“Miki?”
The voice was faint – maybe I was just imagining things again.
“Enya?”
I blinked back tears.
Sudden light obscured my vision, blurring and then refocusing. The book in my hands dropped with a soft thud on my lap. The tears in my eyes disappeared into thin air, as though it was never there – with only red veins visible in my eyeballs as doubtable proof.
I had the strange habit… no, not habit, more of a way of life. I turned every view into words. Paint the picture in your mind, remember forever, they say. I liked words. Not that I had awful image memory – it was pretty awesome actually – but I really did just prefer words. So I can tell. Not that I liked to talk. So I can write. Yes. So I can write and tell.
I finally looked at whoever called my name.
My jaw dropped. “What…” my voice trailed off uncertainly.
I would’ve pinched myself but I was pretty damn sure my dreams were never so vivid – half the time I knew it’s just a dream, so unconvincing, so unrealistic… un… un… unvivid! Save myself the pain, I told myself as my fingers fluttered, moving to squeeze my skin until I eventually snap out of it.
The tall, strong, lean man with wide, large, light jade green, deep-set eyes stared back at me with the same confusion but lacked my absolute awe and disbelief. His long, lean, fair-skinned, clean-nailed fingers twisted into his beautiful, glistening, inky hair and a small crease appeared by the end of each eyebrow in the mid-forehead, so small it was nothing more than a dot.
Such a familiar gesture. In letters. In words. In sentence. In a story. In a book. In black and white. Fiction. Not real.
My vision became incoherent. At the same time, I felt sheepish – I had actually put three words in descriptive for each thing. And right then, for the first time in my life, I felt like I was going to faint.
“Hey, are you okay?” Alarmed, he grasped me by the neck and waist before my head hit the floor.
He smelt just like he would – vanilla. His voice like… hot, melted caramel, it had said. No, that wasn’t it. It would be shallow to call it so. It was more like pouring, golden sunshine – smooth, soothing, silky, transparent, golden, shining, light, sweet… so many words. Sunshine… you could hear the raspy and raw, husky quality behind all that honey – like sunshine that was too bright, too fierce.
His closeness didn’t help the incoherence of the inside of my head. I pushed myself away as soon as I pulled myself together.
Did I die? I didn’t remember any accident, no casualties. I couldn’t be asleep… my dreams, really, were never so vivid. This was ridiculous. I didn’t think I was crazy. Too much alone time? No, no, no… I have friends… one… neighbor… Yes, too much alone time. But no, I wasn’t going crazy. I knew that perfectly well. My stomach gave a squeeze. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast with nothing but a mug of oatmeal and my stomach had nothing to churn and I felt like throwing up nothing but water and enzymes.
My eyes were wide, frantic. I stared at his bewildered face, down at my palms, back up at him and back down. Why did I think I was dead? Or maybe I was out of my mind? Or asleep and dreaming the strangest-slash-most-amazing dream?
“Are you…”
“You’re not supposed to be real!” I spluttered out my answer.
He looked at me, the dotted crease appearing.
I shook my head hard with my eyes squeezed tight for a second. Behind all the drama – I was actually scared – my bubbly side thought of how amazing this was. It was like seeing a movie star… except worse – better, Baby Bubbly at the Back of my Brain altered.
Lady Trauma took over quickly. All fear drained from my face along with all the confusion and suspicion. A smile plastered onto my face as I drew a deep breath.
Typical.
I had always wondered if I was born a coward. A chicken. A typical good-for-nothing run-away inedible chicken.
When I was alone, I could never breathe without worrying – not about germs or bacteria or diseases or anything of that sort, I wasn’t a hygienic freak – worrying how I was going to get by the rest of the day. Thoughts. That’s all there was that I do. Think. Worry. It never ended. Sometimes I would think, when will I stop worrying? Maybe tomorrow? No, it never happened, because there would always be sometime that I had to be alone… really, really alone. You would think I overwork my brain. But strangely, no. Instead of relaxing and blanking my mind during my free time, I did that during the times I actually needed my brain. I spent my time during work and studies to let my mind wander in my castle in the sky. So I was naturally a klutz, tipping over things, and the blanked-out girl, who always said ‘huh?’.
I also wondered if I was a player. An actress. A super-talented, undiscovered, paranoid, freak of a player.
A pretender.
I was the little girl who pretended the world was wonderful, beautiful, amazing and so pure, only growing up to find out that it was nowhere close to her dreams as a child, crushed. I was the teenager who had her heartbroken by her sweetheart and then just dives back into love again when she quickly accepting apologies and the request to get back, desperately thinking, chanting to herself that it would be okay because it would be better, all to find out it was a circle that wouldn’t end anytime soon. I was the parent that laid out extra dinners, talked to thin air, pretending that there was a person there, an imaginary friend created by their little boy or little girl, only ending up to feel extremely frustrated for putting up with this irrational behavior instead of talking some sense to their child. I was the teacher who screams at that undisciplined child everyday for doing something idiotically impulsive, dangerous or against the rules and having to see his face in front of her and have to scream again, again, again, thinking he would learn, thinking she was doing some good, thinking the day would come… trying so hard to teach, and giving up in the end, finally accepting in disappointment that he would never learn.
The depression, the desperation, the frustration, the disappointment… I felt all those endless feelings; I was all those endlessly pretending martyrs. But I was also so much more, so much less of a person.
I was that grown up girl, still forcing herself to believe in fairytales and making herself have faith in all things good. I was like that teenage boy who broken that girl’s heart yet unable to stop himself from doing it again, even knowing he didn’t want to lose her because he did love her. I was that little girl who had the imaginary friend, stubborn, unable to accept that my perfect friend didn’t exist. I was that student who grits her teeth, enduring the teacher’s screams in silence and drowning in self-hatred but never being able to change.
I was stubborn, never-changing.
I wanted to change so much. I hated pretending, I hated lying, I hated being something I wasn’t. But it was who I was. All those ‘characters’ I pretended to be were me. They weren’t made-up, not just a lie. It made it so frustrating, so confusing, so complicated. Because it was the way I wanted to act. Act. I was constantly disgusted by myself. There were so many things that I did that I didn’t like. But I only did them in the first place because I wanted to. I was an angel, I was a devil, I was sometimes in between. I was so patient but I flew in a temper in a blink of an eye. I was helpful all around yet I would curl up away and ignore the calls of chores. I’ve got all the answers; I’ve got nothing figured out. I liked to be by myself, but I hated being alone. I wanted people to hear my sing but I didn’t want them to listen. I wished someone would hold me, I wished they would just stay away. I was a million contradictions. Sometimes I made no sense. Sometimes I seemed perfect, sometimes just a mess. Mostly, I wasn’t sure who I was. There was always a battle brewing inside of me, tearing me into a million pieces which each had its on side.
I was one thing I could never understand in this universe. Other things I might be able to learn, to gain knowledge of off some teacher. It was one of those things that weren’t exactly logic. And I really just wasn’t logic. Like how I had to scream my head of for my mom, tugging with all my might on the elastic band of the bed sheet that was caught on nails while trying not to tear it apart in a temper and all it took for her to pull it out was a gentle tug. Like how my old piano teacher, with such little hands, could play such complicated pieces and not even have a temper on it while with my big hands, I supposedly just didn’t work hard enough and feel the urge to bang my head on the keys. Like how my best friend could concentrate on studying even though she was much easily distracted than I was while I stood around with a book in my heads and my eyes just wandering around.
I just don’t understand.
Try to figure me out, you never can.
“Are you okay?”
So don’t ask me if I’m okay.
“Of course I am.” Ah, the perfect tone of indignation.
The crease didn’t disappear. Was I so unconvincing? I thought the sound was perfect… too perfect? No, impossible. It was a flawlessly delivered line, what with my practice.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” The smile was convincing. I felt it on my face. It wasn’t forced, so long to the audience. It was a relaxed smile, a gentle one.
“Okay…” He didn’t seem convinced. Was I losing my edge?
I breathed evenly. “May I ask why you’re here?”
The crease deepened. “Where… exactly is here?”
As I would’ve expected, the answer. But I acted surprised. “Well, it’s Nolita. Y’know, N.Y.”
“Oh.” He chewed on his lower lip. “I, uh, I’m not too sure. I don’t remember much.” The frown deepened.
My smile widened. “That’s okay. Why don’t you sit down?” I gestured to the two-seated snowy, fluffy white sofa next to my matching armchair.
Slowly, he nodded, his eyes drifting around. He took a seat close to the armchair. I dropped onto it. His eyes flickered to the floor. He bent down and picked up something. My eyes lit, my mouth dropped into an O of horror and I quickly snatched the book away from him.
“Um, I was just reading that.” My composure was gone. My eyes shifted uncomfortably and I fidgeted in the armchair. I hoped that he wouldn’t ask any questions. No questions… please…
“What is that anyway?” he asked with a patronizing smile and I was under the impression he knew I wished he’d just shut his trap and let it go. He tugged on the thick black book that I hugged tightly close to my chest. I would’ve snapped at him, bit his hand off or something but when I met his soulful green eyes my grip slackened and the book was seized away from me.
My brow crumpled and my lips pushed out into a pout almost immediately. He laughed at my expression. Then he stopped abruptly and the expression on his face made my heart feel like smashing. It was devastated, a deep grief, repentance and resentment. There were more lines on his brow than I would’ve thought possible. I counted them as the expression didn’t lift. One, two, three, four, five, six… did I count that one already? Start over. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight… that tiny line, does it count? Yes. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve…
My heart hung off a cliff as I concentrated on the frown lines, only my heartbeat in my ears.
“You…”
My eyes zoomed out of focus from his brow and refocused on his face instead. His eyes were on the floor so I had no worry about meeting them. The frown lines had lessened but his lips were still puckered and his cheeks with a sunken look. His nose was slightly wrinkled. The expression was less devastating but the effect was the same. The repentance had won over everything else though grief was still etch-i-sketched upon that seraphic face.
“You remind me of someone,” he finally got it out after a long silence.
I nodded. “That girl… the name you called me. Miki.” It wasn’t a question.
He scowled at the pale blue carpet and slowly nodded.
Mikaela Adamson.
She was so unlike me yet so me at the same time. We were both ignorant, though in different ways. I was ignorant of change, nothing pronounced… But she, oh, she was arrogant. She held herself with extreme pride because of her absolute beauty. She hugged the limelight like it was her dearest friend, tight and close. She was a woman of independence, sufficiency, measured distanced, boldness, pride. Cross her and off comes your head. Cross me and I’ll probably just roll over and die.
My nose wrinkled.
Man, the difference…
“This book…” He had let the topic go. I was relieved that he did, it saved him some despair and me some balance on sanity without having to resume my comparison of myself and a novel character. Instead, he examined the book with intensity, a small smile on his lips.
“Oh, it’s nothing really,” I said hastily. “I was just reading it before you called…” my name. “How do you know my name?” I demanded in confusion.
He raised an eyebrow and lifted the book into view.
“Oh.”
ENYA FORTE
This had nothing to do with my habit of signing my name on the cover of my books. This was personal. Oh, so preciously, horrifyingly, irritatingly personal.
I wrote.
Yeah, yeah, call me crazy.
Childish.
Delusional.
I call it hopeful.
And, of course, delusional. Always delusional, I am.
Cliché. My surname. Forte, meaning gifted. God damn it. Not bless it, damn it. I had the talent to write. It was acknowledged. By very, very, very few people.
It almost hurt.
Too late. It did hurt. Like making it somewhere extraordinary but being invisible. It was just the same. Still nowhere.
I wrote, enthusiastically, obsessively, about things. Just everyday things. To turn something ordinary extraordinary. I was nearly there, I thought. But still not there. No, I didn’t believe that. People were lucky, and they didn’t even give a shit about it. Some people, though with better qualifications – and a whole pile of luck, the good kind, unlike my opposite kind, were published even as they wrote simple-minded things. Teenage novels. Now that was what I call a complete whack of a waste of time. That gave me a real kick in the butt. Artless stories about a girl, what, falling in and out of teenage puppy love and losing their way oh-so-dramatically with a typical so-called-happy-ending with no lessons learned. So she had a boyfriend now, big deal. Let’s see… who said history won’t repeat itself. It was not what I call an ending. And it was not what I call a book.
They made me feel like schmuck.
I was definitely better. My brother was better! His vocab wasn’t so good but his imagination was a hell lot better than this.
Oh, my brothers.
I hated them so when it came to my dreams.
They crushed them, like baked potato all mashed up. I started writing when I was thirteen. Oh, those dreams I had. A famous author by sixteen! Gone. That was my biggest dream. So impossible, so challenging… so right for me. I could never find myself to actual forgive the two of them, for real. Those documents I’ve saved up while I worked endlessly just went crashing away. Deleted. Accident or otherwise. We’re reformatted the computer, or sorry, didn’t know we were supposed to tell you. I would scream, I would cry, I would wail at the top of my voice. But it all wouldn’t matter. I had to live with them. It was okay. Just another fissure in my dream. Again, again, again, again. There were so many cracks in it. Now it’s just a broken pile of junk. Kick it, I bet I couldn’t feel the pain by now, I was so numb.
I’d learnt from my lessons and saved my precious documents elsewhere. But it went nowhere. On the internet, yes. Where I was anonymous. Some loved them, some hated them. I wasn’t one strong enough to take criticism, I had never been. That was mainly why I never had a kicking stamina to look for people to publish it. I was afraid. As a matter of a fact, I’ve never even tried. I was sensitive, vulnerable, too weak for this world. People used to get a kick out of my pain. Punches and kicks never did work when you wanted to hurt a girl who fought with her two brothers through her childhood without reason. Words worked just fine. I was defenseless to those hurtful words they spoke. Tears would spring into my eyes no matter how hard I tried to hold it in. It was natural. I was used to it by now. Tears were a constant part of everything.
Weak, that was me.
I was also too nice for this world. I had a reputation of being so nice I would do anything someone asked me to do with a smile on my face. I was helpful. Like an angel. Or a servant. But I had my limits. Though they were less when it came to my friends… but I was never even that close to them. They were my source of humor, but also hurt. I grew to be detached. I had no friends.
I wasn’t suited for this world, it seemed so clear to me. So I chose to run.
Keep running, Enya, keep running…
I whimpered.
“Are you okay?”
I held back the tears with my years of practice. “Yes.” My voice’s shake was barely noticeable. That was comforting.
Yes, being a beautiful liar was exactly what I needed as comfort.
“Don’t lie to me.”
I hated someone pretending they knew me. “It doesn’t matter if I do,” I snapped.
I wasn’t giving in again. What does it matter? It doesn’t, it doesn’t, it doesn’t…
I always gave in. Like a puppy… I was disgusted by myself yet again. I was secretive, more than anyone could comprehend. That girl who was everybody’s friend, who was always joyful and painfully honest… she had a lot of secrets. Some secrets weren’t my own. I was sort of charismatic. I could talk to someone for a while and all their secrets would come spilling out. It was like they thought I could be trusted. Maybe I was, but I wasn’t sure.
I was naïve. I believed there was good in everyone if not actually proven with undeniable evidence otherwise. Which was probably why I could see through people that try to put up a bravado, to act as if they were stronger than everyone else. I could tell if they were lying or not, with exactly one exception. They were all equal to me. So I would talk to everyone as they were equal, listen to them, sympathize and empathize because I had my problems too. But they would never know my problems. Some of them knew the very least of them. My closest friend and a bunch of my ex-crushes, that was. I had the tendency of trusting boys rather than my friends. It was incredibly silly. I blurt them out, those little problems. It’s like I’m trying to show them that I needed help and why not it be that boy helps me? But no, it would never happen that way. I was independent on the surface but crumpling away inside. I tried to tell people but it was always… difficult. But when I forced myself to think of a reason, there was one ready-made: boys wouldn’t admit their connection to me, and so my secrets were safe. Still, they knew little.
The closest thing to a relationship I’d had was a boy I had never met and lots of talks and thinking we love each other. Pretense. But I thought, now, that I did love him. But it just wasn’t real. So I preferred to think I had never had my first love yet. I had a lot of close male friends – though they weren’t so close anymore. They were all overly friendly but then I think it was just my ego running wild. But it all didn’t matter. I told them little too.
So I was a loner.
And no one would ever know my problems.
Ever.
“I suppose it doesn’t. But doesn’t it make you feel better if you’re honest?” he asked in a matter-of-fact tone, his eyes thoughtful as he surveyed me.
I lifted my chin an inch, an invisible string of pride and indignation attached to it. “Yes, but I’m always honest. Does it matter if I lie once in a while?”
“It does. It’s a bad habit. It continues on once you’ve done it.”
Oh, it was legendary, his reasoning. Something my dad would be proud of even with his heap of irritating philosophical lectures.
I threw him a dirty look. “It doesn’t matter,” I said with my lips barely moving.
He rolled his eyes. “There are no things that don’t matter. It’s just how –”
“Save it for someone who cares, why don’t you,” I grumbled. I wasn’t in the mood for this. So not in the mood. Some fictional character, beautiful and so unreal, just popped up and made me relive my darkest days and intense self-disgust and self-hatred.
He shrugged. His eyes were back on the book. “There’s no title.”
“Yes.” My lips sealed tight. That was all I was giving.
This was a book filled with the little of completed stories – usually short ones – from my teenage years of writing. They were dramatic. Hey, time of a girl’s life to be melodramatic. But they were my best. Any over-cheesy works would be deleted instantly or most likely edited. I put this book together, having copied handwritten pieces to make it feel more personal and imagined what it was like to have a book of my own.
This was enough.
So content.
No kick, no push, no pursuit, no chase.
This was enough.
The smooth black cover was embedded with block characters of a gleaming silver color that spelt my name at the right corner. The back cover was completely empty. I watched as he flipped the book over.
His fingers reached forward and touched the edge of the cover. I saw it all in slower motion. “No!” My hands flew forward to take it away from him.
He snatched it into the air. He raised an eyebrow and a playful smirk was on his face. The legendary smirk. I would melt, but I could spit at the moment. I glowered at him, feeling hate and embarrassment bubbling inside of me. “This isn’t a diary, I can tell.”
I snarled wordlessly under my breath.
The eyebrow rose higher. “Impressive.” He ignored my unintelligible mumblings as he opened the book.
The crease appeared again as he concentrated. His lips barely moved. I didn’t need to read them. I knew the story word-by-word by now. The entire entry. Picture memories included.
SEVEN
Darkness covers me up and prepares to gulp me in, taking me in, swallowing me into its stomach forever. I wish it would work faster. It felt like it would take forever. It felt like it wasn’t time. But I want it to be. So I was making it work. I let myself drown, go down under in the shadows that meant nothing less than sorrow that had numbed. Complete darkness, an empty black, a spreading numbness…
I want to stop time. To stop moving forward. To stop feeling. To stop the pulsing of my blood.
To stop existing.
Under my lids, I still see colors. They taunt me, daring me to open my eyes to see those colors. I don’t want to see anything. I want to drown, I tell them, I want to never awake again. They resume their mocking, flashing in and out, splashing everywhere.
Under my numbness, I still feel pain. It taunts me, daring me to feel it without the veiling protection of darkness. I don’t want to feel anything. I want to drown, I tell my heart, I want to never awake again. It continues it’s mocking, jabbing me as much as it can.
But everything is still blank.
And it felt like pain, this blankness.
Even the blankness taunts me. It shows me what I have become, as I await my seventh heartbreak. It is official that I do not belief in any kind of luck other than the bad kind. Seven.
I love easily, as easily as I was loved. I have an adorable face with a fragile look that triggers protectiveness, and a loving and lovable personality. I have lived twenty-one years and have my heart broken ten times, if counted properly. Dad is gone, his life taken by a drunkard on a rainy day back from work when I was six. Mom is gone, too, breaking into pieces after Dad’s death and finally falling off the balcony of our sixth floor apartment and cracked her skull when I was at school, eight years ago. Grandpa, the only one I knew, Mom’s Dad, had his life taken away by lung cancer four years ago because he chain-smoked. Her wife died a year later of old age and, I think, heartbreak.
Six boys. I remember them all.
My first loves: silly, childish boys that made me laugh and feel okay, while I was still young and naïve. Once when I was twelve and once when I was thirteen. Names: Justin Reeder, Zach Friar.
I learnt. Cute boys with no personalities were so frustrating. He was loving and caring – older, also. But he had a problem, too protective. Obsessive, even. Possessive. He couldn’t let me stay away long enough without worrying to death and then downing drugs to keep his nerve. I broke up, for his sake, but it was true I was scared. I was also thirteen and his name was Tyler Ashton.
The next was a cheater. A boy that seemed to have a problem. Or maybe it’s just me. He always seemed sincere when he promised he wouldn’t do it again. He never could keep his promises. I was almost fifteen when I broke up with him. His name was Riley Nott.
It took me two years to love again. To convince myself I was grown-up enough not to be taken advantage of. His name was Jake Pillar. We grew apart when he moved away to
When I was eighteen, I met a man who was amazing, David Carter. But he was much older than me – he was twenty-six. It never really did stop me. Until I found out he had a fiancé. Naturally, that was a horrible time for me. I wasn’t sure what to think then and I’m still not sure now. But I don’t care anymore, not like I did.
After six hookups and breakups, it is close to the point that my faith will break. I believe in love, truly, the truest kind of love, as much as I believe fairytale happy-endings. And it is always hard, not to doubt both.
True love seems… like fantasy. Meant for another world with fates that repeats itself, creating endings that the good would be blessed and won every time and the existence of cruel people are meant to be banished in the end. It wouldn’t belong in a world where the hardest player always wins and it wouldn’t matter if you cheated, it wouldn’t matter if you played by all the rules, it wouldn’t matter if you are an angel, it wouldn’t matter if you decided to drop out. There are no fairy godmothers unless you were that lucky person with a friend that watched over you like a guardian – what are those chances?
I don’t even have a friend.
I lost all my friends. I abandoned them. So naturally, I don’t blame them. Those bonds were never strong. I couldn’t help wanting to move around, go somewhere new. I travel a lot and forget, lost in some world of romance with no ground under my feet.
Always floating…
Like a bird who believed in freedom…
Constantly flying…
I would never land.
I’m sure now, happy-endings are lies. Because there is no true ending. The story will go on and on forever. It never stops. It passes on, to the next, it is connected. Has no one really wondered how there is ever a sequel to a fairytale, a novel, which has a happy ending? A person’s story ends when they are dead. Harsh, but true. That is an ending. I could only imagine dying in your true love as a happy ending.
It would never be that for me. It was the end of my true love, the one I really believed would work because he could tie to me in every way.
Maybe it’s time to land… in another place.
“Lara.”
That voice.
Something shot through me and broke through the surface of the shadowing numbness.
My heart thumped.
“Lara.”
The perfect face: a face of a man, hard and prominent bones, hypnotic deep forest green eyes, perfectly straight and aquiline nose, a full pink mouth, piano black hair, ultra-white, perfect and straight teeth, the most amazing smile, lightly sun-kissed skin.
I wish he could hear it. The sound of my heart breaking. The loud crack, the tinkling shatter, the thuds and explosions landing… But I couldn’t even hear it. But I feel it. And I heard it somehow, the scream of my pain.
So vivid.
It chewed on me inside. A bursting fire. It burnt to every corner of my body. I feel like I couldn’t breathe, my jaw clenched. I bite back a groan. It burns like wildfire, so hot, so raw, so painful. But it’s so much more than that. Like there was a burning, white-hot razor hiding amidst the fire, being dragged across my insides, tearing me apart, shedding as much blood as it could get its sharp blade on. So painful. A hundred times, a thousand times, a million times…
It never hurt like this. I did not anticipate this.
I bite back a gasp now. It was overwhelming.
Wipe it away… I whisper to myself. I try to fade back into black. I smooth my expression while my insides writhed with pain. I couldn’t regain the former darkness and numbness. I would at least put up a good show.
“Lara.”
I refuse to open my eyes, to show sign of consciousness.
It was silly, childish even. But I persist anyway. I don’t want to see the face and so my heart was being torn.
A million directions it wants. Some part wants to just drown like my mind did, exhausted, saving myself the pain. Some part yearns with intense desire to see the face and touch it the way I always did. Some part just doesn’t want to care; it just wants to forget, not to drown, but merely to throw away all its memories of pain, joy and everything in between. It is a distraction, less painful, but much more confusing.
“Lara.”
I persist, still.
“Lara!”
The loudness of his voice, startling me, snaps open my eyes.
I see it.
The silence is awkward.
The look on his face shows worry.
The look on my face shows nothing.
I break the silence. “Michael.”
The sound of my voice sounds dead.
“Lara.”
The sound of his voice sounds relieved.
I close my eyes. But his face is still there.
“Lara.”
I open them again.
The silence does not lift.
I choose not to lift it.
He simply looks at me with an anxious face.
I shift my eyes away from him.
I still feel the pain. It was less because some part of me got its wish… but the other had its denied. So it burnt, like a flicker that turns into a fire. I would trade this to take on twice my physical pain without any of the painkillers any day. And my pain is all connected.
I ended this relationship.
There, that perfect face. It feels so familiar, so right. That flawlessness in every aspect: a pure, good-natured soul and a beautiful, exquisite physicality. He is attractive, intelligent, elegant, humorous, instinctive, loving, gentle, compassionate, good-tempered, patient, sensitive, protective. What else could any girl possibly ask for? I had it all.
I chose to throw it away. Because I knew, this dream would shake, I would break. So it would just happen within my control. He wouldn’t have to know how broken I would be. As I knew too, that if he was the one who brought up the breakup when I was off guard, I would shatter right there, in front of him. And I made up my mind that I couldn’t afford to let him see that. I didn’t want loveless guilt.
He’s so perfect. So dreamlike that I’m sure he couldn’t possibly belong to me. As lovable as I am, I couldn’t match up to that. Actually, the adorableness made things worse. I became his little sister.
No more than four feet eight, large, wide hazel eyes with a ring of the same forest green as his, a tiny but straight nose, a babyish smile on pink nearly full lips, showing small, perfectly straight, pearly white teeth with a one-sided dimple on the left side of my chubby cheeks. Somehow some of my age was knocked out by my height, despite my quite curvy figure. My identical black hair, wavy and nearly curly down my waist, makes it seem as if we are related.
Everywhere we went, I heard people say, “Aw, your little sister’s so cute!” My jaw would harden immediately and I would flash a patronizing smile and say, “I’m twenty-one actually.” Then they would be pleasantly surprised, especially if it was a guy, and he would probably say something like, “Hey, you wouldn’t mind, right? No big brother protectiveness or anything like that?”
My jaw would flex and I wanted to snap at them, to cause them physical pain. But I chose to behave myself because it would only show how childish I was if I actually bit them.
“Actually, I do have protectiveness over this girl here. She’s my girlfriend,” Mike would say pleasantly.
Shock.
How far a league am I away from him?
It was funny at first. I grew tired of it. It wasn’t anything about to be said to be young, to be a child. I was never going to match up to that face, that perfection, that man.
Never.
So I broke it. Tore everything that made me feel whole apart. Self-destruct.
I told him I wanted to leave, I wanted to stop wandering, I wanted to plant myself right, I wanted to go home.
He said he would come with me.
I declined.
And I ran.
It wasn’t the most brilliant idea, but nothing ran through my brain then, when I raced down the slippery serpentine roads down the hills while rain slopped heavily. I slipped. I was knocked off the monster bike of mine – I know, it’s crazy, especially with my tiny figure – and dragged with it down the grassy and tree-filled hill next to the road. It seemed karma; I forgot to take my helmet. The skin of my face scraped across the rough surface of the road. I was airborne for a fraction of a second. My head hit a rock, leaving a bruise but no blood, and I landed on my right arm, angled wrongly, which broke that. I twisted off of it, hissing in pain. I didn’t count on hurtling down the slope either, and the fabric of my clothes got caught in a couple of array tree branches. I finally hit flat ground but the bike slid after me and somehow managed to land on me, roaring. The engine still ran and the white hot metal burnt my bare calf of my right leg, which, conveniently, was broken when the heavy weight of the bike crashed on top of it while it was already twisted in a bizarre angle. It was miraculous that I was still conscious. But it was also very unlucky. A bloodcurdling scream escaped my lips. Still, it was lucky, because if I wasn’t awake, it would’ve burnt all my cells and nerves dead. I managed to kick it away but the damage was done. The rain that splattered on the burn was relieving but I was pretty sure it was burnt dead. I heard distant screaming and my eyelids were suddenly heavy. They drooped and I drifted.
All my injuries are on my right side. Is that supposed to mean something?
My face was never going to be the same, I’m sure. Unless I had a concussion, which I doubt, my head injury is fine. I could feel my calf so maybe it isn’t as bad as I thought. Broken arms and legs were never a big issue so I’m not worried about those.
I used to be at the very least pretty. Well, I couldn’t even count on that now. Settle the score. It’s never going to settle.
“Lara.”
“Yes, Michael?” I mutter, my eyes on the big lump of a state of my right leg.
“Are you okay?”
“I scraped my face off,” I say in an offhand voice.
I glance at him. He’s frowning.
“Lara, I –”
“Listen, have you heard when I’m going to be able to move again? I need to get back to
He stares at me incredulously. “Lara, you can’t –”
“Don’t tell me what I can or cannot do,” I snap, refusing to meet his eyes.
“Lara, be reasonable. You can’t ride back to
Like I can’t remember where I am. Like I’ve lost track of my life. Rage lights up like a fire.
“I know where I am. Don’t talk like I’ve lost track!”
He looks taken aback. “Lara, that wasn’t what I meant. You know I was just –”
“Just what?” I demand, fuming.
His face softens. “Lara –”
“Why are you saying my name in every sentence? Are you concerned that I forgot my name now?”
Keep snapping. All a distraction. I don’t want to stop now. I could speak normally when it was this way.
“Lara Apple Venus –”
I couldn’t stop myself this time, not forced. “You know I hate my middle name.”
“It’s cute, bear with me,” he says soothingly and I try not to blush. He said nothing about that then he continues his previous sentence, a very serious look on his beautiful face. “Lara, I really need you to explain this to me. Why are you running away from me?”
I refuse to meet his eyes. “I told you. I want to go home.”
“That doesn’t explain why I can’t come with you,” he points out calmly.
I bite my lip. “I…” There’s not way to spin-off this one. I open my mouth confidently but after “I” again, there was nothing I could think of to say.
“Lara, why are you running away from me?” he repeats, taking my free hand. His free hand takes my chin and tilts it up, trying to force me to meet his eyes. “Lara, please be honest.”
I was having a hard time trying to concentrate really. I never really could feel his touch on my skin without marveling over his gentleness. Truth is, I am still a virgin. Through every boyfriend, I guarded my virtue. There were no more than hugs and kisses. Some had been difficult, but I stood my ground. It had seemed to me something I would give up after matrimony – like a little fairytale believer again. If I had ever come close to giving in, it would be with this man here.
When my brain set itself right again, I force myself not to see those familiar eyes. “I don’t want you,” I lie through my teeth.
He sighs. “Lara, you’re a rotten liar.”
I scowl. It’s true. I couldn’t lie without someone seeing through. I either blush or my guilt gives in. I usually prefer to tell the truth anyway. “Let it go, Michael.”
His grip tightens over my hand. “Are you telling me to let you, the love of my life, go, without a fight, just because she’s being noble and stupid and ridiculous –”
“Geez, I know how mentally challenged I am,” I mumble though my heart tripped over when he said those words.
“That’s not the point.” He does it more forcefully this time, pulling my chin and adding, “Look at me.”
I look at him unwillingly. My heart drums and the machine’s beeping runs along with it. That familiar, beloved green depth makes my head swim. It shatters my heart. Again. I wonder how many times one boy could possibly break my heart. This is a record, now.
“I love you, Lara. And what you’re trying to do is ridiculous. You should know by now –”
“You know what I’m doing?” I demand.
He sighs, frustrated. “I wish you’d stop interrupting me mid-sentence.”
“Do you?” I press.
“Yes,” he sighs, his eyes closing then opening again. “Lara, you’re the first one. I see it in their eyes, those girls who think they’re good enough for me when they’re worse than you are –”
“That didn’t come out right,” I insert.
He pauses, doesn’t snap at me for interrupting. “Er… sorry… what I mean is… they’re not as beautiful as you are, not as loving as you are, not as good as you are… They think they deserve me but with those thoughts of arrogance, they mean nothing to me.” He inhales, inserting full force upon my eyes. I melt. “Here you are, beautiful, loving, smart, funny girl who’s thoroughly good and noble and modest. Tell me, why are you not worthy of me?”
It took me a while to speak again as my mouth hung upon. “Michael,” I mumbled, “I’m… I look like your little sister everywhere I go! I’m just so tiny and so… insignificant –”
“Now who told you that?” he snaps for the first time, really angry.
I am taken aback. “What?”
“Who told you you were insignificant?” he clarifies, glaring.
I sigh, my brow furrowing. “Everybody knows –”
“You mean you think. Lara, you should think better. I know you’re noble and all but this is being martyr, I would think!” he grumbles furiously.
I’ve always been a martyr. “I’ve always been a martyr.”
Whoa… déjà vu.
“Lara, I love you, isn’t that enough?” he sighs softly, looking so grave and solemn and so beautiful and heartbreaking.
There it goes, breaking, shattering into pieces again. TRACK RECORD. “Michael… I love you too.”
It slipped out. I didn’t mean to say that. I looked horrified when he looks up in surprise.
“Lara –”
“Okay, now, that doesn’t change anything,” I argue fiercely, being silly-stubborn again.
He laughs. “Silly girl.”
“Okay, how about the fact that my face is scraped off? I’m not pretty anymore,” I challenged unreasonably like a child who was losing a fight and pout.
“You’re not pretty anymore?” he echoes in disbelief. “You’ve never been merely pretty but it’s not like it won’t heal anyway!”
I scowl.
He sighs. “You silly, silly girl. I love you. No matter how much you try to run away, I will always chase after you. No matter where you try to hide, no matter how hard it is, I will always find you.”
That was something I have never heard from any man.
It melts me, like never before. It melts me into tears.
Maybe, maybe… the hope was overwhelming. The one that breaks my heart would never break my heart… or at the very least, I’m sure now, that my seventh actual break wouldn’t be coming anytime soon.
He sees the tears pooling in my eyes. His eyes spark. I blink, scowling. What now?
He inhales deeply. “Let’s do this.”
“What –” He release my hand. My heart drums in panic. Why is he leaving me now?
He gets down on one knee by my cot.
BEEP.
We both eye the machine and he chuckles while I blush tomato red.
“Lara Apple Venus,” he pauses as though daring me to interrupt the most important of my – our lives because of some stupid prejudice against an adorable middle name like Apple. “I knew you were lying here, through these hours, ignoring my voice,” he said that accusingly and I smile sheepishly, “thinking it would come now. Your seventh heartbreak. You’ve suffered so much pain emotionally – and physically,” he adds, eyeing my injuries. “It’s a promise when I tell you that you will never get hurt again. Bursting your bubble,” he chuckles, “I would like to point out my love is unconditional, irrevocable and unchangeable. And I know how afraid you are, the conflict inside of you, every time you have your heart broken. It is your nature to love. You believe in love. But you are afraid to love again because of all the pain you feel. Every time it happens again, you lose faith. I see the look in your eyes every time you talk about your past. It’s something you want to leave behind. But you carry it with you, like a burden, but like a lesson, you’ve always said. You call what you do running away, but you were merely searching for yourself, and there’s nothing wrong with that.”
He knows me inside and out, this man. And he loves me, what a plus! And I love him… unconditionally, irrevocably, never-endingly, forever unchangingly, I’m sure now.
“You said to me this morning that you want to plant yourself right, you want to go home, but you’ve found home. With me. In my arms. Where I am is where you will be, unconditionally. I said it and I meant it, wherever you run, I will follow, wherever you hide, I will fine. You are the best part of my life and I want and need it to stay that way.
“Lara,” his solemnity was overwhelming in that stunningly angelic face, “I love you, I love you, I love you. I know you love me too. I want to be able to hold you and call you mine. And it’s a vow I make when I say, I, Michael Alexander L’Oreal, will love you forever.” His seriousness melts away naturally. “And so we live happily ever after,” he sings, like a taunt, an offer I could never refuse. “Seventh times the charm,” he winks. “Trust me on this.” Serious again, he inhales deeply. “Lara Apple Venus, will you marry me?”
BEEEEEEP…
“That is one long stop,” he whistles, each word he spoke distinct, looking at the machine again, seeming impressed
By the time he looked back, and shouted, “NO, LARA!” it was too late. I had ripped myself of the cot – and everything else of my medication – and thrown my arms around him.
“YES!”
And so my seventh final heartbreak never came.
22nd of December, 2002
I didn’t find it so dramatic. Pain of love was vivid. A friend had told me it was dramatic. And I hated it when she did. I was filled with self-doubt everywhere I went, everything I did. It pulled me down. So many things pulled me down. So weak. So vulnerable.
He looked up and I closed my eyes, biting back those memories. I didn’t want them. It was from a time when I was weaker. My skin was thicker now, but it still burns because the flame grows. I wish I could put it out.
“You’re amazing.”
I didn’t open my eyes but I felt the blank surprise on my face. I was expecting more criticism. I wrote this when I was thirteen, after all.
“Seriously, I’m not lying.”
He wasn’t being sarcastic, I could hear that in his tone.
“Why don’t you tell me about yourself?” I swerved the subject one-hundred-eighty degrees away.
I imagined him looking taken aback under my eyelids.
He cleared his throat and I opened my eyes slowly. “Um, well, I’m from
“You had a fight with your girlfriend, who’s also your roomy.” It wasn’t a question. Not just a presumption either. A statement. I knew.
He looked up. His eyes were bloodshot. My heart shot into my throat. The expression was… affecting. He breathed evenly, deeply. “Well, yeah. Nice guess.”
I forced myself to roll my eyes. “I suppose you guys fought over a salad?” I made it a question though I knew that was what happened, trying to inject humor. Stupid, but yes, that was how it happened. From a salad into their life together. So…stupid, yes just plain stupid.
His face showed nothing but incredulity. “How did you know?”
“Good guesser.” Dry humor. No smile.
He shook his head, his brow creased.
“So, tell me about it?” My face softened and I put on a small smile. Sympathize and empathize. I was excellent at understanding love. Though I hadn’t had my fair share of love yet, I had a touch of intelligence in the subject.
His lip actually trembled. Miki should see this, I spat in my head. My fingers reached forward self-accordingly. He looked up at me, surprised. I was glad I at least distracted him from letting his tears pour before he talked about it. People always thought crying about it was enough but people wouldn’t understand. Which is why I always had them talk, then you can cry. A bit forceful but if someone came to me, I had to understand or that will be ever-so frustrating for me. I smiled at him reassuringly and let my fingers touch the back of his hand shyly.
Baby Bubbly was having an episode of herself. I’m touching him!
I smiled to myself. I could relate to that enthusiasm. I shifted myself off of the armchair and onto the carpeted floor, leaning myself against the sofa, beside his knees. I took his hand altogether in both of mine. His hand’s big. I held it against my shoulder. “So, tell me.”
So he did. I closed my eyes, imagining.
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