17

The dull throb sets in your head.  Your sciatic nerve once again is sending painful electrical shocks through your hip down to your pelvic bone. And as usual you ignore it; it’s a familiar pain, so you tolerate its existence.  Although you sigh to yourself, wishing you hadn’t forgotten your muscle relaxers back at home.  Now your left hand is beginning to ache, you are reminded of the broken blood vessel in your hand, and the bruised ring finger.  Yet, you continue to type.  You notice your eyes are sore, and you are fighting the fatigue you have been battling since the moment you woke up this morning. 

The television is on; it’s more of a background noise for you, barely there, under the radar.  Even the music blasting through your computer is fading.  Now all you hear is the bass line and the beat of the high hat and bass drum.  Every other instrument has faded.  A friend asks you a question, you quickly reply and resume to your writing.  You gently smile to yourself, neither of you are speaking, but it isn’t necessary, it isn’t awkward.  The lack of verbal word doesn’t bother either of you.   

Sucking in a breath, you scavenge your brain for what else there is to write about.  You know exactly what you want to talk about.  What you need to talk about, but you are afraid it will stir up more anger and have you break down into tears.  Your hands begin to tremble at the thought. 

But you remember.  Your chest tightens in response to that song, and you curse its cruel ironic timing.  You are forcing yourself to sit through it.  It was the song that was playing when you two had your first kiss.  His hands calloused from playing too many hours of guitar touched and circled your lips.  He lifted your chin, forcing you to stare into his honey eyes.   You were unsure and unknowing to such a feeling.  The erratic breaths filled the air, and you let it happen.

The orange glow of a gas ember eliminates his face, wrapped up in his arms.  There isn’t any other place you would rather be, but you are lying to yourself, because you know.  You’ve always known the outcome of this.

You find yourself pausing, and replaying that night over in your head.  You were fifteen and he was sixteen, almost seventeen.  Time held no meaning, and you know that night went too far for you, but not far enough for him.  You weren’t ready for that.  It would be almost a year and half later until you would cave in, and make that mistake.  You would regret that decision wishing it had been him, and not him.

Then things didn’t go as planned.  He liked your best friend, and you being who you are, wanted nothing but happiness for your friends.  So, you set the two up, pushing your own feelings aside.  Ignoring that they mattered, because in your mind, they never did and those closest to you, felt different. But you never listened.

You watched from the side lines for eight months, eight grueling months, watching her destroy and bring down your closest and best friend.  You let it happen, or at least this is what you had convinced yourself.  After he decided to end things, after having his heart torn to shreds, you were there piecing them back together but it was like he never made that promise to you.  It was as if that night never happened.  You find yourself aching for more, but never verbalizing it.

This is where your usual act came into play, mask yourself with a smile and a witty remark.  Never expose the truth, even if it was at your own expense. Then, when you thought things could have been more than what they were he tells you he is dropping out of high school and is moving.  Someone you had grown up with, and have become so attached to would soon be out of your grasp.  Text messages, emails and phone calls were not ever going to be enough for you and they wouldn’t be. 

Two years pass, and you haven’t heard from him in over six months, the last you heard was he had just recently got out of rehab, and you have tried countless times to contact him, but no reply.  Friends, family, tell you he isn’t worth it anymore, you refuse to believe them, what did they know?  Did they understand what YOU felt for him?  No, they didn’t and they still don’t.

You start college, and he appears again.  It’s like he had never left.  Soon, you are texting him daily, and wasting your minutes talking to him on the phone.  How you have missed the raspy tone of his voice.  It’s comfort, a safe zone, home.  You spend the next few weeks reminiscing in the past seventeen years.  From the days of innocence, to the day all innocence had been tainted by a crimson fate.  You’re laughing, crying, singing all those nineties pop music hits along with the bands he introduced you to.  It’s great.  It’s like old times.  How wrong you would be about this false hope. 

Winter break, you are home for three weeks, and when you opened up the door to see him on your doorstep you couldn’t help but smile.  Throwing your arms around his neck, you have forgotten how tall he is.  You also notice that this once lanky kid isn’t so lanky anymore.  His dark hair has become longer, not what you are used to, but you like it.  Then you meet his eyes, those honey gold eyes, and they haven’t changed.  It was a deceptive illusion you would so easily fall into.

Three weeks pass by so quickly, and two days before you would head back, the two of you are quietly lying on your bed listening to his favorite jazz CD.  He hums the tune in your ear.  Then the humming stopped, and your eyelids perk up to look at him, questioning why he had stopped.  He spoke, soft and low.

“Can I ask you a question?” He speaks, patiently waiting for permission, I nod.

“Of course.”  At this point he can’t hide his smile, and thus makes me smile.

“Can we give us a try?” 

“You mean, date?” 

“Yeah, maybe more.” 

You find yourself in a state of bliss, regardless of what has happened in the past three weeks.  For the briefest moment you are legitimately happy. You return back to school, keeping things hush, it’s too soon, you tell yourself, to let others know.  Probably the best decision you have made in almost over a month. 

Monday arrives, and things fall apart, not for you, but those around you.  The ones you care for.  You finished off that vodka bottle, when you know you shouldn’t have.  Those two people surrounding you couldn’t have prevented you anyway.  You are furious.  Irate and you say a four letter word that you find absolutely repulsive.  Anger doesn’t seem to fit your mood anymore.

Tuesday arrives, and things are kind of better, then you get that text, that one text that ripped your heart out completely. And the words replay over and over and over.  “I thought we were just fuck buddies.”  Ouch.  In that moment you didn’t allow yourself to feel sad or heart broken.  You just find yourself continuing to be angry.  It seems like it was the best thing to do.  Being angry meant you wouldn’t have to feel the hurt of betrayal and the sting of a heartbreak, being pissed was less painful.  Anger was something you could easily endure.

You didn’t finish the conversation that night, and worry about a phone call the next day that you had to make.  You love him, you care for him, this hasn’t stopped, but fighting for him, holding onto him seemed detrimental to your health.  You had to do it.

Moments before you make that phone call, your body temperature lowers, your heart rate increases, dread tears through you, a panic attack is setting in motion.  But you prevent that from happening and make the call.

You ended it.

All he says is okay.

Now, how do you move on?

Seventeen years.  How do you move on from seventeen years, please, tell me how?

Here I am now and I still don’t know.  I’m hurting, and breaking, but I ignore it.  Just like the dull throb in my head and the sciatic nerve sending electric shocks through my hip.  Soon, the pain will become familiar and I will learn to tolerate its existence. 

Step one:

Goodbye.