Interlude II
You’ve been here before. Not here, in this darkening hallway, an arm flung around a girl, but here, in the water of memories that are yours and aren’t yours and might be yours. A current tosses you as you swim towards what must be life, or what you think it could be. Should be. Might be. Complacency circles below like a shark scenting blood. Don’t you know you can sink? Wouldn’t it be easier?
But you have to see.
A girl under an arm in a hallway. A head on a shoulder. Do you remember? Are you still here?
The girl tilts her chin to look at me. For a kick of your feet, you think she sees you. You wave your arms, trying to catch her attention, trying to say the thing you meant to say: I’m sorry, or I didn’t mean to, or I love you. She doesn’t see you. You don’t have arms. You don’t exist anymore, don’t you know that? It’s important that you know that.
Better to dive back down with the rest of them. Better to be quiet. It’s easier this way, isn’t it? You can stop treading water.
You don’t listen. For months, you exhaust yourself, and you exhaust me. You don’t remember her name until I say it, and once it leaves my lips, you forget again. You look, and you don’t understand. A laugh— mine, hers, both. It doesn’t have to be this hard. I’m begging you to stop making it this hard.
Sometime in spring, you slip. I feel it before you do, the tumble of yourself back to yourself. You settle into a pleasant memory, a promise you hadn’t yet broken. I know better than to hope you’ll stay there. You’re as stubborn as I am.
It's the middle of the night. You're walking her home, later than you should be. Her palm sweats against yours, but she hasn't pulled away, and you don't want her to, not really. The moon is full. You tell her. She tilts her head back and squints. Smiles. Howls, quiet enough not to disturb the people sleeping behind shut curtains.
You howl, too. Louder, soaring from where it's stored in your gut. It tears from you, inching towards a scream or a sob, but you keep hold of yourself. She squeezes your hand, knowing without knowing. A plan with means, a set date that keeps getting pushed back and back.
"Rosie." You pull her to a stop. She looks up at you with flushed cheeks and tired eyes. These late nights are killing her, but without her, they'd kill you. You think it makes you a bad person, drawing her in like this, knowing how it's going to end. But you're not a bad person. You're sixteen, and you're alive, and next week you'll be seventeen and alive, and in a few months you'll just be seventeen.
"You're my best friend," you say, and feel stupid. The tie between you and her is stronger than that, but you're sixteen. You don't know the right words.
"Yeah," she says slowly, and there's a plea in the way she elongates the vowels. No bad news, she says without saying. Not tonight.
Your smile is fragile, your voice even more-so. "Just wanted to remind you."
She nods, and you think she knows. You wonder if it's better that way. If she hears the tick of the clock, too. If you don't have to say anything at all.
You hold her hand, and you don't tell her, but you will. You swear you will.
Time drips, and then it’s October, and she’s wearing a dress, and you want to tell her she looks beautiful but you don’t say that kind of thing to each other so instead, you ask her to dance. Away from her friends, your friends, on a stage in an empty auditorium.
“There’s no music,” she says, so you begin to hum. Your voice cracks, and you can’t keep time, but it makes her laugh. She reaches for you, and you reach for her, and you hope she remembers you like this.
You’re seventeen, and you still don’t know the right words, but you tell her you love her. You tell her because you do, because that must be what this is, because you want her to hear it at least once. She gives you an odd look, and you think she knows.
She tugs you towards the football field, and you think she knows.
She kisses you hard under a moon that isn’t full but should be, and you think she knows.
The night ends. You walk her home. Your jacket is draped over her shoulders, your tie loosened around your neck. She kisses you on the cheek and asks if you want to come inside. She doesn’t know, and you can’t tell her. Not tonight.
You watch her walk through the front door. You wait until her bedroom light flicks on. You walk home alone.
You want me to tell her that you regret it. You thought death would be gentler than this. They found blood on your phone. Did you know that? Did you mean to dial her number, or was it instinct?
Do you want me to say that I regret it? I admit, I took more than you offered. I’m not claiming to be a saint, nor am I selfless. But I’ve provided more than was required of me, don’t you see?
You think you were tricked. You fell for a kind face and a whispered promise— a promise I’ve kept, I’ll remind you. Is she not cared for? Is she not protected? And you think she’s falling for the same—
I can say I didn’t want to kill you, but you won’t believe me. I don’t blame you for the vitriol. I can't expect you to understand. You’re only seventeen.