by Nicci Harris
“He’ll get over me. He will,” I insist as I shuffle my bum back against the cold rendered brick wall.
“Oh, okay,” she snorts, dubious. “Delusional you are. He dated Pemberton, a blonde-haired, brown-eyed girl, just to be closer to you. He’s been trying to fill your void since he was nine. Don’t you get it, Wally? He’s never getting over you!” She sighs, and we both linger in a moment of contemplation. “You’re scared of letting someone in, I get it. Especially after what happened with Voldemort.”
I lift my brow, questioningly. “Voldemort?”
“He Who Shall Not Be Named,” she says in a very serious British accent.
She may be right. Konnor was starting to look at me with that look. His chest would quicken, and he’d touch me more, often even. His eyes were always on me. I liked how he made me feel, how good his closeness felt, and then something changed, and I was more averse to him touching me. I thought it was because he was Deakon, because he looked at me and saw Liz. But maybe it was because of Erik. My brain is a mushy mess of contradictory desires. I wanted him to want me, and now that he wants me, I’m scared. It isn’t fair to him.
I blink at her and ask the same question that sits on my tongue every moment of every day. “How is he?”
“Do you want to have this conversation?” She tilts her head at me and blows my hair out of her face.
I giggle as her breath hits my cheek. “Yes.”
She stares at me with the familiarity of an old friend. “Last time you got upset."
“I want to know.” I turn to look at the ceiling and nod, hoping that motion will convince myself more than her. “Yep, I want to know.”
“I saw him yesterday with Jaxon. He’s . . .” she sighs, “not good, Blesk. He still texts me daily asking for updates, and he barely leaves his flat. He’s drunk all the time. He’s a mess, babe. I actually think he’s getting worse.” My breath hitches as I try to stop the guilt and shame from clawing at my insides. The thought of my actions causing him that much pain is too much to bear. I hate myself. More than I ever have, for once again being the inflictor of his pain.
Elise searches my expression. “Oh… I’m sorry. I know you probably didn’t want to hear that.”
“I need to talk to him, don’t I?” I ask, swallowing an uncomfortable knot in my throat.
“Yes,” she says. “At the very least listen to what he has to say. It’s time to stop running, Blesk.”
SIXTEEN: Konnor
I swirl the bourbon around in my glass, and scroll through my phone, rereading over 14 days' worth of messages to her.
Konnor: So, it’s been 2 days since you broke my heart, Duch. At some point I’m going to need someone to save me. I have 5 cans of beans, 10 rolls of toilet paper, 5 bottles of bourbon, 2 bags of pasta, 6 tomatoes, 2 onions, 3 cloves of garlic, 5 frozen meals, 5 batteries, 1 spare light globe, 1 block of cheese, so at some point I will run out. Now I know you can’t just let me starve, right?
Konnor: 4 cans of beans, 9 rolls of toilet paper, 4 bottles of bourbon, 1 bag of pasta, 4 tomatoes, 1 onion, 2 cloves of garlic, 5 frozen meals, 5 batteries, 1 spare light globe, 75% block of cheese.
Konnor: 3 cans of beans, 8 rolls of toilet paper, 3 bottles of bourbon, 1 bag of pasta, 4 tomatoes, 1 onion, 1 clove of garlic, 4 frozen meals, 5 batteries, 0 spare light globes, 50% block of cheese.
Konnor: 2 cans of beans, 8 rolls of toilet paper, 1 bottle of bourbon, 0 bags of pasta, 2 tomatoes, 0 onions, 1 clove of garlic, 4 frozen meals, 3 batteries, 20% block of cheese.
Konnor: 2 cans of beans, 7 rolls of toilet paper, 0 bottles of bourbon, 2 tomatoes, 1 clove of garlic, 2 frozen meals, 3 batteries, 10% block of cheese.
Konnor: 0 cans of beans, 6 rolls of toilet paper, 0 tomatoes, 1 cloves of garlic, 1 frozen meal, 3 batteries, 5% block of cheese.
Konnor: 6 rolls of toilet paper, 1 clove of garlic, 0 frozen meals, 3 batteries, 0% of a block of cheese.
Konnor: Getting hungry… 5 rolls of toilet paper, 0 cloves of garlic…tried garlic wrapped with toilet paper, I wouldn’t recommend it, Duch. 3 batteries
I bombarded her message box for the first two days, begging, swearing, pleading, yelling, begging again. Grief chopped up my emotions like a damn blender. No reply. I went insane. After day nine my phone had an unfortunate accident when it rammed itself into a hammer.
Hammer 1: Phone 0
It has been fourteen days. The worst fourteen damn days of my damn life, and in my case, that’s quite the statement. It’s been fourteen fucked up days since she snuck out of my room after the best day of my damn life, leaving a fucking note under my fucking arsehole of an alarm clock.
Fourteen days since I ate a real meal.
Fourteen days since I went to campus.
Fourteen fucked up days.
The most frustrating thing about this feeling that’s churning in the pit of my stomach, feeding on my sanity, chewing on every cell inside me, is that it isn’t even fucking real. No one hit me. No one beat me. I didn’t get hit by a road-train. So why do I feel like I’ve been dragged behind a car for ten miles, and then buried, and am now slowly suffocating?
So, I started feeling desperate, as if I would do anything and say anything to get her to talk to me.
Just fucking talk to me!
Goddamn it!
I felt like without her voice and words, this fictitious pain would never stop. The crippling wound she left that morning was so concentrated, so deep, I just needed her voice like medicine. She wouldn’t talk to me, won’t. Thirteen years ago, I lost the most important person in my life, and I mourned her every day when I looked at Pemberton. I mourned her annually on the day she died. I mourned her every night when I closed my eyes and saw her sweet face. I mourn her still.
Our last night together replays in my mind, like it’s a movie on damn repeat. We were holding hands, palms flat against each other for the first time. Dodging trees, snapping sticks with our feet in the silence. The moon glowed above, drilling beams of light through the terrain. Running, running scared. Her feet were so little, they couldn’t carry her as fast as mine. I hear the noises of a small child running for her life—her cries and moans and grunts. She had no one to trust but the other small hopeless child holding her hand.
Lights flashed and dogs barked. Pulsing, running, faster, dodging, stumbling, until the lights and voices surrounded us. She looked at me through eyes glistening with sorrow. And then her face told me a silent goodbye. That is how I know that look on her now, that goodbye. It is permanently imprinted on my mind. Every night of every day, when my eyes close, I see it.
I see that night. Our escape. So many years ago. Her hair lit up in the moon, and everything was in slow motion. The terror in her eyes caused me to place my good luck charm in her hand. The unicorn I was desperately clutching the day I was taken from my home four years prior. It was the last remnant of my past life. She smiled. Her eyes narrowed and then she pressed her lips to mine. I hadn’t had human contact for over four years and besides her hand, the next thing I felt was her lips. Her soft, moist lips that tasted of salt from her tears.
Before I knew what had happened, she was running in a strange slow motion from me. Her hair swirled around her body as she bounced like a bunny through the trees towards one of the intruding lights. I let her hand go. I let her fingers leave mine. I was older. I should have never let her go. But her lips never left mine. I could still feel them. Then she ducked out behind a tree to escape the riotous barks and yelling, and the midnight blackness engulfed her. I was grabbed by a man who hushed me and told me I was safe. I believed him. He said they would find her and protect her. The next thing I knew, they were telling me she was dead.
Then to find her again and have her choose to leave. Words… words to describe that feeling. Pain. Shock. Despair. Shame. Aching. Broken. Shattered. Nothing. Fucked. It feels like someone is ripping any organ, any piece of flesh they can possibly clutch on to, straight from the easiest access point. Little pieces at a time
.
Anger started soon after desperation, blinding no-holds-barred rage. How could she do this? How could she leave me again? So, I got angry, and I decided to hate her, her and every other motherfucking person around me. I treated Jax like shit, I treated Adolf like shit, and I missed my little sister Cassidy’s eighteenth. Just to add to the charm bomb I’ve recently become, I then tried to wash her memory away, down the fucking drain.
I did some stupid shit… I tried to heal the holes. The holes from all the pieces of flesh that were ripped from me. I filled them with alcohol, and then... I filled them with girls. Too many to count, each one of them blonde. I attempted to no avail to fuck her memory away, hard, carnal, fucking. But it didn’t work. Because for a few moments, for a few heavenly seconds when I joined the waking world and saw that blonde hair fanned out around me, I forget, I forget she left. Then… I start mourning her all over again.
The door is sounding like a damn drum, over and over and over and over. “Go away!” I yell and bury my head into the pillow. “Fuck off!”
I keep my eyes shut and grumble, planning on ignoring my visitor in the hopes they tire and go away. I roll onto my back and my cock jerks up, running up my navel and demanding some early morning attention. I rub my face with both hands and mumble inelegant words to myself. The sound is so loud it’s as if shots are being fired point-blank behind my eye sockets. Hiding from the drones of life seems better than answering the damn door and being forced to string together coherent thoughts.
I grip my boner and stroke, dragging my palm up and down. Imagining that knocking sound is my bed slamming against the wall as I fuck Blesk, hard. Imagining her soft, fleshy thighs are wrapped around my waist as I shove her up the mattress with each thrust, feeling her walls gripping me, begging me to stay deep inside her. Oh fuck, yes. My cock contracts, beads of precum sliding over my fingers. Hissing her name, my muscles start to quiver, and I’m panting, stroking faster, squeezing tighter, biceps twitching, groans rolling up my throat, abdomen clenching. Fuck, feels so good. So tight. Blesk…
"Blesk."
A moan shatters my illusion. “Oh, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten my name, baby. It’s Vanessa. Can you get the door?” Her pelvis slides up my thigh, rubbing herself along me. I release my cock and spin over to scrutinise the girl beside me. She looks nothing like Blesk. I drag my hand down to pull the sheets away, revealing a tall naked body that’s way too skinny. Not a natural curve in sight. Knocks continue to break the silence.
Her eyes scroll over my face and down to my erection, and a little grin plays on her lips. “Baby, you wanna play again let’s do it, but get the fucking door first.” Her tone and gutter mouth just reinforce how unlike my Duchess she is. I jump up, pull on a pair of tracky-pants, and tuck my erection into the waistband before walking to unlatch the door.
My whole body relaxes when I see those blue eyes staring at me from the doorway, even though they’re narrowed and fiery. I’ve put a lot of pressure on Elise lately. No matter how I behave, how much it may hurt her, or would potentially hurt Blesk, Elise comes by every day. She has literally put me to bed, she has been on the receiving end of my drunken temper, and now she is, well... she’s one of my best friends. And the fact she even gives me the time of day shows that I haven’t lost Blesk—not completely. Elise’s presence is like having a little piece of Blesk here with me. I crave her visits.
“What sleazy whore do you have in here this time? It smells like skank!” She walks in as if she owns the place, and I don’t even bat an eye. She can do whatever she wants.
“How is she? Is she okay? Is she ready to talk to me?” I ask, sounding desperate as I wipe my drowsy eyes with my palms.
Elise searches the apartment, noticing the clothes on the floor, the messy sheets, and the girl, before she spins to scowl at me. “I haven’t told her, ya know, about you and your blonde addiction, but you need to stop it, Konnor. Aren’t we trying to get her back? Huh? Isn’t that what we’re trying to do?”
“I thought I was your best friend,” I joke, and then cover my mouth as I cough.
Revulsion distorts her face. “Have you been smoking again?”
Her scowl makes my knees buckle. “Maybe.”
“Yes,” I groan.
“Yes, what?” she asks forcefully.
“Yes, we are trying to get her back!” I snap.
Then a half-naked model walks towards us from my room and I am inundated with shame.
She scowls. “Did that nerdy little bitch just call me a whore?”
Did she just call Elise a bitch?
I spin to face Vanessa, heat penetrating my temples. “Watch your mouth around my friend!”
An insulted gasp breaks from her pouting lips. “What? She just called me a whore!”
Elise’s eyes rake over Vanessa with disgust. Her lips twitch and her face scrunches up. I point to Elise while staring sternly at the girl I just woke up next to. A girl who is as familiar to me as a stranger.
“See that girl?” I wait until she nods, and then say, “She is crazy important to me, and you aren’t. So, I’m confused why you’re still here. Oh, and by the way, that was me telling you to leave.” I point to the door.
✽✽✽
It’s Tuesday night, and I’m going to see Duch play, despite Elise’s disapproval. The threat of separated limbs kind of disapproval. She told me not to make an appearance because she is still working on things with Blesk; she doesn’t want to see her run from me again either. Elise says Blesk needs more time, but I can’t go another moment without seeing her. Too many blondes have clouded my memory of her, and I need to just take a peek.
Avoiding The Grill on a Tuesday and Friday night has been like trying to avoid my own personal variety of meth. I knew she would be there, looking exceptional and singing our song. It isn’t how extraordinary she looks that is the problem, it is how everyone else will look at her. The state I was in, am in, I would lose friends if I saw even a glimpse of it. I would lose my job. I have tried everything to get her to talk to me, I’ve tried to be cute. I sent stupid corny messages that made her absence from me a simile to an apocalypse. I hope she got it; I’m sure she did. I thought maybe she would laugh at how pathetic it was. I would have. But then she would have remembered how corny I am when it comes to her, and she’d be happy. I’d be making her smile from a distance.
You are pathetic, Konnor. Useless. Pathetic. Arsehole.
Walking into The Grill, I wander to the bar, and while leaning on the 90s Jacks bar-run, I signal Jewels. Jewels has been working the bar at The Grill for as long as I can remember. As she approaches, I slam a card down on the bar, a little harder than intended. My eyes flicker in response to the sound.
I look at Jewels apologetically. “Sorry, gorgeous, can I grab a Makers Mark and dry?” There is a very real possibility she will bat those long lashes at me and refuse me service. She tilts her head, and her eyes don’t give me a flicker of 'swooning', damn.
“Slater, you’re drunk, and I’ve known you too long to fall for that shit.”
“Jewels, give me a drink. The girl playing tonight is my girl, and I can’t see her without a drink in my hand. Be a friend?”
She rolls her eyes at me and smirks. “I have no idea what that even means, but okay. You can have three drinks, this is number one, and I’ll make sure all the other bar staff know.”
“Thank you,” I say, clapping my hands together in a prayer-like gesture. “Thank you! You’re a goddess. Has Brock told you lately how good you’re looking, Jewels?” I continue sucking up to her as she smirks in my direction while grabbing a tumbler and pouring my drink. “Well, if he hasn’t then… you are looking good, Jewels.” I lean on the bar and peer around looking throughout the crowd for friendly faces. No Jax. No Drake. No one I know. Then my eyes fall on Willow. She doesn’t see me, thank god.
“Slater!” I hear someone yell. I search the room for the bearer of the voice. As I’m searching for that person, I see Blesk walk out an
d start to set up.
Farrrkk…
I knew I shouldn’t have come. I knew it was a bad idea to see her on stage. Damn Elise for knowing that, too. Is that the kind of shit she has been wearing this whole time? Maybe she is just my type, or maybe she is just perfect, in the purest, truest sense of the word. Like, you look up perfect in the dictionary, but you don’t get a picture because it isn’t a fucking picture book, but you do get a detailed description of Blesk. The only issue there is the most incredible aspects of her beauty, no picture and no words can express it. I wish she wasn’t wearing that dress. I can’t handle how obviously she displays vulnerability. Her legs are completely exposed and I know how good they look when they move. Loose and fleshy, curvy in the most spectacular way. She presses her thighs together and sits the guitar on her lap, tuning it with her long slender fingers. I’ve seen her, I’ve seen her, so now I should just leave. But I can’t.
I won’t.
She removes a black piece of pipe from her case, and attaches it to her guitar, then she swivels and adjusts it until a frame sits just in front of her mouth. She pulls something from her bag, and lays it on her lap, running her finger along its length before positioning it in the cradle and tightening the screws.
My harmonica.
Maybe that is what she has been doing this whole time.
Thinking of me?
And learning how to play that harmonica.
“Hi, my name is Blesk Bellamy, and this song is called ‘Without You’.” As her fingers begin to strum the melody, she takes a big breath in. She licks her lips and I can tell she’s nervous. A flutter fills my chest, making it hard to breathe. She moves her mouth to the harmonica, and frowns with concentration as she blows1` through the channels is obvious, at least to me. I can feel her nerves pulsing through me as if they were my own. I glare and hush anyone around me who imposes the slightest disturbance. She begins to produce a new sound, with her lips on my harmonica and her fingers picking the strings. The harmonica’s music fills the spaces that aren’t filled with words. Christ only knows how she manages her breathing like that.