the sun fell asleep / and so did we — amos.
May 17, 2021 1:41:14 GMT -5
Post by calla on May 17, 2021 1:41:14 GMT -5
O N E
I think I wake up more exhausted than anything.
The blankets are stifling and suffocating and the whole expanse of the mattress is a little endless in the early morning. But everything's fine for a second, everything's fine and dandy and normal, and then I roll over to see Pax lying down on the floor beside the bed.
His back is gonna kill him when he gets up. And that means he'll be grumpy for most of the day even though he'll try to hide it. So then I'll say something stupid, and then he'll laugh, and that'll be that. We'll be fine. That's just how it works.
That's how we worked.
But maybe Pax isn't completely hopeless, maybe he'll be okay on his own, because he'd at least had the drunken foresight to nab the spare pillow. How shitty does that make me? I didn't even let him sleep in his own bed last night. It's more his apartment than mine, but I'd taken one look at him and then left him on the couch. I left him on the floor and I can't
I can't keep doing that to him because even after all my shit he's had to put up with he's never complained. I've just always been the thorn in his side and he's just always tolerated it. It doesn't make sense because it shouldn't make sense, I've never liked the taste of guilt but I just keep staring at him like that'll make it better.
The blinds are a little uneven, always have been, and they make the morning light slant across Pax's face. His jawline is sharper now than it was the day we met, his features all a little more harsher. He looks older and younger at the same time and dead sleep like this smoothes out the way he scowls.
Suddenly looking at him is too much. Watching the rise and fall of his chest makes something hitch in my throat and the feeling is strangely unbearable.
I throw the quilt back and leave the bed unmade.
And the floor is cold, because the floor is always cold. I step over Pax's body like it's a stick of dynamite because it might as well be. That stupid cat is still curled up on his chest, and when it shifts I cringe back, expecting it to hiss or claw or wake Pax up. But it just lies there and blinks at me, all slow and lethargic, and something crawls its way up my spine.
I think about leaving a note, but I wouldn't know what to say.
Everything happens so quickly then, like I'm suddenly teleported across the fucking room because it burns to stand in one place for too long. The walls all shift and the floorboards wobble and I look for purchase in the open air but I couldn't stop this feeling even if I wanted to. Maybe if just always been rash. I've always been impulsive in the worst way and the whole room morphs into some kind of faux form of tunnel vision. I grab my jacket from the hook by the door, the one that got cleaned after that night in the alley because it was blurry before but it's clear now. I was the one that kissed Pax first. I was the idiot. I'm the one that ruined everything, he had just - his hands were on my chest and his forehead was touching mine. His palm had skirted the back of my neck and everything else had faded away.
I don't know where I'm going by the time I've stepped out the door, but that one step feels like jumping into freezing waters. A dog barks down the street and it makes me jump in broad daylight, like I've never been faced with an actual threat.
Maybe I'll get a job. Something honest and good. I was never really cut out for a gang anyways. Pax never had to say it - we both thought it. I was the leftovers of a dying draft and I don't think anyone ever really trusted me for it.
But there's not a whole lot of places I can go. Nowhere that's safe now. Maybe Pax's dad's old house, but I never really knew his dad. It'd feel wrong to just show up. Pax and I moved in together, into a shitty little apartment in a shitty little neighbourhood even though we both knew that there was a whole house left in his name.
Maybe
Maybe he just never wanted me there.
Pax doesn't owe me shit. If anything, it's the other way around. After my old crew crumbled and I stumbled my way into this one, they'd stuck me with the hotshot's son, and I half expected him to kill me for some fucked-up kind of initiation. But I was young and angry and stupid and I think I hated Pax at first.
But I don't anymore. I'm leaving because I don't hate him. There's no universe where I'd be able to. Even if he screamed at me and shut me out I could never hate him.
But maybe it was Pax that requested a different partner that day. Maybe it wasn't even a call from the higher ups. Maybe me running with Stonks was just his first step of distancing himself.
Because in a crushing little way, that would make sense right?
I knew that out of all of them, Tank trusted me the least, even back then. An eleven year old traitor is still a traitor. Maybe Pax didn't want me staying at his family home because he didn't trust me. Maybe he asked for a different partner because I made him uncomfortable and he'd started to despise me for it, he just didn't know how to say it because he isn't good with stuff like that.
I don't realize I've stopped in the middle of the street until Mrs. Harris is there and reaching for my elbow, the most worried expression on her face, but I just brush her off and push the heels of my hands against my eyes.
I pick a direction and walk.
The blankets are stifling and suffocating and the whole expanse of the mattress is a little endless in the early morning. But everything's fine for a second, everything's fine and dandy and normal, and then I roll over to see Pax lying down on the floor beside the bed.
His back is gonna kill him when he gets up. And that means he'll be grumpy for most of the day even though he'll try to hide it. So then I'll say something stupid, and then he'll laugh, and that'll be that. We'll be fine. That's just how it works.
That's how we worked.
But maybe Pax isn't completely hopeless, maybe he'll be okay on his own, because he'd at least had the drunken foresight to nab the spare pillow. How shitty does that make me? I didn't even let him sleep in his own bed last night. It's more his apartment than mine, but I'd taken one look at him and then left him on the couch. I left him on the floor and I can't
I can't keep doing that to him because even after all my shit he's had to put up with he's never complained. I've just always been the thorn in his side and he's just always tolerated it. It doesn't make sense because it shouldn't make sense, I've never liked the taste of guilt but I just keep staring at him like that'll make it better.
The blinds are a little uneven, always have been, and they make the morning light slant across Pax's face. His jawline is sharper now than it was the day we met, his features all a little more harsher. He looks older and younger at the same time and dead sleep like this smoothes out the way he scowls.
Suddenly looking at him is too much. Watching the rise and fall of his chest makes something hitch in my throat and the feeling is strangely unbearable.
I throw the quilt back and leave the bed unmade.
And the floor is cold, because the floor is always cold. I step over Pax's body like it's a stick of dynamite because it might as well be. That stupid cat is still curled up on his chest, and when it shifts I cringe back, expecting it to hiss or claw or wake Pax up. But it just lies there and blinks at me, all slow and lethargic, and something crawls its way up my spine.
I think about leaving a note, but I wouldn't know what to say.
Everything happens so quickly then, like I'm suddenly teleported across the fucking room because it burns to stand in one place for too long. The walls all shift and the floorboards wobble and I look for purchase in the open air but I couldn't stop this feeling even if I wanted to. Maybe if just always been rash. I've always been impulsive in the worst way and the whole room morphs into some kind of faux form of tunnel vision. I grab my jacket from the hook by the door, the one that got cleaned after that night in the alley because it was blurry before but it's clear now. I was the one that kissed Pax first. I was the idiot. I'm the one that ruined everything, he had just - his hands were on my chest and his forehead was touching mine. His palm had skirted the back of my neck and everything else had faded away.
I don't know where I'm going by the time I've stepped out the door, but that one step feels like jumping into freezing waters. A dog barks down the street and it makes me jump in broad daylight, like I've never been faced with an actual threat.
Maybe I'll get a job. Something honest and good. I was never really cut out for a gang anyways. Pax never had to say it - we both thought it. I was the leftovers of a dying draft and I don't think anyone ever really trusted me for it.
But there's not a whole lot of places I can go. Nowhere that's safe now. Maybe Pax's dad's old house, but I never really knew his dad. It'd feel wrong to just show up. Pax and I moved in together, into a shitty little apartment in a shitty little neighbourhood even though we both knew that there was a whole house left in his name.
Maybe
Maybe he just never wanted me there.
Pax doesn't owe me shit. If anything, it's the other way around. After my old crew crumbled and I stumbled my way into this one, they'd stuck me with the hotshot's son, and I half expected him to kill me for some fucked-up kind of initiation. But I was young and angry and stupid and I think I hated Pax at first.
But I don't anymore. I'm leaving because I don't hate him. There's no universe where I'd be able to. Even if he screamed at me and shut me out I could never hate him.
But maybe it was Pax that requested a different partner that day. Maybe it wasn't even a call from the higher ups. Maybe me running with Stonks was just his first step of distancing himself.
Because in a crushing little way, that would make sense right?
I knew that out of all of them, Tank trusted me the least, even back then. An eleven year old traitor is still a traitor. Maybe Pax didn't want me staying at his family home because he didn't trust me. Maybe he asked for a different partner because I made him uncomfortable and he'd started to despise me for it, he just didn't know how to say it because he isn't good with stuff like that.
I don't realize I've stopped in the middle of the street until Mrs. Harris is there and reaching for my elbow, the most worried expression on her face, but I just brush her off and push the heels of my hands against my eyes.
I pick a direction and walk.
T W O
There's two blocks to the east that seem safe enough. It's not hostile territory, but it's not exactly friendly either. It fits the bill for a place to lie low, and the tension in the junkies on the corner has faded enough that they ask for a cig before they ask for a name.
Not that I can give them either right now.
But the sun goes down eventually, and the neon lights of the street get a little brighter. The area's a little wilder then where the apartment was, and there's a cluster of girls near one of the bar entrances that keep giggling to themselves and glancing over. But they're harmless. Everyone here is.
There had always a constant push and pull of borders before, but with the old joke of a gang mostly gone, those borders blurred and crossed over and the row of places that used to be fronts are just hollowed out businesses now.
It's insignificant enough that Tank won't see it as a threat. Because I'm not stupid - I know he's just waiting for me to jump ship and start another turf war. But this is fine. This place is like one big peace offer. I'm done - I'm not worth it anymore.
He won't send anyone after me.
Probably.
Hopefully.
Not that I can give them either right now.
But the sun goes down eventually, and the neon lights of the street get a little brighter. The area's a little wilder then where the apartment was, and there's a cluster of girls near one of the bar entrances that keep giggling to themselves and glancing over. But they're harmless. Everyone here is.
There had always a constant push and pull of borders before, but with the old joke of a gang mostly gone, those borders blurred and crossed over and the row of places that used to be fronts are just hollowed out businesses now.
It's insignificant enough that Tank won't see it as a threat. Because I'm not stupid - I know he's just waiting for me to jump ship and start another turf war. But this is fine. This place is like one big peace offer. I'm done - I'm not worth it anymore.
He won't send anyone after me.
Probably.
Hopefully.
F O U R
Somehow, finding a job is easier than finding a bed.
The first place has cockroaches and the second one has a hole in the ceiling that goes straight through to the apartment above. The landlord of the third place whips out his dick before the door is even closed, but I punch him in the jaw and book it down the stairwell and start looking for places further up the street instead.
It ends up being another dead end.
But just because the whole job thing is easier, that doesn't mean it's easy.
It's a disheartening thing - to realize you have no talents. It's a little like climbing down a ladder and misjudging the distance to the ground, so when you step off, you just fall for a little bit.
But I swear there's someone looking out for me, or maybe I'm just crazy fucking lucky, because on the fourth day away it all just sort of works out.
There's a little old lady that runs one of the bars on the main strip, Bella Luna. It's not flashy, but it's got that multicoloured kind of grit that everything on this side of the district has. I guess when I show up for the fourth night in a row, she takes pity on me. And I don't even have it in me to snap at her for it because there's a bottle of tequila on the wall and I can't stop thinking about how Pax had reeked of it when he stumbled home and tried to break my heart like a fucking coward.
That's the other thing that happens over the ninety-six hour span - it seems like every time I blink there's a switch inside me that flips. I see Pax lying on the floor and feel like crying, I see him slouched on the couch with my hand in his hair and I want to throw a glass at the wall.
And so it's during one of those spells, when I can't go three seconds without having a neurotic break over a boy and my nails are digging so hard into the woodgrain of a table that they're about to snap off, that the lady that runs the place, Maria, wanders over and smacks my hands with the rag she's holding.
Property damage, she gripes about, and the way she yells without raising her voice suddenly makes me feel small.
I don'y know how it happens, I don't know how long it took her to get a half-truth out of me, but by the end of a night I have a tentative job and an even more tentative room. Maria doesn't ask nearly as many questions as she should, but when she uses the sleeve of her blouse to swipe under my eyes, neither of us say anything.
The first place has cockroaches and the second one has a hole in the ceiling that goes straight through to the apartment above. The landlord of the third place whips out his dick before the door is even closed, but I punch him in the jaw and book it down the stairwell and start looking for places further up the street instead.
It ends up being another dead end.
But just because the whole job thing is easier, that doesn't mean it's easy.
It's a disheartening thing - to realize you have no talents. It's a little like climbing down a ladder and misjudging the distance to the ground, so when you step off, you just fall for a little bit.
But I swear there's someone looking out for me, or maybe I'm just crazy fucking lucky, because on the fourth day away it all just sort of works out.
There's a little old lady that runs one of the bars on the main strip, Bella Luna. It's not flashy, but it's got that multicoloured kind of grit that everything on this side of the district has. I guess when I show up for the fourth night in a row, she takes pity on me. And I don't even have it in me to snap at her for it because there's a bottle of tequila on the wall and I can't stop thinking about how Pax had reeked of it when he stumbled home and tried to break my heart like a fucking coward.
That's the other thing that happens over the ninety-six hour span - it seems like every time I blink there's a switch inside me that flips. I see Pax lying on the floor and feel like crying, I see him slouched on the couch with my hand in his hair and I want to throw a glass at the wall.
And so it's during one of those spells, when I can't go three seconds without having a neurotic break over a boy and my nails are digging so hard into the woodgrain of a table that they're about to snap off, that the lady that runs the place, Maria, wanders over and smacks my hands with the rag she's holding.
Property damage, she gripes about, and the way she yells without raising her voice suddenly makes me feel small.
I don'y know how it happens, I don't know how long it took her to get a half-truth out of me, but by the end of a night I have a tentative job and an even more tentative room. Maria doesn't ask nearly as many questions as she should, but when she uses the sleeve of her blouse to swipe under my eyes, neither of us say anything.
S E V E N
Out of everything in the world, I never thought I'd be good with numbers. Maria had taken me into the back room on my first day, where all her records and receipts were, and she'd sat me down in front of the mess of her finances, just to see if anything stuck because she said it'd be better than standing behind the counter and cleaning glasses all day.
And I believed her.
So I sorted through everything before lunch and by the time Maria knocked on the door again, I'd found a handful of bills that were behind and an order of limes she'd been double charged for.
She blamed the bookkeeping on her late husband and flipped off the ceiling.
I immediately started to like her more.
Maria brought me more folders the next day, a great big heap of documents that looked practically ancient and over the week, it became routine. I didn't know a lot about running a business, I told her that, but the way the numbers lined up was easy enough. Working through the records kept my mind off of everything else.
And it was weird to make friends, too. Because the rest of the bar staff was actually friendly. They made the guys I ran with before look like DC Keepers.
Rowan's a waitress, but she wants to be a dancer. She's got a sister that she says she hates, but I can tell that she loves her and I try not to let it sting. Lou helps with the dishes because he's got a crush on Rowan, which everyone teases him endlessly about. He's one of the bartenders, but he only takes the early shifts because he's got another job down near the factories that he can't talk about.
Steel works all the shifts that Lou can't, and the only thing I know about him is that Steel isn't his real name. I had tried to ask him about it, because I was trying to be friendly, I was trying something new, but he had just smiled like he knew something I didn't and promised to tell me later.
I told him I knew where he worked if he didn't, and he laughed.
But then Maria said I was done for the night, so I went upstairs to the little spare room she was letting me stay in. When Pax inevitably wormed his way back into my head, I rolled over and stared at the wall until the sun came up.
And I believed her.
So I sorted through everything before lunch and by the time Maria knocked on the door again, I'd found a handful of bills that were behind and an order of limes she'd been double charged for.
She blamed the bookkeeping on her late husband and flipped off the ceiling.
I immediately started to like her more.
Maria brought me more folders the next day, a great big heap of documents that looked practically ancient and over the week, it became routine. I didn't know a lot about running a business, I told her that, but the way the numbers lined up was easy enough. Working through the records kept my mind off of everything else.
And it was weird to make friends, too. Because the rest of the bar staff was actually friendly. They made the guys I ran with before look like DC Keepers.
Rowan's a waitress, but she wants to be a dancer. She's got a sister that she says she hates, but I can tell that she loves her and I try not to let it sting. Lou helps with the dishes because he's got a crush on Rowan, which everyone teases him endlessly about. He's one of the bartenders, but he only takes the early shifts because he's got another job down near the factories that he can't talk about.
Steel works all the shifts that Lou can't, and the only thing I know about him is that Steel isn't his real name. I had tried to ask him about it, because I was trying to be friendly, I was trying something new, but he had just smiled like he knew something I didn't and promised to tell me later.
I told him I knew where he worked if he didn't, and he laughed.
But then Maria said I was done for the night, so I went upstairs to the little spare room she was letting me stay in. When Pax inevitably wormed his way back into my head, I rolled over and stared at the wall until the sun came up.
E L E V E N
Steel has enough charisma to charm the pants off the President and he knows it. I'm wearing the same shirt for the third day in the row and if he notices, he doesn't say anything.
My skin itches though, crawling from something other than polyester, and maybe he can tell because he reaches out to put a hand on my shoulder, except I'm so used to keeping a distance that I just step away out of habit. And if Steel's bothered, he doesn't say anything about that either. I make an excuse and he does that smile again and I go to the back to run the month's numbers.
It feels more like a retreat than anything and I don't know why my fists clench, but they do. The whole mix of sadness anger guilt anger misery hasn't stopped yet and it's like my brain still thinks I'm on vacation or something. I keep catching myself thinking of Pax's apartment as home and every time it happens I need to find something to hold onto when my knees give out and my shoulders shake and something in me has to hiss out that no, because it doesn't realize that this is my home yet. Those four walls upstairs, that mattress and that bathroom and that little bedside table, that window that sticks when it's opened and that hinge on the door that creaks at a certain angle.
Independence tastes like cherry pits and I try not to look into the bitter aftertaste of it too much.
I've been trying to put off going back, I really have. But I can't afford to completely rebuild my life here, and I had left the apartment so quickly that I hadn't thought to take anything with me.
So it's in broad daylight when I step up the front stairs, and I wait at the door for thirty seconds because I'm still expecting for Tank to come around the corner with a handgun or for Pax to open the door with grimace. But a whole minute goes by and nothing happens.
I don't know if I should knock.
I try the doorknob before I can convince myself not to and I still feel like a dog with his tail tucked between his legs when the door swings open.
But Pax isn’t home and everything is unlocked, because he’s an idiot.
The sudden rush of warmth is so fast that it makes me dizzy.
The place is surprisingly untouched, but I don't really know what I expected. There's a dirty coffee mug on the counter, and the bed is only haphazardly made and one of the windows was left cracked open, but it doesn't look like the apartment of a man mourning the loss of his best friend. I don't know if the pit in my stomach is from that, or from the sudden way the dresser next to the bed comes into view.
Because maybe my clothes won't be in there. It's been almost two weeks. Maybe Pax threw everything out already, or maybe he burned it all as soon as he realized I had actually left. I don't know if I want the sock drawer to be empty or full when I put my hand on the handle but it's suddenly the most important piece of furniture in the world and the scratch on top of the wood is still there from when we dropped it moving it in and I can't stop looking at the mark.
I wrench open the drawer like ripping off a bandaid but it takes me a minute to realize that my eyes are screwed shut. So slowly, carefully, I make myself look in the drawer and the whole fucking world falls out from under the floor.
I open the next drawer, just to be safe, then the next one and the next one and my hands shake against the panelling and something wet falls onto the folded pair of flannels in the bottom drawer because those are mine and they're still here, everything is still here.
I'm crying over socks and the thought is so sobering that I'm back up and moving before I can even process it because processing means thinking and I'd already decided that thinking was off the table. It doesn't matter what the clothes mean because it won't change anything. It doesn't matter why Pax kept them even though it was very clear that I wasn't coming back.
It doesn't matter when I grab a garbage bag from under the sink and start stuffing my clothes into it and it doesn't matter that one of Pax's old t-shirts finds its way into the mix.
It's done, it's over, and that's how we both want it. Pax wants me out of his life, and I want to be out of his. I won't have to look at his stupid face ever again and he won't have to keep my clothes as some kind of pity act. It's fine.
It doesn't matter.
My skin itches though, crawling from something other than polyester, and maybe he can tell because he reaches out to put a hand on my shoulder, except I'm so used to keeping a distance that I just step away out of habit. And if Steel's bothered, he doesn't say anything about that either. I make an excuse and he does that smile again and I go to the back to run the month's numbers.
It feels more like a retreat than anything and I don't know why my fists clench, but they do. The whole mix of sadness anger guilt anger misery hasn't stopped yet and it's like my brain still thinks I'm on vacation or something. I keep catching myself thinking of Pax's apartment as home and every time it happens I need to find something to hold onto when my knees give out and my shoulders shake and something in me has to hiss out that no, because it doesn't realize that this is my home yet. Those four walls upstairs, that mattress and that bathroom and that little bedside table, that window that sticks when it's opened and that hinge on the door that creaks at a certain angle.
Independence tastes like cherry pits and I try not to look into the bitter aftertaste of it too much.
I've been trying to put off going back, I really have. But I can't afford to completely rebuild my life here, and I had left the apartment so quickly that I hadn't thought to take anything with me.
So it's in broad daylight when I step up the front stairs, and I wait at the door for thirty seconds because I'm still expecting for Tank to come around the corner with a handgun or for Pax to open the door with grimace. But a whole minute goes by and nothing happens.
I don't know if I should knock.
I try the doorknob before I can convince myself not to and I still feel like a dog with his tail tucked between his legs when the door swings open.
But Pax isn’t home and everything is unlocked, because he’s an idiot.
The sudden rush of warmth is so fast that it makes me dizzy.
The place is surprisingly untouched, but I don't really know what I expected. There's a dirty coffee mug on the counter, and the bed is only haphazardly made and one of the windows was left cracked open, but it doesn't look like the apartment of a man mourning the loss of his best friend. I don't know if the pit in my stomach is from that, or from the sudden way the dresser next to the bed comes into view.
Because maybe my clothes won't be in there. It's been almost two weeks. Maybe Pax threw everything out already, or maybe he burned it all as soon as he realized I had actually left. I don't know if I want the sock drawer to be empty or full when I put my hand on the handle but it's suddenly the most important piece of furniture in the world and the scratch on top of the wood is still there from when we dropped it moving it in and I can't stop looking at the mark.
I wrench open the drawer like ripping off a bandaid but it takes me a minute to realize that my eyes are screwed shut. So slowly, carefully, I make myself look in the drawer and the whole fucking world falls out from under the floor.
I open the next drawer, just to be safe, then the next one and the next one and my hands shake against the panelling and something wet falls onto the folded pair of flannels in the bottom drawer because those are mine and they're still here, everything is still here.
I'm crying over socks and the thought is so sobering that I'm back up and moving before I can even process it because processing means thinking and I'd already decided that thinking was off the table. It doesn't matter what the clothes mean because it won't change anything. It doesn't matter why Pax kept them even though it was very clear that I wasn't coming back.
It doesn't matter when I grab a garbage bag from under the sink and start stuffing my clothes into it and it doesn't matter that one of Pax's old t-shirts finds its way into the mix.
It's done, it's over, and that's how we both want it. Pax wants me out of his life, and I want to be out of his. I won't have to look at his stupid face ever again and he won't have to keep my clothes as some kind of pity act. It's fine.
It doesn't matter.
N I N E T E E N
The two week mark comes and goes and I pat myself on the back before I collapse under the open window. The radiator is warm and the street is noisy during this time of day, Bella Luna isn't set to open for another few hours, but I still think of going down and getting started early.
I can't sit still. I can't let myself be alone because that means I'm going to think, and thinking isn't good, not when I'm thinking about Pax and that little apartment and the way that my clothes were still in those dresser drawers.
I woke up on the floor this morning - an accident. I think I was just being stupid and emotional and I had dealt with it like someone dealing with the anniversary of a nasty breakup. I had wandered down to the corner and bought a box of wine and a shitty bottle of bleach and came back to sit on the bathroom tile and try not to get them mixed up.
There's still a big splotch at the back of my head that's dark because I couldn't reach, but that doesn't matter because it's still enough of a change that I have to look twice to really recognize myself.
I stare at the mirror through the open bathroom door and feel six years older. Pax's t-shirt is worn and faded and soft and I accidentally got a little bleach on the collar of it. It ate through the blue fabric like it was nothing, and I don't know why, but the sight of it made me want to lie down and force the world to stop spinning so fast.
My finger digs into the discolouration and I guess that's just another thing I fucked up. Even out here, I'm still destroying Pax's things and pushing the blame away.
My chest hurts so bad that I dimly think I might be having a heart attack. It's ironic. It's funny. It's so funny that I start to laugh at the ceiling until it turns into a sob and then I lift the edge of the shirt up to my face until the ringing in my ears stops.
I can't sit still. I can't let myself be alone because that means I'm going to think, and thinking isn't good, not when I'm thinking about Pax and that little apartment and the way that my clothes were still in those dresser drawers.
I woke up on the floor this morning - an accident. I think I was just being stupid and emotional and I had dealt with it like someone dealing with the anniversary of a nasty breakup. I had wandered down to the corner and bought a box of wine and a shitty bottle of bleach and came back to sit on the bathroom tile and try not to get them mixed up.
There's still a big splotch at the back of my head that's dark because I couldn't reach, but that doesn't matter because it's still enough of a change that I have to look twice to really recognize myself.
I stare at the mirror through the open bathroom door and feel six years older. Pax's t-shirt is worn and faded and soft and I accidentally got a little bleach on the collar of it. It ate through the blue fabric like it was nothing, and I don't know why, but the sight of it made me want to lie down and force the world to stop spinning so fast.
My finger digs into the discolouration and I guess that's just another thing I fucked up. Even out here, I'm still destroying Pax's things and pushing the blame away.
My chest hurts so bad that I dimly think I might be having a heart attack. It's ironic. It's funny. It's so funny that I start to laugh at the ceiling until it turns into a sob and then I lift the edge of the shirt up to my face until the ringing in my ears stops.
T W E N T Y - T H R E E
Rowan pokes at the piece of hair I missed, but Steel says that he likes it.
I go back upstairs after my shift, alone, but still moving on autopilot. I shouldn't have gone back to the apartment. I could've just bought more clothes, it would've been fine. Everything was fine before then, I had a life and a job and a room, I had independence and now when I turn my head too fast it makes my temples sting and my throat ache.
The bed is cold and the room feels empty. There's an ache in my legs from trying to accommodate a body that isn't there anymore.
A glass bottle rolls across the floor and the sound rattles a staccato beat through my skull. Steel pours heavier than Lou, and he's more fun on breaks.
I had shoved Pax's shirt under the bed at some point and I lie on my stomach on the floor so I can see it. The bleach stain looks back at me from in-between the dust bunnies but I can't make myself reach out and grab it.
I think my emotions are broken but I can't do anything except lie there and watch them break. Boiling fury burns its way through my veins so fast that when it slips away, the draft that creeps into the room makes me shiver. It's more exhausting than anything, and I flip back between gut-wrenching loneliness and undeniable rage three more times before it settles for the night, as some delicate combination of the two.
I think
I think I thought that Pax would've found me by now.
There was some fairytale part of me that thought he would follow me just like he always used to.
That was always the game we played, right? I'd run and he'd chase.
It was fun to play pretend. I could be normal and run Maria's books and laugh with Rowan and act like everything was okay. Because Pax would've shown up eventually, and I would've pretend that I was mad at him for following me even though we both knew I wanted him to find me.
But he isn't here this time, and I curl in on myself tighter until I can't see his shirt anymore and I try not to think about anything other than the burn between my ribs and the steady sound of the tap dripping.
Maria still expects me tomorrow, and so does everyone else, but I'll just let myself wallow for a while longer. I'll linger in the thing I destroyed, and then I guess I'll move on. Steel already offered his shoulder to cry on, and he has a nice smile. He doesn't wear faded blue t-shirts and he doesn't clench his jaw when he's thinking extra hard about something. He doesn't know the Amos from before but he knows this Amos now. Maybe that's enough.
Maybe I can be enough for someone else.
I go back upstairs after my shift, alone, but still moving on autopilot. I shouldn't have gone back to the apartment. I could've just bought more clothes, it would've been fine. Everything was fine before then, I had a life and a job and a room, I had independence and now when I turn my head too fast it makes my temples sting and my throat ache.
The bed is cold and the room feels empty. There's an ache in my legs from trying to accommodate a body that isn't there anymore.
A glass bottle rolls across the floor and the sound rattles a staccato beat through my skull. Steel pours heavier than Lou, and he's more fun on breaks.
I had shoved Pax's shirt under the bed at some point and I lie on my stomach on the floor so I can see it. The bleach stain looks back at me from in-between the dust bunnies but I can't make myself reach out and grab it.
I think my emotions are broken but I can't do anything except lie there and watch them break. Boiling fury burns its way through my veins so fast that when it slips away, the draft that creeps into the room makes me shiver. It's more exhausting than anything, and I flip back between gut-wrenching loneliness and undeniable rage three more times before it settles for the night, as some delicate combination of the two.
I think
I think I thought that Pax would've found me by now.
There was some fairytale part of me that thought he would follow me just like he always used to.
That was always the game we played, right? I'd run and he'd chase.
It was fun to play pretend. I could be normal and run Maria's books and laugh with Rowan and act like everything was okay. Because Pax would've shown up eventually, and I would've pretend that I was mad at him for following me even though we both knew I wanted him to find me.
But he isn't here this time, and I curl in on myself tighter until I can't see his shirt anymore and I try not to think about anything other than the burn between my ribs and the steady sound of the tap dripping.
Maria still expects me tomorrow, and so does everyone else, but I'll just let myself wallow for a while longer. I'll linger in the thing I destroyed, and then I guess I'll move on. Steel already offered his shoulder to cry on, and he has a nice smile. He doesn't wear faded blue t-shirts and he doesn't clench his jaw when he's thinking extra hard about something. He doesn't know the Amos from before but he knows this Amos now. Maybe that's enough.
Maybe I can be enough for someone else.
