Seduced by Lies

by Stacey Quinn

  “Baby steps.” He kept repeating, over and over in his head in an attempt to control his eagerness. He watched her re-light her smoke, noticing the adorable way her nostrils flared as she took a deep drag in. Once she’d got the joint going again, she tossed the lighter back over towards Sam, not bothering to look to see if he had caught it or not. She continued to smoke, forcing thick white clouds out of her nose after each inhalation, her face half turned away from Sam dismissively. A few long moments passed while Sam frantically tried to think of what to do now that he had made his big entrance. He considered mentioning Stephen King again - that seemed to go down well last time. But no - this time it would take something more.

  “I assume you want some on this then?” The girl grudgingly spoke, waving the spliff back and forth in his general direction and breaking his train of thought.

  “Wha...Oh! No...thanks. You enjoy it. Blaze away!” He replied moronically. The girls expression did not change and she continued to stare Sam down, except her gaze bore into a point on his left shoulder, rather than make eye contact with him. He got the feeling that she was expecting something of him.

  “You can leave now, you know.” She shot at him, her words greasy with sarcasm. Sam knew his time was running out and so, despite his gut instinct to do as she said, he dived in head first.

  “Look, I...I wanna say sorry, for yesterday, in the library you know? I didn’t...well I may have seemed like...like a...”

  “Like a bit of a twat?” She finished for him flatly.

  “Well, yeah.” He chuckled, loving the way her well spoken voice pronounced the word ‘twat’, even when it was being used to insult him.

  “Anyway...” He powered on. “I know I probably didn’t make such a good impression...” This evoked a derisive snort, masked in another puff of smoke from the direction of the bin, “but I...well...I know you’re new here and...I’d just...like to get to know you.” He threw in an abashed, hopeful half-smile at the end.

  “You’d like to get to know me?” The enigma repeated each word slowly, disbelieving and questioning.

  “Yeah. I really would.” Sam shrugged his shoulders, trying to retain at least a little bit of cool.

  “That’s the worst God damn line I’ve ever heard.” She snapped, turning her face away sharply, instantly back to her cold and distant persona.

  “It’s not a line!” He insisted desperately. “I really do want to know you, really!”

  “Tell me why.” She demanded emotionlessly, flicking ash nonchalantly to the gravel below.

  “You...you intrigue me.” Sam offered.

  “That’s not a reason, that’s another line. Next.”

  “You...err...You’re obviously intelligent!” He blurted quickly, sure he was on to a winner. “I think we’d have a lot of the same interests and tastes, you know - likes and dislikes.” He practically beamed.

  “I doubt that very much.” She scoffed, looking pointedly up and down at his clothes, style and appearance, while still taking noticeable care to avoid making eye contact with him.

  “You shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.” Sam mumbled, still determined but feeling slightly downhearted none the less.

  “Well, with a cover as gaudy and garish as yours, it’s difficult not to.” She retorted, a satisfied glint in her eye and a superior look on her face, as if she were actually beginning to ever so slightly enjoy this back-and-forth banter.

  “What about Stephen King? Come on - you’ve got to admit that shows some level of taste.” He raised one eyebrow cheekily, in an attempt to break the ice even further, and could have sworn he saw the girls eyes dart away, panicked and hasty as his gaze rose to meet hers.

  “That was a lucky guess based on common knowledge.” She explained loftily to her gently swinging feet, refusing to look away from the dull shine of her boots. “Everyone in the English speaking language knows that Stephen King is a literary genius - simply pointing that out does not mean that you have taste or intellect.” Her tone left a slight challenging note humming in the air between them, as if she were impelling him - daring him to try and prove her wrong.

  “Fine.” Sam squared his shoulders and took a deep breath, ready for the sweet victory he was sure he was about to claim.

  “Tolstoy, Tolkien, Dahl, Carroll, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Baudelaire. Need I continue?” He had to restrain himself from puffing out his chest with boastful pride. The girl took a little while to answer, picking the dirt disinterestedly from under her fingernails as she constructed her response in her head. Sam waited tensely for her answer, each second seeming to drag longer than the last as he wondered - could this be the moment we connect?

  “They are all fine literary artists and masters of the English language, of that there is no doubt.” She admitted, sending Sam’s heart soaring, only to make it stop and stutter as she added a pointed and ominous sounding - “But...” pausing again to inhale one final lung full of THC from the stump of a joint now left between her fingers. “Again, they are all subjects of common knowledge. The ability to recite their names does not equate to the ability to appreciate their works.” She finished her statement by casually flicking the dregs of her spliff across the smoking area and into the side of the adjacent bench, where it collided and burst into a shower of a hundred tiny, red hot motes of flame, which proceeded to float and drift mesmerizingly to the graveled ground, each miniscule ball of flame extinguishing individually before reaching their final destination.

  Sam realized that she would not let him win this argument, no matter how many or whose names and examples he threw at her, and it was fast approaching the moment that all the other College students would be arriving, and this spectacular (if challenging) early morning encounter would be forced to come to an end. His chest tightened with dread at the thought of departing - he hadn’t made enough of an impression yet, he’d done nothing worthy of convincing her! Sure he’d reeled off a few fancy names of fancy writers, but it would take a hell of a lot more than that to convince a girl like this to willingly spend time with a guy like him. Obviously she would learn all of his intellectual, mature and creative attributes over time, but time was not something he was particularly laden with at the moment, and the girl was beginning to shuffle and fidget on her plastic perch, as if growing restless.

  Sam was floundering, his mouth opening and closing silently like the dying throes of a land-locked guppy fish. He had just one weapon left in his artillery, and no idea of how to properly utilize it or of the impact it would make. But in his mind, he had very little choice - the universe had given him this unexpected second chance to prove himself - to make a lasting impact with the one and only person he could possibly connect with in this otherwise miserable world. He knew he had to make this opportunity count, because the universe wasn’t likely to hand out a third chance!

  “Do you really want to know why I want to know you?” He blurted out in a singular stream, propelling the words out of his mouth before his lips or tongue had a chance to disobey. The girls fidgeting ceased, and she was instantly as tense as a statue.

  “Well, yes. That’s what I asked you in the first place.” She spoke mechanically, all trace of any amusement or happiness that may have been lurking behind her facade was now completely gone. She looked like a criminal in a courtroom, waiting for her sentence to be read.

  “Well, aside from all the other reasons, which are real reasons before you say anything, I guess the main thing would be...would be...” Sam struggled to get his words out around the golf ball that had suddenly appeared in his throat. One of his father's old sayings popped into his head, seemingly from nowhere -

  “A true man’s sword is his mastery over the English language. With that weapon he can fight, defend and conquer any battle.”

  Whether through surprise at hearing his father's voice or inspiration from the words he spoke, Sam wasn’t sure, but his throat was suddenly clear of its mysterious obstruction, and the words that had been trapped within it now flowed
out of his mouth in an unexpectedly calm and collected timbre -

  “I think you’ve been hurt, and hurt badly - so badly that it’s changed who you are or were. I can see it in your eyes. And now you feel angry and isolated, separated or different from everyone around you because they couldn’t possibly understand what you’ve been through. But I can understand, because I’ve changed too - I’ve hurt and lost and I want to help you - I want us to help each other, to at least try, because...you’re the only person who can make me feel anything good anymore.”

  The girl listened patiently and stony faced through the whole speech, waiting until the very last syllable before snapping and turning on Sam in a fraction of a second - nimbly leaping down from her position on the bin, as lithe as a tiger poised to kill. Before Sam could blink she had planted herself just a foot in front of him, her eyes now dark, hard slivers of granite in a face cloaked with stone cold fury. Her advance was so sudden that Sam couldn’t help but stumble backwards a little in surprise.

  “Listen fuck face.” She seethed at him through clenched teeth, her voice eerily calm and level, with just a hint of madness. “I don’t know what kind of game you and your little Jock friends have got going on here, but I’M NOT PLAYING! You got it? Whatever kind of childish bet or dare you’ve conjured up, I won’t be fooled by it! I’m not one of those ditzy little bitches you can trick and manipulate with your pathetic little speeches and your fake emotions. I know what being hurt really means, I know what true anger feels like, and I don’t need a jumped up pretty-boy trying to tell me how to deal with it! Oh, and as for feeling isolated - That’s only because I’m so far above all of you in terms of maturity, experiences, emotional capability and intelligence, while you’re down there wallowing in the two-faced, ignorant, adolescent filth you call a social circle. So, what could possibly make you think I want anything you have to offer?”

  She spat at the ground between their feet before spinning around dramatically and snatching her bag up off the ground. Sam watched her leave, slack jawed and utterly mute with horror and shock as the world seemed to crush down upon him, squeezing the very breath from his lungs and turning all his organs into solid lead weights. There was a deafening roaring and swooshing sound in his ears, like an endless barrage of waves dashing themselves over and over against sharp, unforgiving rocks, so loud and consuming that he barely heard the girl call bitterly over her shoulder as she slipped out through the narrow gap -

  “Report that back to the rest of your worthless clones!”

  The weight of his insides pulled him towards the ground, his weak, shaking knees offering very little resistance against the force of their will. He had to grasp onto the hedge behind him to stop from collapsing while the waves went on and on in his head, dulling all of his other senses. It wasn’t until blackness started creeping in at the edges of his vision that Sam realized he’d been forgetting to breathe, and it took a few moments more for his dumbfounded, dismayed brain to send the command, and when it did, Sam almost wished it hadn’t. The hot air seared his suddenly moisture-less throat, as if he were breathing coarse sand, and the bubble of air caught at the top of his lungs, moving slowly and agonizingly downwards as it seeped into the rest of his chest. But the pain of each and every breath was the least of his worries - the roaring in his head was beginning to dull and fade, replaced by the voice in Sam’s head, screaming and pleading in disbelief, crying out over and over again - Why?! Why?!

  His knees finally gave way, and he slid gratefully to the sharp gravel ground. Barely noticing what he was doing, he plunged his hands deep into the crushed rocks and pulled them back out slowly, dragging his fingers across the sharp angles and vicious pointed edges of the stones, forcing them in to his skin as they ripped and tore and shredded the soft, pink flesh of his palms. After about five or six repeats of this, when little rivulets of blood had begun to trickle onto his wrists and along his arms, and faint, bloody handprint marks stained the gravel, Sam’s thought processes and functions were once again working as normal. He still felt as if his stomach had been replaced with a lead balloon, and his tight throat ached with the effort of holding back tears, but thankfully his mind had returned to relative normality.

  There was no doubt that he’d screwed up badly. He wasn’t sure why his words had triggered such a violent reaction, but his eagerness and impatience had got the better of him and now he was back to square one. Well, worse than square one really. He still didn’t even know her name!

  “But, not unsalvageable.” He murmured to himself. It would be hard work, but then life was hard work, day in day out, and at least this hard work would be worth something. In the past twenty four hours, Sam had experienced soaring highs and soul-crushing lows of real emotions that he never possibly could have imagined existed, and he was not about to give those up without a fight. He’d seen a new future, a new life laid out before him, if he would only just reach out and claim it. He rose up on shaky, uncertain limbs, shaking the pins and needles gently out of his lower legs and wiping the quickly congealing blood off his hands as best he could onto his dark jeans, before turning his back on the scene of that mornings utter, crushing failure and squeezing back out of the hedgerow.

  Sam couldn’t even begin to guess how long he’d been in the overgrown smoking area, which now looked so peaceful and innocent. All he could tell was that College was definitely in full swing. The previously deserted car park was now practically overflowing with various, clapped out, hand me down cars and the ridiculous, tiny, bubble shaped cars that (for some bizarre reason unknown to man or beast) had become popular with all the girly-girls in Sam’s year. The sun had also seemed to have shifted its position dramatically, and now shone fiercely and relentlessly down on the top of Sam’s head.

  Brow furrowed with confusion, Sam pulled his mobile phone from his jeans pocket, wincing as the rough denim chafed against the grit-filled wounds on his palms. Squinting to see the screen through the glare, he looked at the tiny clock in the top right hand corner - 11:59 am. He’d been slumped against that hedge, wallowing in his own blood and misery for nearly three hours!

  “Well that’s this College day down the drain!” He chuckled to himself, marveling at how trivial things like education and time management now seemed, in the light of much more life changing events.

  Sam weighed up his options. He couldn’t let himself be seen in College - there’d be too many questions about his absence and the grizzly state of his palms, questions that he simply did not have answers for yet. But neither could he bring himself to go home over three hours early, despite the comparably pleasant morning. He knew exactly where he wanted to be, where those pesky, invisible hooks in his skin begged him to go, but was he ready? Was it too soon?

  After another fifteen minutes of arguing with himself on the bonnet of his car, Sam was, once again, running out of time. Soon, hundreds of College students would be pouring out of the revolving doors at the other end of the car park, to spend their lunch hour basking and flirting in the persistent September sun, and there was no way he could be around here when that happened. And so Sam chose the only other option he could think of (or wanted to think of, he wasn’t quite sure), and allowed those invisible fishermen and their invisible hooks to reel him in, leading him around the very outer edge of the west side of the College, towards the rarely-used and little-known second entrance door to the library.

  Sam felt as if he’d bought a season ticket to the world's most harrowing, exhilarating, soul-satisfying and addictive roller coaster - a roller coaster he would more than happily strap himself into, time and time again, until he reached his destination. While his feet pounded across the grass of the football pitch his mind raced with excitement and ideas, and his mouth repeated the words -

  “Baby steps. Baby steps. Don’t rush it. Don’t screw it up. Baby steps...”

  Sienna’s memory of that morning was worryingly vague. She recalled entering the smoking are with crystal clarity, the memory of sparking up and s
imply bathing in the beautiful solitude of her tiny little patch of semi-overgrown nature, chuckling as she raised an imaginary glass to the world. She remembered thinking how she could happily spend the entire day in that blissful little corner, passing her time unnoticed by the prying eyes or wagging tongues of the outside world. But of course, her sanctuary had been invaded by Sam. The lumbering oaf had ruined her peace and quiet and had come storming through the hedge like a wounded wildebeest.

  She’d been a bit annoyed, not particularly angry per say, just quite miffed that he wouldn’t leave, even after she made it very clear, more than once, that she’d rather be alone. But his odd characteristics, once again, had intrigued her - he’d been very nervous, refused the joint, apologized to her and even admitted he was a twat - all of which contradicted the behavior of every Jock in human history.

  Nonetheless, she’d tried to remain as cold and distant as possible, despite her slightly peaked intrigue (an intrigue she loathed to admit, even to herself), but the more they had talked the harder it became, and she almost caught her icy mask slipping once or twice. It had taken physical effort to stop her eyes from widening in surprise when he had listed Tolstoy, Baudelaire and F. Scott Fitzgerald. While they were fairly common names in certain circles, she had never expected to hear them tumble from the lips of a stuttering, baseball cap wearing, College Jock (not that she let him know that - it would do no good for it to go to his already slightly oversized head). She’d also tried subtly forcing herself to make eye contact with him - to look into his eyes and ascertain whether or not she’d imagined Sam’s eyes possessing the same fathomless, intellectual depths as her darling Jack’s eyes. But she’d pussied out - every time she got close, every time he began to look towards her, she’d darted her gaze away, suddenly unsure whether or not she was ready for the answer.

  And that’s where things started to get blurry. As far as Sienna could remember there had been a long silence, and a lot of tension had built up for some reason that she couldn’t quite place. Her last tangible memory had been of fidgeting around on top of the bin, wishing desperately that she could leave, while at the same time stubbornly holding her ground.