Off beam

It doesn't take long before she leaves me, leaves my stare and my presence as her head whips around and stares aimlessly into the far wall, muttering words I don't need to hear to understand. Because she's walking away from me, her hand pressed onto the door handle but not for long, not for long because she's so fast out that door that I barely have time to comprehend what happened; even less that I'm standing here undressed, so incredibly undressed inside and out.

I feel moisture and pressure inside my shocked and confused eyes and I'm not sure if it's from the abandonment or from the sheer sensation of something so utterly unexpected happening. Because I know what I saw, for once i actually know that the emotions behind her eyes weren't imagined, weren't just illusions of hope from my suddenly hopeful mind.

I should be thrilled, filled with enthusiasm, but what overwhelms me in this moment is fear, cold and naked fear much like my own body still standing motionless oogling the door of her departure. Because I'm not sure if I can handle things going my way. I'm not sure if I can handle my hopes and dreams taking form and becoming true, manifesting themselves in reality.

They beckon on me, those clothes that lie neatly folded on the bench beside me, and I'm not slow with complying to their call. Shirts and jeans are haphazardly being thrown over my frame and hiding me physically but never mentally. Because I'm so open, so incredibly open in the way my expression conveys every little speck of terror that runs inside me and through me.

I'm not sure I'm ready for this.

---

I've been hiding ever since. I've been hiding so deeply behind a colder face, a harder demeanor but I know she can sense it, I know it pours out of me, the real me, the real face that so desperately wants to make an appearance. But I'm holding it at bay, it's tipping at the edge but I'm holding it at bay.

It sounds more of an achievement if it wasn't for the fact that only 10 minutes have passed, only 10 minutes of being in her presence, sitting in her car waiting for her to bring me somewhere I so desperately don't want to be brought to. Because 'appointment' has never been a word that fills me with joy, rather it fills me with dread and anxiety in ways you wouldn't even imagine. I remember it first being uttered years ago, so many years ago that I can't even count them and I don't want to. I don't want to remember and store in my mind those awful memories of rejection and pitiful looks that has forever caged me in fright of unacceptance. I don't want to be sent back.

Spencer hasn't uttered a word since I entered the car, eyes focused on watching the road and scenery outside of this confined space we're currently sharing, a space I know she'd rather share with someone else, anyone else.

There's so much conviction and determination in the way she scans her surroundings, the ones outside of this car and I almost don't believe her; I almost don't believe that that's where her mind and focus really lies. Because they are too trained on the view outside, they are too trained on not looking in my direction, and for the first time I see doubt and indecision in the way her eyes sometimes shake, her stoic face suddenly not appearing as harsh and cold as it has before.

And I wonder if it's always been this way.

If her eyes has always been shaking in uncertainty, if her cold expression has always seemed so fake and easy to see through, because the view is so oddly familiar. Maybe it's been there all along, that doubt and insecurity I now suddenly see lying behind that cold front of hers, because it's the same expression. It's the same front I saw etched into her features when I first met her, it's the same icy stare I've seen shot into me at various occasions and I'm starting to wonder if they've always been present, those emotions I suddenly see so clearly on her.

It feels like I'm finally seeing.

Finally taking my own glimpses into the mind of a stranger instead of waiting impatiently for her to give them to me.

And I'm so caught up in my watching that all other senses seem to escape me, seem to shut down in order for me to focus hundred percent on her and only her. So much that I barely hear the sound of her ring tone slowly increasing in its volume, incessantly vibrating in her pants.

I look at her expectantly, waiting for her to act but she doesn't seem to move, she doesn't seem to notice. Because no hands reach for the pocket, no eyes are cast toward the ringing object. I'm hesitant to inform her, unsure if she's ignoring the call or actually oblivious to it, but when I do, when I finally summon up the small ounce of courage that I have in me and notify her, she seems surprised. And then she seems annoyed, throwing me an icy glare that has somehow never felt warmer.

She's gripping her cell phone so tightly while she talks that I can see her knuckles turning white, voice bored and monotone as she's obviously talking to her mother, to Paula.

I hear words but I don't know their meaning because they're not what I'm focusing on, they're not what I'm trying to understand. I've been having a hard time only watching her blurry, sideways from my peripheral vision and I'm grateful for the chance to look at her, fully look at her as I hear my name being muttered from her lips giving me a feel of allowance to watch her.

The cackling of Paula's voice is the only thing heard as we're both listening, listening so intently but I'm not sure if anyone of us is listening to her, to Paula.

I know I'm not.

Something shakes me out of it though, out of this mesmerized state she's put me under, something in the form of a word I have learnt to fear, learnt to be vary of. Because I am reminded of why I am here, why Spencer is driving me and what is waiting for me when we reach our destination. This 'appointment' that feels like so much more.

I've been holding my breath for awhile, never sure how long, and I'm unable to control the shaky breath that escapes me, that reveals everything I've been trying so hard to keep at bay. She clicks her phone shut mere seconds later and I hope, I hope against hope that it was drowned, that my shaky breath was muffled by the sound of her phone clicking shut.

I am never that lucky.

Icy blue eyes glance toward me and although I'm no longer watching her I still feel them on me, I still feel their cold stare leaving warm trails on my skin. Because everything about her seems to warm me.

I'm losing my confidence in being able to read her as every minute passes, and the way she's staring me down from beside me increases the doubt that fills me slowly but so surely. I'm no longer in control, losing the battle between us before it had even begun, and I'm starting to imagine that it's all in my mind again, that it's all in my hopes and dreams and never facts of reality. So when her hand twitches on the gearshift I'm not sure if it really happened or what it meant, I'm not sure if her lips really parted, if the language I'm interpreting her with is the right one or if I'm just lost in translation.

Nothing happens though, and I try to forget, I try to throw away the memory of a hand laced with promises and a stare crumbling over a dilemma I'm not sure what was about. Because I don't want it to taint my thoughts later like I know it will, and I don't want it to spin ideas and hopes into a mind that does nothing else.

It feels like forever has passed, and when we arrive, when we reach this destination of dread I want forever to last longer, I want awkwardness and icy stares to never stop occurring, anything to prolong or rescue me from the inevitable, from this appointment that I know nothing about. That I honestly have no right to loathe as fiercely as I am.

The building in front of me stands tall and white before us, the car running silently telling me I'm supposed to walk out, I'm supposed to leave it and let Spencer go. But I'm not ready for any of them.

I'm afraid to look at her, afraid of seeing her eyes demanding me to let go of her time, let go of this death grip I have on the seat beneath me. So I look ahead, barely seeing the same action mirrored to my left where she's choking the steering wheel, jaw set and protruding, eyes cast to the building in front of us.

I'm not sure how many moments pass, but when I make no move to leave I see her hair whipping into my vision, her head turning left and away from me, words suddenly invading this pit of awkwardness we're drowning in.

"Look, it's nothing to be afraid of, okey, mom just wants you to 'talk about your past' or something..."

It is said with an edge, with a forced boredom in it and her eyes seem to tread involuntarily into my direction before being thrown harshly away from me and back out the window of this car. It is not the words or the way they are delivered that takes me by surprise though, it is the astonishment that she said something at all, that she actually said something.

"Talk about my past?"

"Yeah, you know, spill out every traumatic event that's happened to you. Mom's inside waiting for you."

She's faking it well, the bored tone in her voice and face, and I'm starting to doubt that it's fake at all. Maybe I've been overanalyzing her, maybe I've been putting too much into her actions and words, maybe I haven't seen anything at all. I'm starting to doubt everything but I still can't stop the objection her sentence pushes forth in me.

"But I-..:"

But she stops it for me, she stops it with a sentence laced with venom and contempt.

"Sure, keep telling yourself that."

"Telling myself what?"

And she faces me, body and eyes shifting in my direction as she spits out the words that make it sound like she knows me, like she knows me better than myself. And we both know she doesn't. We both know neither understands.

"That you don't need to talk about it. Because you obviously do."

As if her sentences doesn't hit me hard enough, she multiplies the blow by shooting her eyes right into my own, sawing themselves into me and forcing me to close mine, close my eyes from the attack that stuns me, backstabs me. And I do the only thing I want to, the only thing that feels right to do. I open my eyes and shoot back.

"I'm obviously not the only one."

It's too late to take it back when it's already been voiced and I'm not sure If I want to. If I want to take it back, because I've never seen her so shocked before, I've never seen her eyes blaze over in the way they do right now. She seems speechless and I'm grateful, I'm so grateful because I don't have any comeback to a possible counterattack. So I take this as my cue, my time to leave this car and this situation.

I rip my eyes away from hers as I slowly open the door and step a foot out, moving my body forward to fully get out but not before feeling fingers harshly slipping around my upper arm, forcing their nails into my skin and making me wince as I fall backwards into the seat. The hand never releases its hold on me.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Lips part but no sound escapes me, eyes dart around but they never fall on her. I didn't expect this; I didn't expect anything because I didn't plan for this to happen, for these words to be uttered from any of us. So I offer her the only reply I'm able to as I mutter a weak and powerless "nothing" in her direction and I pray that it's enough, that she will let it go, let me go.

"You don't know anything about me."

There's only one part of her touching me, only her hand pressing into my upper arm but it still feels like she's holding me in other places, it still feels like a hand cups my chin and forces me to face her because however much I try to not turn my head in her direction I can't help but do it; face her. Look at her.
I almost wish I saw anger written across her features because the odd mix of paranoia and terror that plays out across them makes me wish I kept my mouth shut, makes my pained mind choke on regret.

And she lets go.

---