tahneejaye: Many, many thanks.
Guest: I certainly apologize for that.
L (Guest): Well, I appreciate your kind words. I update as frequently as possible, and chapter lengths are always a coin toss.
PailyIsLove: I'm most grateful for your words.
Plamin24: Geez, man. Comments like those really warm the heart. I'm most appreciative.
Kyla (Guest): Thank you, Kyla. Heartbreaking, sad, and beautiful are all qualities that I've grown to love.
Guest: Hahaha. Well, I'm most grateful.
ponderhouse: And as always, I'm thoroughly appreciative of people such as yourself.
Guest: Was that a proposal? Say "punch to the heart" again. Lol. Many, many thanks.
Yesni83: I apologize for killing you, but am always most appreciative of your kind comments.
dotylink64: Thank you, dear friend. (Pretty much all that I can say. Lol.)
Author's Note: I appreciate all of you that have stuck around until this point. And I apologize for not having much more to say in regards to responding. Enjoy.
Disclaimer: I do not own Pretty Little Liars or any of the show's characters.
"This is all that I could find," BHB says, dropping a massive book onto the cafeteria table. I've careened him into digging up information on Paige's illness, and this is what he brings me. Neatly bound pages that nearly double the Bible's size. "Swiped it from the Psychology classroom," he notes rather proudly. "Also took the liberty of highlighting a few things."
DSM-V. A quick scan of the index proves there to be more psychological disorders than I could've possibly fathomed. I can do no further perusing on account of Paige, who approaches our table noiselessly. Instead of leaving the book in broad daylight, I quickly shove it underneath my right thigh.
"Any big plans for the day?" BHB dumbly asks when she sits.
Thankfully, instead of avoiding him altogether, she cocks an eyebrow. Paige has been doing these small things recently. It's enough to make me believe that she's somehow returning. Breaking away from the funk. But I'm trying to not remain too hopeful. "Thought about knocking off a couple of bums," she eventually answers. "You down?"
I try suppressing a grin. "You seem to be feeling a bit better."
Her instant reaction is to cut both eyes upward, as if searching for something. A look of faux-surprise washes over her face as she says, "Must have left my raincloud in the room."
And it's these kinds of snide remarks coupled with remorseful tones that confuse the absolute hell out of me. Is she content? Is she still upset? Is she caught somewhere in the middle? Frequent blank stares on her part do nothing to aid my search for answers.
I spend the evening parked in front of a computer screen. Researching, researching, researching. Looking up anything there is to know about what I found in Paige's file that one night. The night I was supposed to be snooping on someone else, but she indirectly led me to the discovery she most wished for. Depression. Self-harm. It's all pretty grotesque stuff. Stuff that I'm not proud of seeking out. But if there's one thing that my parents taught me, it's that problems can't be solved until they've been named. That defeating a faceless enemy is all but possible.
The search becomes a nightly endeavor. Plastered behind an illuminated square, eyes growing tired as they skim through slews of oddly-worded studies. Five months ago, you couldn't have paid me to work this hard on an assignment for school. No force could've driven me to work this diligently; pay the most intent of attention.
And what for? Paige? My own peace of mind? I'm a dog chasing its own tail, I've realized. Striving for but one end goal, unsure of what to do once that moment comes.
But I persist. Well past midnight each night. Returning to our room, where Paige usually lies on her side, arms wrapped firmly around a pillow. In my bed, mostly. And the only thing I can ever come up with is unwinding her finger's grip, crawling into the empty expanse, and allowing them to reseal themselves around my stomach.
If the research has pointed me in any direction, it's that of patience. Though understanding is also one of the key components, wrapping my head around what's currently trapped in hers is rather difficult. And there's no secondary source that could possibly provide the most accurate insight of all. More so, being upfront and asking would prove equally as detrimental to Paige's wellbeing, I'm sure. After all, her reaction that night at the pool has been engrained into my memory. Betrayal. The way "crazy" fell from her lips with more disgust than I'd ever witnessed.
Hold on, Paige. Just hold on, I think as her arms vice grip around me tonight. I'm trying to understand. God, am I trying.
"Christmas is coming up," BHB points out one morning at breakfast. He's really been making an effort with Paige, trying to fit in what conversation he can before she darts off to some remote corner of the building. I just sit and listen. Try to soak in what I can.
Paige chews her food rather fervently. Like it'll disappear before she can finish. She shrugs. "Then we should snort some hot chocolate," she says, wiping her hands. "You can stick it in a few reindeer. Really get into the spirit of things."
My mentor appears as though he can't tell if he would rather gag or laugh. I take this as a good sign. "Anything in particular you might want?" he asks.
The conversation takes a drastic turn when Paige stands. When she grunts to herself, rolling both eyes. "I've got you two assholes," she deadpans. "What else could a girl need?"
BHB tries stopping me from chasing after her. He tries rationalizing Paige's behavior. He, however, fails in thwarting my efforts of pursuit, and I follow my roommate's heels closely for the expanse of two entire hallways. She settles down in her usual common room, at her usual table, in front of her usual Scrabble board.
"That was pretty fucked up," I say.
She feverishly begins tending to the individual squares, organizing them as quickly as her hands will allow. "A lot of things are pretty 'fucked up', Emily," she hums.
I can't help but notice the pace at which she moves. Similar to minutes before, when she was shoveling rice into her mouth as if it were a race to the finish, and she was in last place. Now, brown tiles scatter around like grains of rice. "He was just trying to be helpful," I say.
This is roughly the time at which Paige loses her cool. "With what?" she challenges, laughing in disbelief. "What could possibly be wrong enough to where I'd need yours and his help?"
"Paige."
"I'll tell you what," she continues. "If you and the buffoon really want to help out, then you'll leave me the hell alone. You'll stop trying to make happy, meaningless conversation. You'll stop putting on these stupidly brave faces, and you'll leave me be."
Angry. Obviously. At what, I don't know. Moments ago, she showed signs of her typical, crude self. Now, she's stone-cold. The Paige from square one. The Paige I was first introduced to. The Paige that made my skin tingle, and not in the good way. Now, this is the old Paige that the old Emily might've let slip through the cracks. Given her the right of way without so much as a passing glance.
Thankfully, I'm not the old Emily, either. Some luxuries are reserved for but a select few. "I can't let you do that," I sing out rather defiantly.
"Why not?" she quickly barks, palms gripping the table's edge. "That magical book finally gotten to you, too? Tell me, have you reached the part where it says that if we just sit around a campfire and sing kumbaya, everything will suddenly start to feel better?" I'm at a loss for words, but Paige has clearly had these building up for some time.
The quiet does that to a person.
"Run along, Emily. Run along to our room, stick your nose in that fucking book, and—" but she pauses mid-sentence, taking a moment to inhale sharply through the nose. Clench her eyes shut. Smile to herself before scrunching all features together.
"And?" I dare to ask.
More brokenly this time around, she answers, "And don't look up until you can tell me what the fuck's gotten into my head, and why it won't. leave."
Overwhelmed. That's my current state of being. A mind too taxed. A heart too weary. A spirit too pressed by the sands of circumstance. All because I can't uphold Paige's most recent request. I can do nothing to ease her burden. No amount of time, energy, or optimism will get me where I need to be with her.
Where she needs to be.
These small conclusions are cruel enough to come at random times. During a shower or in the middle of a lecture. When I'm lying in bed, desperate for sleep. When I'm lying in bed, desperate to wake up from this nightmare.
I've given up on trying to decipher Paige. Given up on reading through the footnotes. I don't need a PhD to understand what this feeling is. No book will give a name to this suffering.
Paige is a competitive girl. A fighter. And she's strong. Stronger than I could ever imagine being. Because the silence has sucked me in. Consumed me. These moments of complete solitude have not only shed a light on just how feeble a creature I am, but they threaten to break me. Snap me in two.
How do you move past the silence? How do you drown out the one fraction of noiselessness that's loudest of all?
How?
It's storming out over the ocean. Thunder booms all around and lightning crashes just overhead. There's a steady drum of water pelting against water. Paige, she's in the middle of everything. As waves rise in the vast expanse, her body floats amongst them. Calmly. Still.
I'm reaching out to her. Extending a hand to hers, trying to pull her free of the chaos. Her face is as serene as a Hindu cow's. Blank and expressionless. And as I begin to grip her forearm, tugging her from navy blue that threatens to engulf her, an eerie blackness comes from below. It violently yanks against my hold.
Paige goes to speak, but no words fall free. Not as she is pulled under, disappearing into the sea.
I frantically pull as hard as possible. Tug against the faceless mass. And then we're caught in a fight for the upper hand. Paige's face reappears before being drawn back in. The process repeats continuously.
That is, until my arm falls dead. Weary from the struggle. I'm swiftly pulled into the depths alongside Paige, floating but inches from her. Her eyes remain wide. A smirk creeps along her face. And then the blackness returns, forcing her deeper.
I lash out, taking hold of her hand. Struggle for air as we descend. Whoever's on the other end continues forward, feet fluently pedaling.
It isn't until we're completely succumbed to the darkness that Paige releases her hold. It isn't until my lungs scream for air that I return to the surface. Alone.
But something follows me. The silhouette of another life form. I anticipate Paige's arrival.
The silhouette inches closer. Their head is just below the water's edge. I smile, too, optimistic that we'll soon free ourselves from the storm.
And then the surface is broken. The head appears.
And just as I go to mouth Paige's name, I come face to face with some other than her. With a far more haunting presence.
The silhouette is not of Paige.
It's me.
"Emily. Emily," a voice impatiently calls out. "Damn it, Fields. Wake up before I punch you in the face."
I do. Breathlessly and in a panic, for that matter. Paige sits cross-legged atop my bed. Her shoulders are slouched in the slightest way, hands and elbows propping her head up. "Twas but a dream," she singsongs, flashing a toothy grin.
Me, I'm too busy trying to stifle the oncoming heart attack. "Where am I?"
"Chateau," she begins, face contorting into that of a sneeze as her hand flutters through the air. "Uhh, you're in our room."
My head's shaking. Hands reaching out, feeling the protrusions of her features. Nose. Mouth. Eyes. I click the light on.
"Hey," she coos, genuine concern lacing the single syllable. "What's the matter?"
"I'm sorry," I confess, words catching in my throat. "I'm so, so fucking sorry. For you and the wedding and what happened after and you now and… I'm just so terribly sorry."
Paige's expression hardens over. Her lip quivers for but a moment. "Emily," she interjects, "what goes on with me is not your responsibility." I expect another defense. Another argumentative tangent. Pointed remarks. A raised voice. But her eyes soften in a manner that suggests otherwise. Forgiving, almost. "It's not your fault, either."
It's not your fault.
Her assurance is a joyous chorus that singlehandedly unlocks the floodgates. The weight of my impending tears becomes too much, and a month's worth of heart ache begins to flow freely from my eyes and onto Paige's shirt. The sorrow dribbles onto my nose. Drips from my chin. She allows me the moment of weakness, arm opening enough for my hunkered frame to fit into the crook of her body.
It feels like ages before I finally quit crying. But better yet, it also feels as though a giant, crushing burden has been lifted from my chest. The air is easier to breathe. Warmth temporarily shadows the recent coldness. Paige must sense this, too, for she smiles the simplest of smiles.
A hand coaxes me from her lap and onto the mattress. Per her ushering, I lie face down as the same hand maneuvers the lower part of my shirt upward. It's an innocent gesture, even as she begins trailing a finger across the skin. Drawing small circles, at first. Then letters. More circles. "Tell me a secret," she eventually mutters, still sitting cross-legged, and still drawing. "Anything at all."
"I, uhh—" I can't speak. I am now illiterate. I am now rendered incapable of speech. But if I can finally muster the courage to apologize after being so fearful of doing so, then I can possibly formulate a decent enough response. Something truthful but doesn't push the envelope too far, too quickly. Not when she's already put up with one emotional wreck this evening. "Back when liking guys was still a thing, I used to look for the ones like you."
"Interesting," she quickly hums, finger now tracing the expanse between my shoulder blades. Still gentle. Still innocent. "And probably most disappointing for you, considering that I am still without a penis."
Laughter certainly is one of the best cures, for it fills my chest and radiates throughout my body. Renews my spirit for the moment. Uplifts the emotions that previously felt as though they would forever remain in a downward spiral.
Paige laughs, too, and it's quite possibly becoming my new favorite sound.
"Now, I must tell you a secret," she whispers.
"It's only fitting."
"But first, you have to promise that you won't fall madly in love with me because of it," she continues.
I chuckle again. This time, into the pillow. "I promise."
She takes a deep breath, but it's drowned out by another occurrence. The lights in our room that instantly switch off. A resounding silence that settles in just outside of our door. Then the clicking of a lock.
Paige instinctively jumps up from the mattress, darting over to our window. She peers outside, where not even the security floodlights are active. An air of nervousness passes over me. Chills me to the bone. More so, as Paige dashes across the room and places an ear to our door. "Shit, shit, shit," she whispers.
"Paige." She rushes to the closet, fishes through one of her bags, and digs out what appears to a bank card. Me, I'm quickly becoming confused and scared and maybe on the verge of wetting myself. "Paige," I say, louder this time.
A hand plasters itself across my mouth. "Shut the hell up," she whispers sternly. Much harsher than seconds prior.
"You need to tell me what's going on," I insist through her fingers.
"Use your imagination."
Then it happens. An ear-shattering pop that's only muffled by the interfering walls. "Was that?" Oh, God. I'm going to faint. Vomit tickles at the back of my throat. The urge to puke becomes a battle that my body is insistent on losing.
Paige is having no such hesitance, for she places both hands underneath my arms, hoists me up, and leads me to one of the room's corners. "Tell me that this isn't what I think it is," I mutter, clenching my jaw to keep from sobbing. An act that does nothing to still the rest of my body.
Her attention is focused as it wipes the card over a rectangular gray box at the door's top. "Lock Up behind me, and don't open for anyone," she says as a familiar click sounds again.
"No, no, no," I repeat, climbing from the floor and placing my hands atop hers. "You can't go out there."
Pop.
"Bobby's probably scared shitless."
"And?"
"And he needs to see a familiar face."
"He could be anywhere. You wouldn't possibly know where to start looking."
"I'll find him, Emily."
The response that first comes to my mind is most haunting of all. No, you won't. And then her words hit me with the sharpest pang of remorse that one individual can experience. Their meaning is soundest of all. "Then let me go with you," I finally muster the courage to say, refusing to go down without a fight. "I'm still your Goose, right?"
"You must certainly are," she halfheartedly laughs. "Which is why I must ask that you stay behind and hold down the fort."
I'm resisting the urge to cry once more. To break down again and leverage guilt as a means of making her stay. "Look at me, Paige," I say through a trembling voice. "Whatever's out there can't hurt us if we just stay in here. Just you and me. Together."
What she says next opens my eyes to the harshest reality of all. Because as Paige mutters, "I'm afraid it's a little too late for that," I begin seeing clearer than I ever have.
"Promise that you'll come back," I quickly blurt out. "Promise that you'll come back and tell me that secret."
She smiles. "Only if you keep promising to refrain from falling madly in love with me if I do."
"If."
This isn't how it should be. It can't. Paige and me, we're supposed to have more arguments. More fights about manners of no importance. We're supposed to have more time.
Remember those moments of clarity I've been talking about? The ones that hit me at the most inopportune times? Well, this is one of them.
Because in this moment, we're being the most truthful that we've been with each other. This is by far the most open conversation we've had to date. Filled with roundabout statements, it's our own way of addressing the real issues. My fearfulness. Paige's willingness. Towards the one topic I've been actively avoiding. The one that she's been inevitably approaching.
The one we all eventually approach.
No, no, no. This is supposed to be our story. A tale riddled with hatred, defiance, and too many words left unsaid. There isn't supposed to be a heroic end. There isn't supposed to be an end at all. Not now, at least.
But as another pop blasts against the building's looming silence, I can do nothing to shake the gut-wrenching realization that from here on out, after what happens does, there will be no more Paige and Emily. We will not be the same. What's left of the both of us.
I only know this because Paige knows this. We're both well aware of what's really going on. This isn't playful recklessness. This isn't a prank. This isn't an act whose worst consequence results in cleaning out an attic or both the first and second floor bathrooms.
Whether she's actually being selfless in wanting to help BHB or doesn't care about what could happen doesn't matter at this point. It doesn't matter because the coulds have little to no effect on what already has happened. The peace that Paige has made with our circumstance.
So instead of trying to romanticize the decision she will undoubtedly stand by, I try understanding our ordeal. I try like hell to make this memory of each other fitting. Lasting. Custom-made.
It probably sounds sadistic. Harsh and insensitive. But Paige knows me well enough to understand that I know her well enough to understand that she wouldn't prefer anything less than harsh.
In one of the forums I frequented during my research, a random poster, mind a handful of disgruntled introductory expletives, said something that held real merit. "The 'could's don't forgive the 'have's. Wishful thinking won't save a ship that's sinking. Not when the captain's locked themselves away, hands glued firmly to the helm, prepared to drown."
I had a difficult time grasping what they were saying. That is, until now.
And so, with this in mind, I ask the question that gives way to a fit-for-Paige answer. Something triumphant, above all else. The question that'll most ease my suffering on the off chance that Paige receives what she most desires. That, years from now, will disregard this moment and continue to haunt my thoughts. A question whose answer comes to me in a split-second. A question whose answer has been painfully obvious all along, and I'm only just seeing it.
"There's no chance of me saving you from yourself, is there?"
She smiles sullenly. An eerie calmness then resonates within her. It washes over her face. She then cracks a halfhearted smile, dips her head, and answers in the most serene tone, "Not even the slightest."
This is nothing like what they show in the movies or on television. Nothing can prepare you for the sickening feeling that resonates within your chest. The struggle to breathe. An emptiness that overshadows all other emotion.
My dad once coached me on how to handle these types of situations, should they ever come about. Stay low. Stay quiet. And if you hear the shot, it wasn't meant for you.
I inwardly mutter the words over and over. Even as Paige never returns with Bobby. Even as I sit alone, knees tucked into my chest, slowly rocking back and forth.
Paige is the only thought that can bring me solace. Of her, soaring high above everyone else with paper wings, and now, everything's burning to the ground.
Brace for impact.
Paige.
Back and forth.
She'll be back.
She has to come back.
She'll come back and tell me her secret and everything will be all right.
Pop.