“Liv!” He says strictly, “I’m not going to stand here and argue about this anymore.” His arms are folded across his chest. He’s using that scolding tone. The one I detest. “What’s done is done.” He attempts to close the conversation.
But it’s not done, not for me.
The bubbling rage I’m fighting to control trounces me.
I lash out again. “Why is it so easy for you to tell me to get over the past when your entire life is dictated by your own?” My words instantly shock me. And him. I can’t believe what just ejected out of my mouth. I cover my hanging jaw in horror as guilt saturates me. I have completely let myself get away from me.
Justice just stands there giving me a horrid, rancorous look.
“I think I should go,” he says acrimoniously.
His simple sentence fragments me. I don’t want him to leave. But my anger won’t let me rescind.
“Maybe you should.” I say not really meaning it. I stand my ground as if preparing for battle, because if he does leave, my emotions will surly wage war.
I want to excessively apologize, apologize for being so pigheaded, selfish and mean. I am not myself, but that’s no excuse. I have achieved hurting him as much as I have been hurt, maybe more, and it feels just awful. I don’t know what to say, there are no words to rectify my wrong. This argument has taken a drastic, unforeseen turn down a jagged edged ravine.
My lips tremble as I try to fight back the tears. I hate it that I cry when I’m upset. I hate it that he feels the need to keep things from me. I hate it that I hurt him.
I despondently close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose.
I hate it most that he is gone.
Dead and Gone
I race down Ocean Avenue towards Dealth trying to figure out what the hell went haywire in my head. Summer traffic is light today so I thank the tarmac Gods for small favors. After twelve phone calls and umpteen text messages without any reply, I have managed to cross into that grey area between seriously concerned and stalking.
I am absolutely racked with guilt about our fight and my little comment that sent Justice packing. I deserve the silent treatment. I barely even recognize myself. I’ve never been so harsh to anyone before. And all I can see is that unforgiving look on Justice’s face before his disappearance. The thought of him hating me is emotionally stifling.
I try to recite what I will say when we finally came face to face. Something along the lines of, ‘Justice, please forgive me for being so stupid, selfish and pigheaded, not to mention plain old mean.’ That would be right before the excessive groveling. The worst part is I know I deserve whatever’s coming, and I’m sure I will not be easily forgiven. But I remember my promise; I won’t avoid him, no matter what, no matter how degrading this apology will be.
I pull up to The Cliffs; it looks imposing like always, but for some reason, today; it has a touch of barrenness.
I walk up to the angelic stained glass doors feeling overwhelmingly self-conscious. What if he opens the door and then slams it in my face? It makes me hesitant to ring the bell. I feel so small standing in front of the immense house, while the faces in the artistic glass stare down at me with judgment. They don’t need to remind me of what I’ve done. I am highly aware.
I ring the doorbell and wait impatiently for someone to answer. I stand there for several long minutes, every second that ticks by feels like an hour. I bounce impatiently in my cork bottom wedges. Waiting. Waiting.
I reach for the gold door handle.
It’s open; I peek my head inside. The ethereal foyer is quiet. Stagnant almost.
“Hello?” My voice echoes. “Justice?”
No one answers.
I creep up the butterfly staircase, sliding my hand along the smooth cherry wood railing; in this supernatural household, someone is sure to hear me. I walk down the desolate hallway, past Daniel’s study; it’s as empty as the rest of the house. I hope Justice is in his room just ignoring me. I wouldn’t blame him; he’s upset. I keep walking towards the last door on the end. I knock, but there’s no answer. I knock again, still bouncing in my shoes.
I decide to be bold and open it. “Justice?” I look around his white room as I stand in the doorway. “Jus?” I poke my head in; my body follows.
His room feels so cold and deserted, like no one’s ever lived here. I hate the way it makes me feel, like I’m forsaken in it.
It’s clear he isn’t here; I run my finger along his smooth white dresser, there isn’t even a speck of dust. His phone is perfectly placed next to his laptop. Dead. That would explain the unanswered messages. At least, I hope that’s the reason.
I look out over the ocean wondering where he could be. All I want is to apologize, but his absence is making that difficult. I watch the white snow caps bobble over the choppy waves; the color of the water is strange today, a light turquoise, not the usual Jersey dark blue. It agonizingly reminds me of Justice’s eyes.
My trip was pointless. I know that now. He will come to me when he’s ready.
I turn to leave, but a pair of sparkling eyes deters me.
“Derrin!” I put my hand over my startled heart. “You scared me!”
WHY do they always have to be so silent? Would footsteps hurt?
“What are you doing here?” He asks with an arresting presence.
“I was looking for Justice, we had a fight.” I say solemnly.
“I heard.”
“Do you know where he is?” I ask a little too eagerly.
“Gone.”
“Gone? Gone where?”
“Don’t know, just gone.” He shrugs indifferently. “We have a tendency to do that from time to time. It’s in our nature.”
I don’t really process much of what Derrin is saying; I’m still lingering over the word gone.
“Well do you know when he’s coming back?” I ask, a small crack in my voice.
“No,” he gives me a look like he could not care less.
Reckless thought’s race through my mind. Justice, gone? I mean, I know we had a fight, and I said some things, but to just leave, abandon me, after everything? It doesn’t make any sense.
“What about the Stalker?” I ask gaining upset.
He shrugs again. “Your problem now I guess,” he says as he turns to walk away. “Lock the door on your way out.” Then he’s gone.
I stand there distressed. I have forgotten how to move. Tears swell up behind my eyes and a lump immediately forms in my throat. I’m deserted, and scared, and my head feels like a bigger target than the Megatron in Time Square.
I run out of the ominous room, down the stairs and into my car. I push on the ignition and peel out of the driveway. I just want to get as far away from The Cliffs as possible.
It feels like Chicken Little is tearing up my universe. I turn on the radio attempting to block my erratic emotions. I blast the music and speed down Ocean Avenue tripling the speed limit. But the melody only makes my heart ache worse. Every piano note strikes a painful cord.
My beating heart cracks like the liberty bell. It becomes delicate and flimsy; a piece of tissue paper is stronger. The songstress’ sullen voice induces tears from my eyes that dissipate in the pressing wind. Every good-bye she sings rips me apart. The dejection is agony, the loneliness limitless. The tears impel down my face faster and faster, and I find myself unable to contain the emotional tidal wave that is me.
I just want to be home, in the seclusion of my apartment. Away from the world and where it holds Justice. I secretly hope he is there, waiting for me in his covert way, wanting to pounce. At this point, I would welcome the scare.
Only his presence can mend my torn up heart.
I hurry up the stairs anticipating a fright.
It’s worse than I could have imagined.
No one’s here.
I stand alone in my apartment the same way I stood alone in his room.
He’s really gone.
I know it.
I feel it.
>
Sadness over comes me like I have never known before.
I draw my shades and crawl into bed with what little life I have left.
I let the darkness have me, sobbing myself to sleep.
Shopping Spree
The drapes swing open injecting sunlight into my dark apartment.
“Hey!” I protest in a groggy voice, pulling the covers over my head trying to bring back the black.
“I’ll admit I’m surprised to find you curled up in your bed; I checked the closet first,” she says, as she abruptly pulls the covers away from my face.
I haven’t been out of bed in two days; at least, that’s how long I think it’s been. I’m still wearing the same clothes from that devastating afternoon, and my makeup is stale on my face. Mascara has crusted around my eyes and stained my light pink pillow case. I look up at Nikkee as she stares down.
“Wow Liv, you look worse than awful this time, what did you do fall into someone’s broken heart?”
SOMEONES?
My own is the worst I have ever felt. It stings more than a bad bikini wax and an acid peel being done at the same time.
“What are you doing here Nik?” I ask lifelessly.
“I was worried,” she wrinkles her face. “You haven’t returned any of my calls or texts. I figured you were having an episode. And by the looks of you, I’m right.”
I haven’t seen Nikkee much over the last month; most of our communication has been electronic. She’s been so preoccupied with Davis; she spends every free second she has with him. I have to admit it’s weird; she’s never been so attentive to a member of the opposite sex before. Usually she just keeps them dangling on a fish hook until she gets tired of seeing them squirm. But with him, she omits such intense love beams it feels like I’m getting sprayed with bullets.
Her joy is my pain.
She walks into the bathroom; I can hear her shuffling around pill bottles, no doubt looking for an anti-depressant.
She sits back down on the bed and stretches out her hand. “Here take these, they have the highest dose in your collection.”
Nikkee is used to feeding me drugs; she’s as familiar with my medicine cabinet as the pharmacist who filled it.
I push her hand away, “No.” I am deeply aware of my supernatural situation. Like Justice said, I’m not mental; I’m magical.
Thinking about him hurts. My flimsy heart throbs with pain. The fracture is still so fresh.
I lay there lifelessly, gazing at Nikkee. She looks so perfect like always, not one hair out of place, her skin glowing with happiness. I wonder if I will ever feel happiness again. I mean, my own happiness, and not someone else’s in my body. I close my eyes, but I can still feel her energy all around me.
“Get up!” She nudges.
“No.” I gripe.
“Come on!” She whines, “let’s go shopping, it always makes you feel better! And I know there is a gift card burning a hole in the bottom of your Marc Jacobs! You know the one I gave you last Christmas.”
I have no energy to move. Nor do I want to; I’d rather just wallow in my misery. Mine is definitely one that does not love company.
“No.” I say again, but she isn’t having it. She pulls the covers away from my body sending them to the floor, and then starts rocking me. She annoyingly belts out the white rabbit’s theme song on an octave so high it can make dogs howl. If she only knew how appropriate that song is to sing; there’s irony for you.
I know if Nikkee really wants me out of bed she will have no problem sending me to the floor as easily as the comforter, she is freakishly strong. She’s being nice, but I can feel her patience wearing thin.
“Ok!” I shout grabbing one of her wrists. “I’ll get up! Just please stop!” I look at her with engorged eyes.
She smiles victoriously.
I swear if I could beat her up, I would.
I slowly shuffle to the bathroom; the loneliness follows. My dry, knotty hair is pulling in the elastic; my eyes are puffy and my face swollen. I look like a microwaved marshmallow.
As I wash away the funk, heartbreak settles in my stomach. It is a constant reminder of my earth-shattering loss.
I don’t give much effort to my appearance; sweat pants and a tank top is pushing it. I swipe on some mascara and pull my wet hair into a heavy bun.
“Better.” Nikkee says lightly as I exit the bathroom. “At least you smell better.”
***
Nikkee rummages through the racks at Paradise filling her arms with everything that is a size 5. The pile is so high only her forehead is visible. I just mope behind her, trying to find a way to dull out the pain. My mood is nowhere near lifting, even with the glorious day and the 50% red line sale. Everything looks grey, and the utterly cheerful sales girl who is stalking us isn’t making things any better.
I stand there with my arms folded miserably as Nikkee hands off the mountainous pile to start a dressing room. She shoots me a dirty look when I come into her eye line.
“Nothing?” She huffs annoyed.
I’m not much in the mood for shopping; I’m not much in the mood for living, if I am being perfectly honest.
“What’s up with you? I knew you should have taken that pill.” She says.
But it isn’t that. I desperately want to tell Nikkee everything. That I’m magical and not mental, that I fell for someone I have no business loving, and now he’s gone, hiding somewhere in the world, far away from me. His absence is crushing me, but it isn’t the worst part of this whole crappy situation.
The worst part is the sobering realization that until I met him, I was dead inside, there was no spark, no life, just emptiness; a person fleeing from emotion, even as it ran rampant all around her.
If I come out with an outlandish story like that, she will surely drive me straight to the nearest mental ward and commit me herself.
Nikkee pulls a sheer peach shirt from a rack and flicks it in my face. “Try this on,” she rolls her eyes and pulls me towards the dressing room. While she plays dress up with every piece of clothing imaginable, I try to fill the hole in my chest where a perfectly functioning muscle used to be. One would think a girl who fights back human emotion on a daily basis would be skilled enough to control her own, but here I stand in the tsunami of myself, drowning in the sorrow and loss from the love I so desperately tried to avoid.
I stare at my hollow self in the mirror; this shirt didn’t look half bad; a microscopic silver lining.
“Liv?” Nikkee knocks on the door. “What do you think?”
I look at her confused; I have no idea what piece of clothing she is asking about, not a stitch on her body is her own.
“Umm,” I eye her up and down. “The skirt looks great?” I say taking a stab in the dark.
Nikkee is one of those people who looks good in everything, but she needs to pine in a mirror for several hours before she commits to any article of clothing.
“Not the skirt!” She laughs. “What do you think about meeting Davis’ friend? Were you listening at all?”
Apparently not.
How did I miss that? My thoughts must have been filling more than just my head.
I look at her appalled. The last thing I need is more testosterone in my life. The little I already had broken me; I don’t think adding anymore would be emotionally favorable at the moment.
“I don’t think so Nik.”
“Am I going to have to get you shock therapy treatments to pull you out of this funk?” She puts her hands on her hips.
“I shock myself enough.” I tell her.
She gives me a criticizing look with her piercing green eyes. It feels like she is trying to perforate an earring through my forehead.
“Liv, I refuse to let you turn into some old spinster with cats! Why even bother using wrinkle cream if that is going to be your fate?!”
I grimace at the accusation. I’m fond of my wrinkle cream, alone or not; I still have to look at myself.
I huff, “maybe
when I’m feeling better.” I tell her just to get her off my back. The promise is empty. I want no part of meeting anyone new.
“Good! He’s coming in from LA in a few weeks!” Her face lights up with excitement.
“Joy.” I say acerbically.
When Nikkee drops me off, I hope, I wish, I beg for Justice to be there, waiting to scare me in the shadows.
But there is nothing, no one. Only the mascara stain on my pillow greets me.
I crawl back into bed and curl myself into a ball, resting my face in the exact same place it has been for the last two days.
Heavy tears fill my eyes.
Salty fluid soaks my pillow.
I let the darkness have me once again. It is my only solace.
Only the Lonely
There’s usually something about Christmas that can penetrate holiday spirit into even the blackest of souls, except of course, for mine.
Three months.
Three months, eight days, and 23 hours, that’s, how long I’ve been looking over my shoulder in fear of the Stalker, and that’s how long Justice has been gone.
I watch as my mother meticulously fluffs the freshly cut tree. Every year, per tradition, the first weekend of December my father goes hunting and returns with the most magnificently stout Christmas tree the woods of Pennsylvania have to offer. And every year my family adorns it with white lights and pink Christmas balls. Of course, this is no plainly decorated tree, my mother adds her own personal touch with glittered ballet shoes and contorted ballerinas.
I hand her each piece as she requests it. I also hold a large glass of red wine while I do this to try and numb the endless pain. The joy of decorating is duller than a butter knife slicing through my wrist this year. The small amount of Christmas spirit that does pass through me immediately dissipates like a meteor entering the earth’s atmosphere. I hate to admit I have no desire to be here. My mood is a perfect match for the color of my soul. The only reason I left my den of depression is because Nikkee has been harassing me for weeks to get out. I couldn’t take the relentless text messages and Facebook posts any longer so I agreed on sushi tonight.
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