"I don't know your face no more
Or feel your touch that I adore
I don't know your face no more
It's just a place I'm looking for
We might as well be strangers in another town
We might as well be living in a different world
We might as well be
We might as well be
We might as well be
…
I don't know your thoughts these days
We're strangers in an empty space
I don't understand your heart
It's easier to be apart." – We Might As Well Be Strangers, Keane
All rights belong to their rightful owners.
The next few days repeat the same way: I hangout with Edward and then drive back home alone.
Tonight is no different.
I'm in Edward's bedroom getting ready to leave, and he's trying to persuade me to stay.
"It's late; you shouldn't drive back at this hour anyway," he says, watching me slip my shoes on.
I'm about to answer when I hit my upper leg on the sharp edge of his desk; my hand slams down onto the desk with a loud thud, and I curse.
"Ow, fuck!" I gently, tenderly, feel the area where it got me.
Just my luck—it was the spot right below where I have a healing cut. I curse again and Edward comes over to inspect the damage; something I definitely don't want him doing, so I try to wave him off, playing it cool.
"Yeah right, B. You're not foolin' anyone," he says, rolling his eyes.
He's right, but I also don't want him finding out about my little secret.
"I'm alright," I say when he reaches for my leg.
He shakes his head. "Just lemme see."
I shake my head.
"No, really, I'm OK," I insist.
He narrows his worried brown eyes at me, like he knows that I'm hiding something.
"Please," he says quietly. "It'll make me feel better; please."
I bite my lip, knowing that I'm in a sort of catch 22. If I keep refusing to show him, he's gonna keep insisting and thinking something more is wrong; and if I do allow him to look, he's going to see the cut I made. I slowly lift my leg up onto the offending desk to stretch it out.
He pushes up my sweats, and I feel the fabric pull and tug on the healing cut. It's in the itchy stage of healing, so it irritates me. I hardly breathe as he pushes it up the rest of the way, and then looks at where I hit the desk; he runs his fingers over it gently, and I can't deny that they feel good, because they do.
"It doesn't look that bad; I guess just ice it at home," he says, relief palpable in his voice and face.
I nod, and then the unthinkable—but I knew it was probably going to—happens: His thumb rubs a little higher accidently, and the place where the desk got me is only inches from the cut site, so he can easily slip up a little and feel it—which he just did. He frowns and then before I can stop him, he lifts up the sweats even further, and there it is. His face morphs into worry, then concern, and then disbelief when he realizes how it got there—I didn't even have to say anything, and he knew.
"Jesus Christ," he mutters.
"Don't say that," I reprimand.
He rolls his eyes and then eyes me.
"Why . . . when'd you do that?" he demands in a quiet voice.
One thing I won't tell him is when I cut; he would freak out, thinking it was because we had sex the other night—that wasn't why, not really.
"B, answer me," he says softly, looking worried as hell.
I bite my lip and pull the pants leg back down, hiding my not-so-secret secret again.
"I . . . I. . ." I trail off, unsure of what to say.
"What, sweetheart?" he probes.
I let out a harsh sigh.
"I'm messed up—fucked-up in the head. Yeah, I'm fucked in the head, 'kay?" I say exasperatedly.
He nods.
"Yeah, obviously," he mumbles.
Ouch.
Low blow, Edward . . . fucker.
"Don't even," I say, glaring at him.
He stops me when I go for the door, pulling me back by my arm.
"Are you gonna tell me anything?" he asks, narrowing his eyes.
I can feel the meds that I took—2 Valium—in the bathroom here beginning to take effect, but all it does is makes me irritable right now.
"I'm surprised you're even questioning it," I bite back.
"What?" he asks, confusion on his face.
I huff and shiver as I feel the drugs working.
"Like I said, I'm fucked in the head."
"Was it . . . did this have anything to do with what happened between us the other night?" he asks quietly. "'Cause I thought—you told me you were OK with what happened."
I roll my eyes.
"Not everything is about you, okay?" I say.
In actuality, my world revolves around him, and that's part of the problem.
He frowns.
"What's with you tonight? You've been, I don't know, testy for almost three or four hours," he says, suspicion in his tone.
It's true.
What he doesn't know, is that I've been popping Tylenol that I know Emma keeps in the bathroom mirror-cabinet, every two hours since I got here well over seven hours ago.
Sometimes, I need something more to help take the edge off, to help deal with Edward.
Liar, liar, my conscious taunts.
I cross my eyes.
"Well, that's probably 'cause I've got Valium in my system," I reveal.
His brown eyes widen.
"You're high?" he asks in utter disbelief.
I blink twice and then nod.
He shakes his head slowly, like he doesn't believe me.
Denial is a river in Egypt,
But it's powerful when it's most needed,
And it tends to protect our hearts,
And sometimes our minds,
When we most need it. . .
"Why?" he says, his voice cracking.
I shrug.
"Like hell you don't know!" he explodes.
I flinch, not expecting him to yell, but recover just as quickly as it came.
"Leave," he says.
I narrow my eyes at him.
"What?" I ask, as if I heard him wrong.
He points to the door with one hand while running his other through his hair.
"I . . . I can't be around you right now; so please, just go," he reiterates for me.
His words hurt but I don't allow it to show.
However, I don't move an inch, and he huffs.
"Unless you want me to have an episode and try using—shit, maybe we can get high together though—I suggest you fucking leave—now," he says through clenched teeth.
How dare he . . . motherfucker.
"Fuck you," I say, glaring at him and then yank open the door and walk out, leaving it open.
Ignorance is never bliss,
And ignoring someone,
And holding a grudge against them. . .
It's cruel. . .
It's cruelty to their heart, and to the mind. . .
Days go by and I don't hear from Edward.
I know the game that he's playing; he's ignoring me because he's pissed and hurt. Well, welcome to the fucking club buddy.
I don't try to get a-hold of him, knowing that he'll talk to me when he wants to. It hurts like fucking hell, but a part of me knows that I deserve this. I can't sleep, and when if I do manage to, it's nightmares.
I've upped myself to six Tylenol, one Valium, and a half-cup of Nyquil.
That's just to be able to get tired enough so that my mind will shut the hell up and allow me to fall asleep; I still wake-up every one to two hours though.
And that's just to fall asleep.
.
.
.
I love you, but you broke my heart,
When I saw the red slice against your beautiful skin,
That night. . .
You're beautiful,
But I can't be around you,
For I'm afraid I'll take us both down. . .
.
.
.
I go through my nightly routine of popping pills just to be able to relax, and then sit down on the couch with my laptop on my lap. I check my emails and see that it's all junk, except for one.
A reply from Liz; I had emailed her the other night, explaining what had happened.
FROM: lizzilly1887
TO: Jelly Belly
Subject: Re: hellish week vs another cut
B,
I'm incredibly sorry that I couldn't get back to you before! *sad face* UW has been hell lately, and I'm swamped b/c it's almost Thanksgiving break. Anyway…
I'm sorry that you had it out with Edward (again); I was hoping that maybe, just maybe, things might even out now that you two are older. I do wish that you would've picked up a phone and dialed me before you self-harmed though, hun. (Know, I'm not blaming you though.)
I know that I said I'm busy with vacation coming up and whatnot, but that doesn't mean that you can't call me if you need to! You know that I have my own apartment, with no roommate. But, for some reason, you have a preconceived thought that you're always "bothering" people if you ask for help. *shakes head* Silly girl.
I would absolutely l-o-v-e to have a word or several with Edward, the douche-fuck. It's completely like him, but I still cannot fully believe – comprehend – that he told you to leave! After pushing you to show him where you had banged yourself, and then discovering the cut… *bangs head on my own desk* He's a fucker alright? Lol; there, I said it. :p
Well, it's early (I don't know when you'll be reading this, but it's 7:00 in the morning right now), and I have to be at my first class by 8am sharp. (The professor is a hardass about timing.)
Iloveyou, you beautiful girl.
~~Lizzie
.
.
.
True-best friends;
They're the ones who are care the most,
And prove it by being there when you're at your worst.
It's been two weeks since I last heard anything from Edward, and I'm beginning to say 'fuck it' about him and about returning. It's not as if he wants me there anyway, so why should I even care? I don't know, but I just do care. Edward has been my friend for a long, long time, and we were friends from the start. We actually met through Liz when we were younger, but somehow Edward and I had something from the start that neither of us seemed to understand. We hated being apart, even for a day—or at least, I hated it. Life with Edward has never been easy though; he's almost cost my friendship with Liz several times, and he hates it when anybody upsets me, immediately jumping in to 'defend' me against them. If I wanted to hang around with Emma then it was fine, but if I hung out with Liz, I would have to deal with his subtle jibes about her. I guess maybe he was jealous, but who knows.
As I said, life with him has never been 'easy', and I've almost given up on his plenty of times, but never have I willingly ignored him this long because he fucked-up and decided to get high or do something equally as stupid. (This isn't counting six and a half years ago when I told him he needed to get help, real help, or else I wouldn't be able to take any more.) How—and why—he's doing it this long I have no idea.
The only reason I can think of is revenge.
And it feels as if I don't even him anymore.
Everything is falling apart, piece by piece, my heart is breaking, and another part of me dies each time.
.
.
.
Revenge is never right, nor good;
For it often backfires on the one seeking it.