychiatrist, a well paying, highly respected profession that required fourteen years of college, but having a baby on his plate pushed his fate down other roads. He rejected his dream and went to an in-state college to receive his Associates degree in business. Life, once joyful and exploding with opportunities, was suddenly a broken, dark elevator, stuck in between two floors. My father was claustrophobic with all the regrets and responsibilities and let downs he had experienced, and the only reasonable person he could blame for it was me.
I don't know if the temptation grew, or if he had spent my entire childhood waiting until I was the appropriate age for culpability, but my eleventh birthday was the first time he hit me. Things were recently heating up between us, serrated arguments in which he spoke words the average ten year old shouldn't even know the meaning to, threats that left me wide-eyed and flushed with fear, and tension in the air thick enough to cut with a knife. I could feel my life slowly slipping through my fingers, but I spent so much time reassuring myself that things would get better that I didn't take the common sense to tighten my grip on it.
It was just a slap. A good, hard, palm to face slap that left me numb with trepidation. I didn't pay attention to the burning sensation growing along my cheek, or the round red mark that I knew would appear the next day. My thoughts were drifting along a whole different stream, one of uneasiness and dread for the future.
I wasn't stupid. I knew that this wasn't the end of it, but somehow I went to sleep that night telling myself it was.
The week followed with no indication of that evening's event. My heart gradually piped down to its normal speed, and my concentration began to grow back. But just when I thought it was over, he hurt me again. It's funny, when I think back to it, the thing that scared me the most that night wasn't the fact that he hit me once again, but the fact that he didn't hit me in the face. Instead, it was on my stomach. He knew that no one, without me to point a finger at, would ever find out about his horrible actions through the fabrics of my clothing. It was a treasure chest filled with all his most desirable, hideous secrets. And the moment I realized that, my blood stopped running, just for a moment, but that one little moment was enough to shift my world until a crack ran down the middle of it.
"My fingers hurt!" Alli complains, dropping her pen to fan her hand around in the air, "If we have to write one more word I am going to sue this teacher!"
A few students turn around to chuck Alli annoyed looks. I smile without meaning too; Alli is just so oblivious to the act of considering others it's actually humorous.
When she notices me grinning, she takes her hand to butt my own. "What are you smiling at, Edwards? I'm being serious."
"I understand," I know I'm entering dangerous territory by making fun of Alli when she's not trying to be funny, but the temptation is just too strong to ignore. "I just don't think someone like you could hold a court case very well."
"Some like me?" She looks offended, but it's not heavy enough for me to worry about, "What the hell is that supposed mean?"
"You'd probably get bored and quit within ten minutes."
"I would not!" She raises her voice again, and the teacher turns around to give her a stern look of disapproval. Alli slouches down in her seat and hushes her voice down to a whisper. "I am a very adherent person."
"Good word choice," I look up away from her to get a quick view of the board before copying the words down, "And I'm sure you would, if you really, really, tried. Like for instance, if it was a court case that meant getting Drew, I am positive you'd stick with it until the end."
She smiles at me. "Well, of course. I mean, it's Drew. What about you?"
"What about me?"
"Do you have any guy worth going into court for?"
I think of Eli, his annoying smirk but adorable smile, and his olive-green eyes that are so full of different emotions. In a way, Eli is the kind of person you'd fight all of eternity for, but definitely not me. I'd fight all of eternity just to keep him away from me.
"Nah," I sigh in frustration when I realize I wrote down the wrong phrase, "All the guys here are too…immature for me."
"Someone's picky," Alli takes the tip of her pen and pokes me in the forearm with in. Just above there, a large, dark, newly formed bruise inhabits. I attempt to give her a relaxed smile and inch my arm closer to my chest. "But you're right. Ninety percent of these guys might as well still be in elementary school."
"Exactly."
"I hope you find someone, Clare," she shifts in her seat, "You deserve to have someone special."
"Thanks," I say, appreciating her compliment but not believing it. Who would ever want to be with someone so…broken? They would spend half our relationship picking up a mess they took no part in creating. "That means a lot."
Eli's not in school today. It is very common for someone to become mildly ill, therefore skipping school, but I have this feeling in my gut that that's not the reason for Eli's absence. I attempt to shake it away, but he keeps reappearing in my mind, nagging me to do something I can't understand.
There is one bright side to Eli not being here. I actually get to know Adam, on a one-on-one basis. Despite his offset appearance and actions, Adam's a really decent guy. He's Drew's step-brother, which I found ironic, but kept my mouth shut on that note. Sometimes it feels like he's trying to push a point out, one that's already proven, but other than I find it impossible to hold anything against him.
"Writing takes up a lot of energy," he comments as we work on the opening page for our short story. "Why do I feel like I just ran five miles?"
"Maybe you're emotionally out of shape."
"How do I fix that?"
"Think more."
Adam scrunches up his face in disgust. I laugh when he says, "Ew. Thinking already causes me enough misfortune. No way I'm doing it any more than I have to."
The first page of our story is sloppy. Half of it is made up of scribbles and crossed out words that don't match up well with what we are trying to say. Some of our phrases are boarder line making sense, a few making absolutely no sense what's so ever. But Adam and I got our points across, and in the end the trashy sentence structure and barely readable handwriting can and will be fixed.
"Okay, no more writing," Adam closes his notebook and stares out through the window, into the parking lot. None of the cars are moving, just sitting there idly, but the look on Adam's face makes me feel intrigued with them, too.
"Absolutely," I agree. I love writing, I really do. I also love Swiss Rolls. That doesn't mean I want to spend my whole life consuming rich chocolate and fluffy vanilla cream.
Okay, maybe I do.
"Where's Eli?" The question has been bugging me all throughout class, and getting it out of my system feels like lifting my head from the surface of the water.
Adam shrugs, "Don't know."
"Aren't you his best friend?"
He throws me a preposterous look, and I suddenly realize how unintelligent my question is.
"That doesn't mean I track his every move. What, is that what you girls do?"
"No," I blush at my own stupidity.
"If you want my best guess, he's probably taking an EDO."
"EDO?" I repeat, unsure of what my ears are picking up on.
Apparently they're picking up the right data because Adam curves the left side of his mouth upwards and nods, "Yep. EDO. Eli Day Off. If he doesn't feel like coming to school, he won't."
"Wouldn't he just skip everyday, then?"
Adam bites his lip and turns around to face the window again. I began to grow annoyed at the fact that he ignored my question, but then he answers. "You would think. But Eli said if he took every day off, it wouldn't really be a day off. He's really weird."
"Absolutely," I say for the second time. Eli is weird, but not in the kind of way where I don't want to be near him. He gives off this strange aura that wraps around my ankles and pulls me in deeper with every thing he does. It's like being hypnotized. Everything else in the world kind of fades away into the backseat of your mind, and all your attention is focused on him without you even noticing it.
But that won't happen with me.
Sorry. This is a no Eli chapter. I just wanted to make Alli seem like a more likable character, as well as Adam (although, who could really hate Adam?) I hope I did good with this chapter. I did a lot of revising.
Okay, who melted during Umbrella part 2? Eli and Clare's hug literally sent chills up my spine (literally) and that last scene just made my heart flutter 3 And Wesley and Dave have such a cute friendship! But Dave is a big jerk for tazing Wesley. I mean, that was just cruel. So who is a Fadam fan? I am! And who thinks Jenna and Sav are a disaster in the making? Me! Jenna Boyfriend Stealer strikes again!
-Jenna