Little Battles

by N. K. Smith

  When I opened the door, I just knew it was all wrong. Nothing about her was as it should be. She’d grown so calm in the past few days, but right now she was so extremely agitated that I could feel it coming off of her. She didn’t look me in the eye and when she came into my room, she didn’t sit down or go over to my books. She always started out by looking at my books.

  I was instantly nervous. This was scaring me.

  “SSSSSoph-phie?”

  Everything about her was fidgety except for her hands, which were fisted at her sides. Her jaw was clenched, lips pressed together, and her expression was even more agitated than usual.

  “Did you tell Wallace about Chris Anderson?” Sophie’s normally mellow voice wavered, growing and shrinking almost at the same time.

  My stomach dropped and I could think of nothing but that she was angry because I’d told Robin about what Chris did to her. She didn’t have to say anything else because I could feel every scrap of anger, hurt, and betrayal she was feeling. I didn’t want this. I didn’t want conflict, especially with Sophie.

  My neck was stiff with tension as I struggled with my mind and body to do me a favor and work together just once so I could explain myself and let her know that I didn’t tell Robin and Stephen to give something away about her, but rather to explain something about me.

  But like always, my mind, body, and soul went in three different directions, leaving me sounding like an idiot who had betrayed the only person I desperately needed.

  “SSSSoph-ph-phie…”

  “Don’t say my goddamn name like it’ll get you out of fucking answering the question.” Even though I was a safe distance from her, I still took a step back. Her voice was strained, and yet stronger than before, when she said, “Did you tell her about what Chris did?”

  I couldn’t catch my breath, but I desperately needed to be calm so that I might be able to fix this. “Y-y-y-yes, b-b-b-b-but…”

  “That’s some shit, dude.” She shook her head as she looked away.

  I had to explain fast because Sophie didn’t seem like she would have as much patience for my verbal ineptitude as she usually did. “Th-they asked m-m-m-me w-w-why I hhhhhhit Ch-Ch-Ch-Chr…hhhhhim.”

  She jutted her chin out and shook her head as if she were having a silent conversation with herself. Her profile was so poetically painful, and I could see tears welling in her eyes. I hated that I was the cause of those tears.

  “I would never tell anybody anything you told me. Ever. Even if they asked. That’s fucked.”

  I couldn’t respond, because she wouldn’t let me. “You’re such a hypocrite. You hide every chance you get, a hell of a lot more than I do, and then you expect me to be completely bare for you like it’s no big thing.”

  Sophie came over to me. I kept telling myself to withdraw, but I was frozen. When she was about a foot away, she paused for a brief second, just long enough to say, “Fuck you, Elliott.”

  I flinched as if she had threatened to hit me, but before I even had a chance to process it, she was gone.

  I cursed my frozen body. I wanted to go after her and make her understand; to make her see that I had to tell them, not as a betrayal to her, but as a way to show them a piece of me, to help them understand. This couldn’t be happening. We had made terrific strides and I needed her. I loved her. I needed to run to her and make her see.

  But I couldn’t move. My chest hurt.

  I focused on breathing. In and out, as calm as I could.

  I worked very hard on limiting my thoughts to only things vital to my survival. I focused on my heart rate, manipulating it like a musical composition until the thump-thump was back to a more pleasing rhythm.

  Once my body was under control, I needed to tackle the task of calming my own mind.

  Sophie was angry.

  Sophie was angry at me.

  But maybe she’d be online later and it’d give me a chance to explain. Or better yet, I’d write her an e-mail.

  It took me an hour to be able to get up off the floor and go over to my computer. She wasn’t on, so I typed the e-mail, deleted it all, typed another one, and repeated that process one more time until I forced myself to push send.

  Sophie didn’t respond all night. Friday bled into Saturday and I found myself only leaving my room for coffee. Sophie still wasn’t online and there was no new e-mail. I called her house, but there was no answer.

  Saturday night at dinner I was what could only be described as a wreck. I couldn’t eat whatever was on my plate. Everyone tried to engage me, but I couldn’t see the point in responding to any one of them.

  I was very upset with Robin, but when she asked me to play the piano, I didn’t refuse. I knew why she wanted me to play. She wanted to analyze the music to figure out my mood and tonight I would make it easy for her. I wanted to give her everything she’d been asking of me. I wanted to give her all of this raw emotion. She’d ruined everything and I wanted her to know how angry she’d made me.

  I sat at the piano while Robin and Stephen watched me. I knew the others were all nearby. I started playing Chopin’s Piano Sonata No. 2: Funeral March.

  Just like I knew she would, after only a few bars Robin came to sit next to me, and my first urge was to push her off of my piano bench because I didn’t want her there, but I refrained.

  “Elliott, what’s wrong?”

  I didn’t respond until I felt that she thoroughly got the point about this particular piece.

  Robin hated depressing music, and I knew that this one would bother her.

  I hated Robin right now. She had no right to tell Sophie that I had told them what Anderson did to her. I was finished keeping it all inside. Robin said that my anger was normal, that it was healthy as long as I dealt with it. I was angry at her, and I was going to let her know.

  “W-w-why d-d-did you t-tell SSS-SSSSoph-phie ab-b-b-b-bout mmmmme…” I huffed in anger. It would take me all night to finish my stupid question, so I simply said, “Ch-Ch-Chr-Chris A-A-Anderson?”

  I pounded angrily at the keys and she didn’t respond until the mood of the piece changed abruptly. The darkness of hard death chords were replaced by soft, reflective strains meant to induce memories of a good life.

  “This one is better,” she said, obviously thinking that it was a separate piece.

  Really it was just the calm before the storm.

  “I didn’t tell Sophie anything you said. I asked her a vague question. I apologize if she made the connection and became angry with you. I would never tell her things you’ve told me.”

  Her words did not nullify my anger. I brought back the true nature of the song in a hard, almost violent juxtaposition of the interlude. Somber, painful, passionate anger filled me as the song returned to its morbid tones. Chopin had written it so the interlude transitioned peacefully into a soft reprise of the death march, but I practically slammed my broken fingers, that had just begun to heal, against the keys. I ignored the dull ache that was rapidly transforming into searing pain.

  By the time I’d gotten to the end, I didn’t care what Chopin’s intentions were. I finished it much more harshly than it should have been played.

  I didn’t want to sit next to Robin, and I didn’t want Sophie to be mad at me any longer. Thankfully, Robin stood and stepped away. I hoped she felt my anger.

  Unable to control myself, I got up abruptly just as I pounded the final chord, and knocked the bench on its side. My next action was to slam the cover down over the keys, creating a satisfying crash that would probably ensure the need to have the piano tuned before long.

  Had I slammed it any harder, something would have broken.

  Everything was ruined now. Sophie hated me, just like everyone hated me. Nothing good in my life was lasting and all the women I loved, left. How could I go back to what I was before her?
My heart would ache too much. I would feel the intensity of loneliness again, but this time I’d know what I was missing and it would hurt worse!

  Maybe there was hope left, but I couldn’t see it. Maybe she would realize that she needed and loved me too. Maybe she would come to recognize this was all just a misunderstanding.

  Who was I kidding? I had one shot with Sophie. One shot at happiness with her, and I’d blown it. In all the battles I was waging to save Sophie and keep her with me, I’d failed at the most basic level. I’d ruined her trust.

  I’d lost this battle.

  End Book Two

  I knew my father was wrong about music. Dr. Emmanuel was right on the mark about it being a way to praise God and His love, but he hadn’t been wrong about my soul being marked. He was not wrong about the wickedness within me.

  I knew Sophie wouldn’t understand. I knew she didn’t see me like that. Her eyes were clouded because I was the only person not looking to take anything from her. I only wanted what she would or could freely give, and she knew it. That was why she could fall asleep around me.

  I hated that she thought so little of herself. I hated that she put down her obvious talent and culinary skills. I hated that she preferred to use her body, rather than her emotions, to give someone pleasure. I hated that someone had hurt her so deeply that she thought she was only good for one thing.

  But I loved that she tried to be different.

  I knew that her sobriety was on my shoulders, and if it wasn’t for whatever she felt for me, she’d either still be getting high or be in rehab.

  She didn’t have to tell me. I felt the pressure to keep her clear-minded and level-headed, but I would accept any pressure put on me because she was worth it. I would help her, just as she would help me.

  I loved that she wanted to be better, even if it was just for me.