Knocking three times, I place my hands in my pockets and wait. In an instant, the vibrations from inside rumble all around and I pray it's her who answers. "What do you bloody want?" asks Jon, as soon as he opens the door.
"Hi Jon. Is Danii in?"
"Not for you she isn't!" he says, practically spitting his words all over me. His hand clenches the door handle, his knuckles white with fury. I can't blame him; he does, after all, owe me one.
"Look, I don't want any trouble. I just need to speak to her."
"Get the hell out of here before I step outside and lose my temper."
"Jon, I shouldn't have hit you that day. I'm sorry for that, I am, and I understand—"
"Fuck you, Dante. I think you've done enough to her, don't you? Now why don't you just—"
"Jon, it's fine," the familiar voice says. I didn't realise how much I missed her soft, quiet tones, but hearing them brings a wave of emotion. On the day I met her, I heard the voice before I saw the face, and although people glorify love at first sight, they rarely consider love at first sound.
Moving in front of Jon, she ushers him back into the house, nodding and whispering something until he disappears. Her dark black suit clings to her curves, one of the many tricks she uses to gather respect from colleagues and peers alike. I'm not sure why I haven't thought about this until now, but I've no idea what to say.
"What the hell are you doing here?" she asks, her dark brown eyes glaring at me. I'm sure she's pouting and a scowl crosses her cheeks, but for now, I can't take my own eyes away from hers. They've always suited autumn more than any other season, a dark black centre that lightens to a rich brown, strings of contrasting hues swirling and twisting around its centre. All this sits on the most tranquil, angelic white imaginable, as though she's never had a restless night in her life.
"Well, what do you want?"
"Hell... hi... It's been a while," I splutter out.
"Are you kidding me? Yeah, it has been a while, but I thought we both agreed it could never be long enough. Why don't you stop wasting my time and tell me why you're here?"
I don't know what to say. I can't simply tell her, can I? "Can I... can I come in... please?"
"Can you come in? Can you come in? Have you heard yourself..."
She's ranting, and although I hate I'm the cause of it, I miss her passion.
As soon as I first heard that voice, I had to see the face that came with it, and as soon as I caught sight of it, it was her eyes that struck me down like bolts of fierce lightning. They're enough to end a man and she knows it, always decorating them with a careful ring of black mascara, the job of which is to highlight them and wear down her prey. It's painful seeing them like this, with hate instead of love and compassion.
"...You broke his nose, Dante. He did nothing to you and..."
I miss her hair. I miss how she lets it hang over her left shoulder and curls it around her middle finger. I noticed this on our first date, sitting across from her and gazing into her expression and drinking in her everything. Looking at her wasn't like looking at other girls. I didn't see her, I saw into her. It terrified me. It still does.
"...It's been seven months, for god's sake. What gives you the right to..."
I love how her hair changes as the year goes by. In winter, it grows darker, but in summer, a lighter tone shines through; the result, a gentle wave of multi-hued brown strokes. Some go to great lengths to achieve this look, but it's what nature gave her.
"...I can't do this anymore. I've had enough of all this. You can't be part of my..."
What I hate above all is, I'll never see her smile again. You don't notice it at first, but on closer inspection you realise how wide and immersive her lips are. She doesn't often submit to her fullest of smiles, because she doesn't have to. Even the slightest of partings creates two distinct dimples on either side of her mouth. They're incredible, and on more than a few occasions I've lost myself in them, forever trying to please her further in a bid to see a grander example, for when she truly embraces her giddiness, new lines appear and run down her cheeks and towards her chin, creating an almost perfect picture frame of delight and beauty.
"God! Why are you here? You're so frustrating. Just as I finally move on with everything..."
Telling Ethan and Wil was hard, and sitting my parents down was torture, but the thought of confessing this secret to the only girl I've ever loved... impossible.
"Well? What do you have to say for yourself?" she finishes, leaning on her left leg and flicking out her hip.
"Feel better for that?"
"Dante, I swear, don't—"
"Look. Please, I haven't come to argue. I just need to talk to you."
She looks away and pouts those beautiful lips. How I wish I could kiss them one final time. "Fine, talk!"
"First of all, I'm sorry. I shouldn't of hit him–"
"Damn right you shouldn't have—"
"But you have to understand I was hurt. You knew him while we were still together, you started dating him a week after we broke up, and he moved in after a month."
"It was none of your business. We were over, and what I do is–"
"Okay, fine. But that's not why I'm here. There's something I have to tell you, and I wanted to make sure you heard it from me."
She says nothing, merely raises her eyebrows and shrugs.
"Right. Well, this isn't easy to say." I couldn't look my mother in the eye, but I can't not look at hers. I need to drink her in one final time, because I have no idea what this will do to her... to me... to us. "I'm sick."
"Sick? What kind of sick?" she says, relaxing into a slouch.
"The bad kind. I have a tumour... a brain tumour." I draw out a slow blink. "It doesn't look like I have long left."
She bites her upper lip and shifts her gaze to the left. She cups her hands and plays with her long, pianist-worthy fingers, stepping from one foot to the other. Her arms fall to her side, and her shoulders relax, but then she stops moving altogether. With the slowest blink I've ever seen someone muster, she looks at me and moves to talk, but doesn't say a word. She tries again, this time clinging to a sound. "You should go," she says, closing the door and snapping it shut.
Facing the green door I've opened and closed hundreds of times before, I sink into a whole new pain. I don't know what I expected, but I didn't expect that.
16th October—York:
Recommended Listening:
Sleeping In—The Postal Service
Dirty Rain—Ryan Adams
Sloom—Of Monsters & Men
It's a month since I discovered life was closing in on me. I've travelled hundreds of miles, met a dozen doctors, and had more tests than I can handle. So much could have been done, but so little has. I know no more now than I did back then, and it's this that frustrates me above everything.
The encounter with Danii hurt and I've heard nothing since, not that I've tried calling. After going through so much together, it's hard to accept that this is the end. Deep down, I always thought we had a second coming, how one day, we'd cross paths and pick up effortlessly where we left off. I'd be ready and mature and no longer fighting her ways. The time without each other would simply vanish. Maybe this was silly, a crazy little idea. But to end without so much of a hug... a goodbye... a good luck?
I returned home that night empty and cold, intending to write. To confess. To unload. Only, I couldn't. For hours, I stared at the page with pen in hand, but no ink was lost. There was a time I would lose myself in my writing when life became too hard. With words, you can alter an ending. You can transform pain into happiness, sorrow into love. Not this time.
I suppose I know now better than ever that life isn't perfect. Sometimes things simply end. We had our time, but it's now in the past. Clinging to what was is futile. Danii is now a memory and nothing more. Apparently, just like my writing.
I must move on, but I'm not. Each day is the same: 'stay and fight,' 'leaving means giving up,' 'there's still hop
e,' et cetera et cetera. And as night approaches, my pain remains: scared and torn and teetering on the edge.
"There's still hope," said Ethan, just yesterday afternoon.
"I swear, if you mention hope again I'm going to end it here and now. What is this so called hope you speak of, Ethan? Because so far, from the various tests and meetings I've had, there seems to be little of it."
He didn't look away. "You can't just give up. There's treatments and—"
"Yeah, I know all about the treatments and meds," I said, gritting my teeth. "The steroids and anticonvulsants, the chemo and radiotherapy and the various chemicals they want to pump into me, the Carbamazepine and Lamotrigine and Levetiracetam and Phenytoin and whatever other drug they invent tomorrow. But nobody gives me a chance in hell. Fuck, you've seen the percentages and ratios and all the bullshit they feed me. If it was even close to 50/50—hell, I'd take 20/80, for crying out loud—I'd fight until the bitter end. No questions asked. Because although it may not sound like it, I don't want to die. I'm actually fucking terrified of it. But I'm also scared of withering away on some machine as I lose every ounce of who I am. For what? A few extra months? A year? What hope are we talking about here?"
Dropping his gaze, he nodded. Slow, defeated nods of the head.
It pains me to see those I love go through this agony with me, but theirs is different to mine. Maybe they can cling to hope and faith, but as a throbbing headache devours me each morning, as it does right now, it's hard to see past the harsh reality of death.
Grinding my teeth and balling my sheets into fists, I stare at the ceiling. The pills help, but they don't forgo the pain altogether. Nothing can take away the torture completely. It's a waiting game: sometimes of minutes, other times an hour. I don't know how long I've been staring at the celling, but my jaw aches and shoulders throb. Each new breath eases forward though, the tumour giving in to the chemical whatevers roaming beneath my skin.
"Nearly there," I say, unclenching my teeth. "Nearly there..."
Rolling over, I slide out of bed and hobble towards the bathroom, the soft carpet comforting my toes. Each footstep rattles my head, but in comparison to a few minutes ago, it's bliss. Still, I frame my forehead in my hands and stagger towards the sink, turning on the faucet as soon as I reach it, and splashing my face with icy cold water.
"Shit," I say, looking up and into the mirror.
I need a haircut. It's always been shaggy, but it usually rests neatly on top of my head, with only the occasional flick or curl hanging over my ears. Right now, it's a maze of curls that flop in all directions. What once rested neatly now hangs loose and heavy. The top of my head has become a jungle.
The chaos doesn't stop there, but continues across my face. My once-sunken eyes now hide beneath two dark, thick, semi-circular lines. They rest ominously below, practically joining up with the near black eyebrows above, those, too, in need of attention. Where the eye's core once had a sleek, brown glimmer, it's now dark and eerie. Where there was once white, is now a cloudy cream colour with streaks of red branching out in all directions.
In the space of a month, I've become a stranger, and this is merely the beginning as insomnia, stress, worry, and more devour me. If I'm not careful, death will take me long before I die.
I've forgotten what fresh feels like. I go to bed tired and wake up exhausted, night after night of tossing and turning as I think... and think... and think. I can't stop thinking, but I think about nothing. I simply think.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I throw my hands on the sink as the tension in my forearms shakes. A surge of adrenaline consumes me, and I hate myself. "This can't go on," I say. "Just make a decision."
My indecision imprisons me in purgatory, not only now, but my entire life. For twenty-two years I've allowed one day after another to pass me by, living and waiting for tomorrow... for a good time... for the right time... but now, my end is near and I've achieved nothing. I want to be able to say I have no regrets, but I can't. I have many, and I'm terrified of dying and having them be the only thing left.
I often consider a time before Danii, a perfect example of my indecisive ways. Returning home from a trip to London one Saturday night, I stood shivering on a platform, waiting for my final train to arrive. The wind swirled around the large open station, attacking every inch of exposed skin. But suddenly, from nowhere, I was warm. A girl stood beside me, a girl who would forever be termed Train Girl.
In a white mac with black sleeves, she wrapped her arms around herself in the same manner I was, swaying from side-to-side, completely oblivious to my staring. I couldn't look away. As the train pulled in, I didn't notice, locked on this swaying girl, and as the doors slid open, she moved, breaking my daze and urging me to follow her into the warmth of the carriage. My cheeks tingled as I crossed from outside to in, but I no longer worried about the chill, only where this mysterious angel would sit.
'I must sit near her,' I thought, desperate to discover who she was.
She sat and I followed, sitting across from her as a plastic white table separated us. 'Come on,' I encouraged myself, 'just speak to her.' The train rumbled into motion, my teeth chattering a little as I tried to pluck up the courage. Her cocoa eyes were tempting, her milky brown skin a delight. A chocolate delicacy only two feet away, but I couldn't utter a word.
A slight mole rested above her upper lip, a button to something more, a button I wished to press. Shifting her gaze to mine, she smiled, and I think I might have, too, although I can't be sure. Pulling her bag onto her lap, her dark hair fell over her face, covering her eyes and her skin and that delicate little mole for a few precious seconds. Searching inside, she pulled out a book and placed it on the table: To Kill A Mockingbird.
Heart racing, I fidgeted in my seat—the opening I required, presented before me. One of my favourite novels of all time. I could speak about Harper Lee for hours, but for Train Girl, I'd prolong it for days. 'Come on,' I urged, 'talk to her!'
I should have said something then, but I didn't.
One stop passed us by.
Then another.
Continuing to fidget in my seat, I did everything but open my mouth. One deep breath after another, steadying myself after each, convinced the next one would bring words... courage... an act of bravery. I thought of Wilbur, and how he would speak within seconds of sitting down. He'd ogle her until she took notice, and then, with a simple smile, speak, and she'd be his. I considered Ethan, and how he'd never approach her in the first place. He'd spot her, know nothing would happen, and therefore walk the other direction.
Complete opposites, but both braver than me. I did one nor the other, simply lost in the middle: I could speak to her and I could love her, but could usually manifests into what could have been; past tense, you see.
Looking up, she caught me staring again, smiling once more. I did smile this time, I know I did, and I was hers and forever smitten. I tried to speak, breathing an empty hush each time, but she must have known because she didn't look away. "The book," I eventually stuttered. "Do you, I mean, are you enjoying it so far?"
Closing it, she rested her elbows on the table. "I love it. I read it when I was younger, but it was a few years ago now."
Like a Christmas Tree can only come to life when lights are aglow and decorations all over, Train Girl transformed into something more glorious as soon as she spoke. Her delicate voice played with her smile, her eyes growing larger and darker: two Belgium chocolates resting on a perfect pearl backdrop.
Moving to speak, I was cut off as the train slowed and pulled into a station. Placing her book in her bag, she stood. "It was nice meeting you," she said. "Next time, speak sooner."
I should have stood up and joined her, because who cares if it was a stop too early, and does it matter if I required a taxi? Mulling and mulling, I eventually stood and rushed to the door, but I was too late, as a beep sounded and the train rocked into motion once more.
She was gone.
I was broken.
/>
I spent weeks searching for her, raising my head in the hope of seeing her face once more or hearing her seducing tones. I told Ethan and Wil, and the three of us went out as often as possible, in the hope of crossing paths with my lost love. Days turned to weeks, and then, months, and with it, the story of Train Girl became just that, a story. The pain subsided, sure, but I've always wondered what if. Would those eyes change me; that mole, break me; her smile, complete me...
One indecisive moment after another, my life in a nutshell. I can no longer live in tomorrow because I have no more tomorrows left. Soon, all that'll remain is regret, the regret of Train Girl and all of the other what-might-have-beens. I'm sorry, Train Girl. I had no right to walk away. We should have shared a time together, learned about each other. I took that away from you, and I'm sorry.
I took it away from Danii, also. So much love, but my indecision destroyed us.
I'm selfish and cowardly. I have one final chance to change and live before I die, and for once, Train Girl, I'll do it, because I should have done it then, and in some way, maybe this will right that wrong.
I need to make a decision, my decision, and it isn't about making the right decision, or the one to please my parents or Ethan or anybody else, but my decision.
Tracing my mouth with my finger, I peer into my reflected stare. Staying means accepting my indecisions and what could have beens. Staying means giving up. Leaving will cause pain, sure, but any more than staying would? I don't know...
I can't stay. I can't stay and dwell on the past as pitying onlookers ravage me with their apologies. I can't look in this mirror each day and watch my face deteriorate. I have to leave. I need to run. I can't stay. I just can't.
30th October—Manchester:
Recommended Listening:
Waiting Around To Die—The Be Good Tanyas
All Of My Days—Alexi Murdoch
TICK to the TOCK (A Coming-of-Age Story) Page 4