“I think you’re right, this place is better off as rubble,” says the other khaki man. “It looks like it could collapse any minute.”
“I think it’s time to get out of here then,” comments the other with a chuckle. The khakis start to walk away, but the blue jeans stay put.
“Can I stay here for a while?” the younger voice asks, making me stiffen. I pull at my hair as I anticipate the answer. No. Say no, I beg.
“No, it’s too dangerous. I don’t want you staying here by yourself,” one of the men answers. The khakis turn to head for the front door. I’m relieved to have moved to a new hiding place as I watch them. Blue jeans hesitates for a minute before following the men out. I sigh, slumping against the wall behind the staircase once I hear the door close.
Water.
I can’t breathe.
I’m surrounded by water. I can’t swim. There’s no way out. I bang against the hard glass. It doesn’t budge. My lungs are desperate for air. I have to get out. I have to break free!
I’m being pulled under—farther and farther from the surface. My lungs continue to scream for air. Panic is building inside me, threatening to combust. I can’t break free. Help! I can’t break free! I open my mouth to scream.
I jolt up, gripping the sheets tightly. Sweat rolls down my forehead like a waterfall as my breathing comes in pants. My eyes flood with tears.
It isn’t long before the tears spill over and mix with the sweat that’s rolling down my forehead and cheeks. I take in slow breaths in an attempt to get my breathing under control. Instead, my quiet tears become uncontrollable sobs. My cries echo through the apartment. It feels like I’ve swallowed a box cutter, every swallow and choking weep is painful. However, I can’t stop the tears.
I bury my face in my hands. The sweat and tears wet my palms as I cry into them, unable to hold back the panic, fear, and sadness that grip my heart.
I am unable to move. I’m lying in bed as sunlight beams through the curtain-less window in my apartment. It’s hot, but I don’t move; not even when my clothes become sweaty and stick to my skin; not even when my hair becomes damp with sweat and sticks to my forehead.
I lie sprawled on top of all the covers, my emotions holding on by a thread. I feel like a broken picture—shattered, unable to be glued back together. I will myself to go numb, but the relief doesn’t come. The feelings stay, threatening to develop into tears, again. I can’t put myself back together, and I can’t stop the emotions from taking over.
I curl into myself, regardless of the heat and sleekness of my skin. Moments or days like these aren’t rare. I can’t control the emotions that threaten to crush me. The dreams, the flashbacks, the emotions, it’s all overwhelmingly compressing. It feels like walls are moving toward me, preparing to crush me from all sides.
The afternoon sun slowly goes down, turning the day over to twilight. This is the time when the streets start to clear of people. I finally have the strength to move at that point. Moving slowly, I sit up and go over to the window to look out. My hand brushes my copy of Tuck Everlasting as I curl up on the window seat. I barely look at it. I can’t even think about reading right now.
The sun seems frozen in the sky as it stays just above the buildings. The sky is an array of yellows, oranges, purples, and blues.
Looking at the streets below, I see that they have almost cleared of people. Some fresh air might do me some good, I think as I push away from the window. Today, I don’t care if the steps cave under me. I drift down the creaky stairs, almost daring the staircase to collapse.
I’m suddenly reminded of the two men and the boy. I almost stop as their conversation replays in my mind. I can’t let them tear the building down. It’s my home. I have nowhere else to go.
I try to push the negative thoughts to the back of my mind. They might not even tear it down. At least, that’s what I tell myself as I weave through the streets.
I don’t realize my destination until I find myself in front of the Eiffel Tower. The sun has disappeared behind the buildings now though the sky is still lit up in various colors. Having nothing else to do, I slump in the grass. A few couples are sprawled out, sitting on towels in the grass around me. I sit alone, watching the people around me. “People watching,” my mother called it. My heart grips at the thought of my mother. I quickly push all thoughts of her away.
Hours pass as I sit there. It has started to rain. The sky is now dark with night, and clouds block my view of the stars and moon. The couples that were once around me sitting on towels together all cute and snuggly are now gone.
Big drops of rain fall around me, soaking my hair and clothes. I don’t move. I stare out against the rain, aimlessly searching for another lonely soul. The park and streets seem bare of any wet wanderers, though. I am the only one sitting in the park. I’m also probably the only one allowing myself to get soaked by staying in the rain.
The drops feel nice and cool against my skin as they fall from the gray clouds. I raise my head, letting the drops fall on my face. I brush my damp hair back from my face with a sigh.
I just started to stand to head back to my apartment when I finally spot someone.
He’s walking alone in the rain with his hands in his pockets, and his shoulders are hunched against the rain. He walks in front of the Eiffel Tower but doesn’t take notice to it—his eyes are staring ahead at nothing. I watch him as he walks, wondering what he’s doing walking in the rain while everyone else (but me) has taken shelter. He seems to be in deep thought, unaware of the rain as it soaks his clothes and dark hair.
I turn away and head in the opposite direction, taking note that the gloomy weather matches my mood. As I walk away, all the emotions I’ve managed to hold back for the past few hours come rushing back, the force crashing into me like a car.
My heart drops when the last word crosses my mind. I gasp, stumbling forward. Blood, water, pain, burning lungs, air.
I need air!
I grab the nearest lamppost when my knees threaten to give out, panting for breath as the words rip through me. I cling to it, barely able to hold myself up. Sweat and raindrops roll down my forehead. Get ahold of yourself, Taylor, I tell myself.
I brush the sweat and rain off my face and try to slow my breathing. Once I’m sure my legs won’t cave under me, I release the lamppost and start for my apartment. I fight back the emotions that try to sneak into my heart. I fight the images that seek to surface from the back of my mind. I fight the same battles every day.
But I can’t fight forever.
CHAPTER THREE
The Boy
Creak. I sigh, rolling over onto my stomach, but not opening my eyes. Creak. I pause, listening—still half-asleep. Creak! My heart jolts just before I catapult out of bed. I stand beside my bed, listening to the steady footsteps as they climb the stairs.
I leap across the bed to the closet on the other side. Swinging the door open, I quickly slip inside, fully awake and alert now. Someone is here.
Since my apartment is at the end of the hallway, maybe it’s unlikely that they’ll choose to check out mine. Finding me hiding in a closet is even less likely, right? I gulp.
I press back against the wall of the closet. It’s empty for the most part. I only have so many clothes (a summer dress, a single pair of jeans, and two T-shirts), so I don’t have much to hide behind. My breath catches as I imagine the walls closing in on me. I can’t lose control. Not right now.
My heart begins to thunder against my chest when I hear footsteps.
Whoever it is, they’re close. Real close. The closet door is shuttered, so I can see through it when I peek through the gaps. A figure walks into the room then.
My breath almost catches when I see that the person on the other side of the door is wearing jeans. I can’t get a good view of him—the boy that stands in my room—but I know it’s the boy from the other day. His back is to me, and the aligned shutters on the door block my vision of his head.
I watch as he p
auses at the window, staring outside for a long, dazed minute. I wish I could see his face, if only for a moment. Turn, I will. Move. Do something!
Why is he in here? Why would he come in this room out of all the apartments in the building? What would possess him to come here? Had he already looked in the other apartments? Did he hear me jump out of bed?
He moves then, and my attention is focused back on what he’s doing. He pauses at the rocking chair, picking up something and staring down at it intently. My eyes widen. It’s my sketchbook. He’s looking at my sketchbook.
I watch as he begins to flip through it, powerless to stop him. Words of protest are tattooed on my lips, but I can’t call to him—not without being exposed. I lean against the back wall quietly as I bite back words of halt.
As time passes, my legs grow tired. I sit down. He doesn’t leave. He wanders my room before heading to one of the other bedrooms a little ways down the hall. I stay crouched in the back of the closet until I don’t hear the floorboards creak anymore.
I get to my feet, slowly opening the closet door. It quietly groans as I push it open to search for any sign of the boy. No footsteps echo off the old walls, no sound comes at all; it’s eerily quiet. With a sigh, I sneak out of the closet and to the door of my apartment. It’s been left open. I glance down the hall, but no one is there.
I turn and go over to the rocking chair, where I expect to find my sketchpad, only to find that it isn’t there. I search my room, my apartment, and the building, but it’s nowhere to be found. The boy took my sketchpad.
Days pass. My sketchbook doesn’t turn up, and neither does the boy. The fear and sadness stay glued to my heart as the days go by. I try to go outdoors to sketch (in a notebook that hasn’t disappeared with the mysterious boy) and read, but I can’t always make myself leave my apartment.
Every day feels like the last: gloomy, dragged on, familiar, and uneventful. There is nothing I can do to fill the gap in my life. I’m an unsocial orphaned freak with nowhere to go, no one to see, and nowhere to be. I don’t know what to do to fill the gap, and now, I’m not so sure there is anything I can do to fill it.
Why did I survive? It’s the question that has been boring in my brain ever since I ended up where I am. Ever since I ended up alone. A question like this will never be answered. I know that, yet I still wonder.
I feel like an empty void that goes on and on—like my only purpose here in this world is to suffer from my past, questions, emotions, and self-torment.
I sigh, closing my eyes as I try to push back these thoughts of anguish. Today is like any other—gloomy, familiar, dull, etc. I sit away from everyone else in the park with my sketchpad and a perfectly sharpened pencil. I don’t know what else to do. I can’t seem to distract myself enough. The same thoughts continue to rise from the back of my mind no matter how hard I try to push them back, so instead, I try to focus on sketching.
I quickly move the pencil across the paper as I bring the page to life with a sketch of the scenery in front of me. The Eiffel Tower rests in the center of the paper with a couple laid out in the right corner of the page, staring up at the landmark before them. The woman lies beside her boyfriend or husband with her head resting on his shoulder. When they first sat down, they had been taking in the view, but now, he’s looking at her with kind eyes. She is oblivious to his staring.
For a moment—an instant—I forget about my grave thoughts and take notice to how sweet the couple looks together. Love glows in the man’s eyes, but the woman doesn’t take her eyes off the tower to notice his love-struck gaze. I wonder if anyone will ever look at me that way. It’s a thought I quickly banish before continuing to draw, convincing myself that my time for such things has long since passed. Such things aren’t apart of my life anymore.
Hours later, the couple leaves before I can finish the sketch, but I’m confident I can finish it without them to model. I couldn’t shake the image of them if I wanted to. The endearing, picturesque image of them is permanently stored in my mind.
I discard my sketchpad to give my sore fingers a break and lie back to stare up at the sky. Nothing can keep the grisly thoughts away. They may drift to the back of my mind, but they always came back to haunt me. If I were a cartoon, a gray cloud would be hovering over my head.
With a tired sigh, I get to my feet and collect my things.
I sling my bag over my shoulder and slowly start to make my way back to my apartment, having no idea what I’m going to do to distract myself from my rumbling stomach. When I make it back to my apartment building, I gallop up the iron staircase before jogging up the creaky staircase inside to the fifth floor. Just as I reach the top step, I hear faint footsteps coming from the hallway off to the right. I pause, listening carefully.
The door at the very end of the hall is open a little less than halfway. Sunlight pours from the apartment, revealing dust particles in the air. The faint creaking of the old floor continues. I don’t move—I can’t. I keep my eyes locked on the door.
A shadow moves passed the door, blocking the sun’s rays for a split-second. My heart drops halfway down my chest, before beating faster in a nervous flutter. Someone is here.
I turn to tiptoe to my apartment for a place to hide.
Creak!
I freeze, my feet suddenly glued to the floor. It takes me a minute to gather the courage to turn around, but when I do, I immediately wish I hadn’t. The boy is standing in the doorway at the end of the hall.
Why is he here again? I barely allow myself time to ask the question before I move. Panicked, I turn and run back down the stairs as fast as I can.
“Hey! Wait!” he calls after me. I don’t stop. I stumble a few times, but successfully make it to the bottom without falling on my face. I can hear him behind me as he chases after me. The moment my feet hit the bottom, I make a break for the exit.
Panic continues to course through me as I yank open the door, still able to hear him behind me. I glance over my shoulder as I swing the door open. He’s just reached the bottom step when I step out into the alley.
I stagger down the iron steps, running again when I reach the bottom. I hear a clang as he jogs down the staircase after me. “Stop!” he calls behind me again and again. I can hear his pounding footsteps on the pavement behind me. I don’t slow, not even when I run out into the street. I make a sharp right.
“Wait!” the boy calls. I still don’t stop. I weave through the people on the street. For once, I wish there are more people around so that I can lose him. I look back over my shoulder to see him trying to move carefully around an old man. Taking the opportunity, I duck into an antique shop. Not a minute later, he wanders by, still searching. I sigh, relieved when he runs by without noticing me standing by the window.
“Can I help you?” I jump at the sound of the voice, nearly leaving my own skin. I turn to see a woman standing at the other end of the shop, restocking a shelf.
“Um, no, I was just—” I break off, unable to voice the truth without sounding ridiculous. The woman is confused but nods nonetheless. I glance back out the window in search for any sign of the boy. When I’m sure he’s gone, I slip out, wanting to tell the woman to have a good day, but unable to get my mouth to form the words as I leave. Speaking to strangers has been somewhat of a challenge for me since the accident.
I keep my head low as I walk down the street, careful not to bump into anybody as I glance around for the boy. I don’t spot him, though. He’d run off, totally oblivious that passed right by me.
Fearful that he might show up at my apartment complex again, I head in a different direction.
The park around the Eiffel Tower has only a few picnic blankets sprawled across its yard. I walk over to the hedges, pushing them back to enter the small park. It is empty, except for two ducks that bathe in the tiny pond.
I walk over to the bench, pulling my messenger bag over my head and setting it down in front of it. With a sigh, I lie down on the wood, suddenly feeling tired. It’s s
till relatively light out, but it wouldn’t be long before the sun started to set.
I watch the ducks swim around and dip their heads in the water until my eyes shut, and I fall asleep.
With every few steps, I glance over my shoulder to make sure the boy isn’t behind me. I have to go back; I know that, but I’m afraid he’s there, waiting for me.
I slowly open the back door of the building. I listen carefully as I step inside. No stairs or floors creak—the building is dead silent. It’s almost eerie.
Trying to make as little noise as possible, I slowly—carefully—creep up with stairs. I glance all around, but it seems like no one is here. I sigh in relief when I enter my apartment to find it empty of any unwanted visitors.
Quickly grabbing a few books and pencils, I shove them into my bag. I move to my nearly-empty closet next. I strip, preparing to make a dash for the exit as soon as I’m dressed in clean clothes. I discard my jeans and T-shirt behind me, allowing them to land where they please, before reaching for my little, white summer dress.
The door groans open just as I’m slipping it over my head. I jump and spin around, almost expecting to see a ghostly figure behind me. But, instead, it’s the boy.
My cheeks immediately redden. I do a quick one-eighty to pull my dress down the rest of the way. For a long moment, all I do is gape at the wall as wired anxiety shoots through my body. My mouth is wide open with shock, and I can barely scramble up a thought.
“I am so sorry,” he says quietly behind me, sounding just as shocked as I feel. Part of me wants to turn around and face him—to actually see his face—but another part is whispering not to. Butterflies swarm around in my stomach like a mini tornado, buzzing all around and sending nervous shocks through my body.
Don’t turn around, half my brain whispers, while the other half is telling me: What’s the big deal? Just turn around.
Alone in Paris: A Standalone Young Adult Romance Page 2