apathy is such an ugly word [south]

When she smiles (the sun, the stars, picnics, baby laughter and my mama teaching me how to sing) it is as if the world smiles with her and it's easy to forget the hate she harbors inside her being that aches to be released. Lyla is fragile and broken from the inside; there has always been something wrong and unintentionally awful about her, but it is just so tragically beautiful. When she grows into the woman everybody else wishes they could be she will not be able to rid herself of the scars that mar her babysoft flesh, but it is what makes her as something more than a shallow enigma that others wish to unwrap. There is still hope for her - she is tainted and pure all at once - but her eyes when she looks at me shakes my soul. It is as if she is trying not to love me but can't, like if she could she would keep it uncomplicated and whole. But as with most of our endeavors, they always land in heartbreak (unfortunately, I can't deny the hidden guilt that bleeds all over her pale skin whenever I touch her).

Sometimes when I try to stay in my own bed I am met by the could've should've would've beens of our relationship. They are sadistic little fuckers that morph apathy into clones of her face that sit by my bedside all night long - they ward away one demon but allow access from another. I am paperthin and they are water that crumbles away any illusions of strength I thought I had into dust by my feet. It is in these times that I feel positively ancient; the blanket cocoons me and I cradle my regrets close to my chest, afraid that they will leave me and I will be alone. After all, bad company is better than none at all.

Within one problem lies another. It is difficult to see mama and watch her eyes shine with unshed tears when I struggle to move my neck, and though she tries to stay strong I sometimes see the bourbon when she forgets to put it away. She loves me but loveslovesloves papa (how can she not? he is gentle and kind and wholesome in her wake) and the choice tears her in two. I pet her wild mane and whisper it's going to be okay, you know? it always is and though it is a lie she smiles so I smile back. It is melancholy and too old for her youth but she affectionately runs nails through my hair - my chest rumbles like a cat - with perhaps more reverence than she intended. Since when did you get so mature? she murmurs one day and I can't answer because I'm not sure, Ken and his plastic nightmares chased the fairytales away long ago. Everyone knows I am always waiting for her to pick herself back up and that's okay, because I need the time to try and fit myself into the correct slots again too. Sometimes I just fear that this earthquake disturbed the foundations too greatly, and I'll come tumbling down.

A whisper of touch graces the gentle curve of my jaw and I return to the waking world - eyes open wide in the half-dark and watch the crude but passionate lines that begin to take place. She is a pariah in her own right and sometimes I can't help but hate the way she glows even when hope seems lost: how she can cut it all out (all of the pain and the hurt and the disgust and this) and wear it on her sleeve without becoming ugly like I know I would be if I tried. I have to stand on my toes in order to properly align her arms; her shoulderblades arch out as nubile wings and I have the sudden urge to smooth them down with the palms of my hands. My reflection stares back at me with longing and guilt, wishing so hard to touch her but knowing that complicated is really not what we need right now. It strikes me that we look like a pair of Barbies (she is all determined and tense, with muscles straining and eyes glossed over; I am slightly lost as I always have been recently, looking for someone to take my grasp and guide me through a life of concepts that I don't understand). "Here, like this." I murmur quietly, hands slipping to take her wrists and moving them fractions before moving away like my body is screaming to.

(Except for that one piece that's screeching; no, don't.)

---

Though the tangible nightmare is over, in reality, it has just begun (there are things unable to be touched that weave far more tragic tales). At times sleep does not bother to visit me and really, I don't mind; it is easier to forget the images that have been scarred into my brain when they do not come to life in chromatic hues.

She is reassurance in the taste of strawberries and more often than not I cannot forget her siren's call and end up padding quietly into her room, simply watching for a few moments before slurred speech appears and I am drawn to her sanctuary. Sometimes I am scared that I will die as I am now (old and faded and filled to the brim with useless knowledge that nobody cares for anymore) or that I will never become anything that is worth fighting for (ripred knows I can't fight for myself) but her arms erase any thoughts and just allow me to be. Even though she raises different concerns - I want to touchtastefeel and be one with her heartbeat - I am content to wallow in a shallow pool of insecurity warmed into forgotten doubt. If Lyla speaks into the night she sounds like she's dipped in honey; all fuzzy and tired, like she should be measured out and put into a cure for all maladies. It's amusing that this is far from the case, and the irony keeps me smiling when the narrow scar running down my spine tingles angrily from her heat.

She is a bio-luminescent ball of tainted light that is not held down by something as trivial as gravity. No matter where she goes she will make an impression; it is both a gift and a curse to be so noticeable that you will leave impressions seared onto the retina of passerby. My fingers make patterns along her flesh as I curl into her side, feeling the healing skin stretch quietly. I ache all the way down to my fragile bones and I take some comfort in the fact that she reflects my irritation - palms gently cradle the mess of bone still in a cast and are careful not to touch the healing scars that will leave many more emotional wounds than the eye can see. Her sleepy apathy fills me with warmth (icecream shared in the light of day, kittens battling in the sunrise, the way heat reflects off her hair) as she draws me closer, content to put away the doubts of tomorrow and become nothing more than an enigma shrouded in emotion that is much too heavy to lift.

There are voices from downstairs that prevent me from completely succumbing to easy dreams; they are angry and rough and hurt my ears with their words. An enraged chime of bells signals Lyla's mother raising her voice - an uncommon phenomenon that fills me with hesitant dread - and though I squeeze my eyes shut and whisper goawaygoawaygoaway the clumpclumpclump of heavy boots on stairs does not dissipate.

A moment of anxious stillness (our eyes lock and hold in the darkness, bright as the glow in the dark stars that shine quietly above) before the door smashes open. Then, chaos.

People scream and shout and suddenly she is yanked away from me, fingers ripped from her pajamas as her roars join in with a chorus in the rest. For something that takes quite a while (she struggles and makes it difficult for them) it seems it is over awfully quick. I understand how to hate for the very first time; the strength in which these feelings rise are so very powerful that it startles me, whenever I see white uniforms and expressionless faces I want to hit something until it bleeds. Our hands clasp and refuse to let go and I mouth don't leave me, please even as she whispers wait for me and they haul her from the doorframe. I scream her name but it comes out as nothing more than a strangled sob - people half-heartedly hold me back from her retreating form even as her father stalks after them (why did that wait for me sound disturbingly like I'm sorry ?)

---

When I don't feel like crying I stare out the window and run my fingers along the rigidity of my too-large ribs, huddled against the windowsill and watching anxiously for the return of my prince. They have tried to coax me from my station but I refuse the only way I know how (with the polite shake of my head and everlasting quiescence) because the heartache in their eyes as they risk losing another child is enough to stun me into silence. I don't want her memory, her laugh and our relationship to turn into a faded presque vu that will crawl along your skin in the years to come with a burning familiarity that will make you want to scream. It is not so much the fact that they finally found her (the shock is still raw) but the underlying abandonment as they all leave one by one.

Mama is the one that finds me - huddled by the Matheson gate because the suffocating atmosphere physically aches - cradling my head and wishing for the tears to just stop because it's been four days and my eyes feel like sandpaper. She doesn't even hesitate and scoops me up in the rain, whispering sweet nothings and secretly reveling in the fact that one thing has stayed the same.

"They're all leaving." I murmur despondently, wanting so desperately to just feel again because it hurts hurts hurts and it will only grow because I love her too much to perhaps be healthy. I am tired of the hurt but it is the only thing tethering me here; once I face the reality I fear I might just fade away. It will never be okay but right now, I don't need okay or a happily ever after or even a it will get better. All I need is a simple it's not going to stay like this