Draw Me In
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Fifteen – Automatic Stop
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*~ A lot of people get confused and they bruise
She don't mean to be mean or hurt you on purpose ~*
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Turning back to the door, I whisper, so quietly I'm not sure he hears me, "I don't think I can."
But he does. "You can," he replies quietly. "You just have to let me in."
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Minutes pass in silence.
Well, outside of my head, anyway.
Inwardly, there's a dull ache throbbing in every single non-corner of my too narrow mind. I can hear the heavy, subdued roar, like the distant sound of someone's voice when you're underwater, but for the life of me I can't quell it.
For once, I'm too loud inside.
I let my head drop into my palm as I stare unseeing at the carpet. The unexpectedness of the situation has made my heart rattle all the way up to my mouth, so I can practically taste each thump thump on the tip of my tongue.
Stop being so bloody ridiculous, I chide myself, but no matter how many times I try to reprimand myself back into motion, I still remain super glued to the carpet.
If Alice and Rose could see me now . . .
I give my head a rough, frustrated shake before glancing up at the door. The handle suddenly seems to foreground itself, looming and large in my vision, but at the same time it's never seemed further away – like the handles I remember on the doors at nursery; all the way up so we couldn't escape.
An entrapment analogy, really?
"Shut up," I muter to myself, like the certified loon I am.
He's just a person, I reason. You see people every day at the shop.
Yeah, I think back dryly, but they're out seeking books, not me.
I grow hot at the thought, and have a sudden bizarre imagining of someone taking a crayon to my face and colouring it a waxy red – an unflattering sheen to match and everything.
Being so subdued all throughout my schooling (and life, basically), I'd had few friends. In fact, as I went through primary to secondary and then on to college and lastly, University, the amount I did have gradually lessened. My guess was that as I grew more self-aware, and as a result, self-conscious, I grew quieter and less inclined to be around people because I was afraid. Afraid of what? About a million and one things.
But the one that plagued me the most was I didn't know whether or not I was wanted, and I was loathe to put myself out there, because I couldn't stand the thought of being rejected. So after a while I just stopped. I let myself think that nobody wanted to be my friend and . . . well, it was so much easier when I did.
Anyway, the point is that I'd gone through most of my teenage and adult life being just fine with living on my own peripheral, away from the throng of life which people occupied. I had two good friends now, and that was enough. So for the rest of eternity I had dubbed myself content to being invisible to the rest of the world, to being just another face in an overly populated planet.
And then this.
This.
A groan almost slips its way past the cracks in my heart then, but only ends up escaping as an inconsequential wisp of air. I wish I wasn't like this, it seems to breathe, which is this amount of helpful right now:
Not.
Very.
My glance slides up from our shaggy carpet up to the door again. Uncertainty and fear (duh) bubble in my blood, rattling nerves and veins. I don't know that it's his 'celebrity status' that is adding fuel to my admittedly out-of-control fire, or simply just . . . everything else.
Like:
The staring.
The card thing.
The texting.
The interneting.
The showing-up-at-my-door-completely-unannounced-and-speaking-about-things-I-don't-understand…ing.
You get the picture.
"Hey," the door says softly, but not really the door. I yank myself out of my self-obsession and automatically throw a hand over my heart, because it seems to have forgotten he was so close. Not a concert or a screen away, but a mere door.
My insides squeak.
Squeak.
I didn't know they could do that.
Is that even a thing?
Babble, babble, babble.
Spillage in aisles one to everywhere.
Clean up in Bella's brain.
Thankfully, my heart is still clogging my throat so I remain mute.
Strangely, so does he.
His quiet turns my ears a little. I hear a muffled sound before the distinct sliding-on-wood noise comes again – but louder, like it's his back rather than his palm.
I wait.
But – nothing.
So tentatively, I shuffle closer to the door and after a minute press my ear against the wood. I strain, and make his next muffle out.
Lowly, he mutters, "I don't know how to do this."
Ditto, I think.
Feeling suddenly tired, I let my eyelids fall until I'm covered in darkness. I bring up the soft sleeve of my pyjama top and press it against my cheek; breathing in the sweet smell of fabric conditioner. My mum never wavered in the one she bought when I lived at home, and neither do I.
The smell comforts me, as it always does, and I feel my heart start to slow.
But then he speaks again.
"Do you want me to leave?"
The words are soft, but heavy, his tone quiet, but foregrounded. There's the distinct urge to snap my eyes open, but for my own sanity, I keep them closed.
Pushing my heart down, I force out, "Will you?"
Silence follows my request, and I never knew it could be so loud.
But then he eventually says, "Probably."
And then –
". . . Because I don't want to creep you out by sitting here all night."
My eyes snap open, surprise pulling my gaze to the door and opening my mouth in a silent oh. Easy, I think. So easy. My lips part a couple of times but without words. When I do find them, I'm still having to push them out – away. "It would be . . . easier." I swallow, undeniable truth coating my tongue in bitter. "If you left."
"Yeah," he utters quietly, glumly. "If I didn't plan on coming back."
Well, I think.
There goes the easy-beating of my heart.
"What?" I blurt, unable to quell it, and frankly, kind of worried my heart's going to fall out of my mouth any minute now.
"It's like I said," he replies softly, and then that gentle sliding sound again. A shudder rattles through me as he strokes the wood. "You're everywhere."
And it's just –
– too much.
Blood boils under my skin, and all of a sudden, the softness inside of me leaves. Instead, I feel something hot and volatile pricking at my nerves, rendering my skin red and aching. Everything I might have read or heard or seen dissipates into smoke; emptying into clear before I can touch it.
"Stop!" I burst out – surprising myself. I yank myself to my feet, finding my eyes wide and glaring. "Just stop it."
A beat of silence. "Bella . . . "
I shake my head even though he can't see, because just the way he says my name burns. "I'm not . . . I'm not doing this with you."
"I don't – "
I cut him off. "This game or . . . or whatever it is you're playing. I'm not, alright?" My voice catches, and my chest wavers as I swallow my heart back down. I back up one, two, three steps. "Just . . . just leave me be."
"Bella, no," he rushes out, his words blurring, smudging into one. "That's not what I – I'm not playing with you." I hear the muffled sounds of his movement once more, but this time it seems so loud.
My head shake shake shakes, and my eyes feel too wide. My glance falls all around the flat, but the usual sight doesn't seep the anxiety of the day away . . . because the source is knocking on my door. It's like . . . like when you lose something you need for that moment, and your panic or frustration is spiralling because you're going to be late, or just because you really need it. And you can't concentrate on anything else, or nothing makes sense until you've found what you've lost.
But I'm not missing anything.
I sink down onto the plush carpet again, hand tugging at the drying strands of my hair. I take a couple of breaths, willing sanity back in and irrational panic down. My gaze flickers over to the clock, split-second wondering how long Alice and Rose are going to be.
Clearly, avoidance is the way to go.
Break the habit of a lifetime, why don't cha?
I bang my head against my knee.
A lot of times.
He bangs on the door.
A lot of times.
"Go away," I mumble into the softness of my pyjama-covered knees.
Stops.
Then –
"I think you've got the wrong idea."
"You said you'd leave if I asked."
"Actually, I know you've got the wrong idea."
"You're creating a disturbance."
"If you'd just let me in I wouldn't have to be."
"I don't just let strange men into my home."
"Fine. Just hear me out then."
"No."
Banging again.
Lots of banging.
"I'm ringing the police."
I'm really not.
"Fine."
Stops.
I stare into my self-inflicted darkness, hear my heart beating so loudly. My muscles, poor sods, remain tight and rigid and ready to scarper; physically reacting to the mental meltdown going on right now.
Ace.
His voice cuts through my sarcasm, soft and lilting, and in that moment, I really hate how much I don't hate it at all.
"This isn't a game," he says.
"I didn't come here to mess with your head," he says.
I burrow deeper into myself, breathing in the soft smell of school days and clean sheets; Christmas evenings and warm summer dawns. The nostalgia is always ever-present, but the sting seems especially sharp then.
I am missing things – constantly.
But for some reason, everything is suddenly foregrounded, as if the unwanted now is surfacing the wanted then's I can never have back.
It makes me angry.
Again.
I lift my head up, my frown set and heavy. There's a maelstrom of feelings swirling around inside of me, and it makes me feel out of control in a way I haven't felt in . . . forever.
I don't just get angry.
I don't even like being angry.
"Why?" I request then, crumbling a bit, my frown pushing down into my eyes until I can't tell whether I'm sad or mad. "Why are you here?"
He doesn't answer for a little while, and in the silence I hear his words from earlier, the trepidation in his tone. Guilt and doubt gnaw at the twisted ridges in my stomach, and I have to squeeze my eyes shut against the too-rough of it all.
But then he says, quietly –
"You humble me."
My eyes blink open in surprise.
Oh, I think, and it's pretty much all I can think for a bit.
The sad-anger, as quick as it swelled, releases again, leaving my insides cool. This isn't about me, I realise (conveniently disregarding everything but those three words for the moment), and gratefully – and gladly – take a step away from myself.
Bye, bye, you bloody nutter.
"Bella?"
I swallow, the way he gentles my name still strange. But it takes me a minute to respond – or something like that – because being sudden seems too harsh now.
"Yeah," I reply softly then, blinking against the capriciousness of my everything. I unfurl from my tight ball and stand one leg at a time. I feel wobbly. "Well."
"You just." Pause, slide slide slide on the door. "You're different."
Now my bout of spasmodic blinking is brought on by disbelief.
My thoughts go something like –
What?
And then –
You only just met me.
(And 'met' is a bit of a stretch, to be honest).
He seems to realise this too.
"I mean," he tries to clarify, and I think that might be frustration lacing his tone. At the situation? Me? Himself?
All three?
If so, then, you know, ditto, again.
"You seem different," he finishes.
Immediately and unbidden, my mind flashes back to the concert, to all the, er, enthusiastic people there, and then to the internet and various blogs and newspapers and twitter feeds and blah blah blah . . .
And then I think –
Right.
He's a celebrity.
I'm supposed to be, uh, aware of that.
And I am.
I just.
I'd be reacting like this regardless of whether he was, you know 'famous' or not.
Because I'm crackers.
(See above).
"Alice and Rose don't care about you, either," I blurt out, mental filter gone. My eyes widen, and even as I lift my hand to my mouth, the words barge on through, bold as brass. "Go be humbled by them."
I wait a minute with kept breath and cringing . . . only to have surprise coat my exhale and morph my expression as I hear his laughter through the door, travelling across the invisible bass staff that extends from him to me.
What?
Why is he laughing?
I was being (rude but) serious.
"You – " he begins, but dissolves into laughter again before he can finish. I frown at the door, crossing my arms over my chest. My mouth lifts up, and then frowns down again. I must look like a right twonk, but I can't settle on what to do – or feel.
When his laughter finally, finally dies down, he manages to get out, between giggles – "You're something else," he decides, and it's so easy to hear the smile in his voice, even if I couldn't hear his laughs. "You are different."
My stomach stirs. I don't like it. "Am not."
Yes.
I am a five year old again.
"Are too."
And apparently, he is as well.
I almost let out a groan, but instead start pacing. My eyes catch the window, and for a minute I gaze out into the black, at the tiny little lights glittering in the distance, signalling the city, signalling life. It's so loud out there in the fray, but here, all I can see is the shine.
My gaze darts back to the door then, and all of a sudden I'm envisaging myself opening it, of being in the centre of something rather than hanging out on the peripheral.
It pretty much fills me with dread.
But also . . . something else.
I shake my head and quickly push that something else away. It was like when I used to look forward to going back to school after the summer holidays, my stomach would blot full of butterflies . . . but their wings would stop fluttering soon after I went back.
I don't know why I ever felt like that. School was not my favourite thing. I guess maybe because it was something different after the six weeks of mostly sitting in the house, complaining about the heat and the sudden lack of clothing it required to be bearable.
But different isn't good just because it's something, well . . . different.
Different is just different.
I'm just not that good at accepting it, is all.
"You texted me," the door says.
My eyes widen at the non-sequitur. "What?"
"First," the singer's softly smudged voice says. "You texted me first."
I do the head shaking thing again, though this time it's more of a weird jolt. "I . . . I never meant to," I reply, my voice earnest and honest, like it's so important that he believe me. My palms turn themselves up, wanting him to know he has no tie, no need to feel obligated or – "It . . . it was an accident."
Silence. "An accident?"
My palms close. "My thumb slipped."
My eyes fall even as I'm speaking.
Yeah, that doesn't sound like a really bad fib.
God.
"How do you – " Tired sigh. " – Never mind."
I tug on my hair a bit.
Guilt.
Guilt, guilt, guilt.
"You're really not gonna let me in?"
Slow.
Sad.
I stop myself sinking to the floor for the millionth time.
Because even though I'm the last person in the world qualified to interpret the feelings of others, I can't help but think he sounds like the tangled up cords in my throat, the crushed nerves in my fingertips and the swelling ache in my head as my mind chucks out my brain, and replaces it with my heart.
He sounds like all of that.
He sounds like my insides.
And even though I've only seen him perform once, and heard him sing that lonely song once, somehow, I feel as though his voice is his transparency, so I know he's not pretending.
How is different just different?
I take a breath.
How do you just know?
I take a step. Then two. Then three.
Until I'm standing in front of the door.
It just is.
My hand shakes as I reach out and grasp the cold metal.
I open my mouth and colour my lips in water.
"Oh – " I break, I tremble, but I finish. "Okay."
You just do.
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A/N:*collapses*
crackers = crazy, insane
Yeah, so that was a bit (a lot) exhausting, and she hasn't even opened the door yet!
Very sorry for the long wait! Been crazy busy with Uni. And when I'm free of that, my three year old sister likes to take up everything else (mainly: my time).
And if you're interested, I'm on twitter! (ProlificNovice) Just so I can let you know I'm alive and writing and stuff. Link on profile!
See you soon. :) xoxo