The air is thick, humid, unbreathable. My desperate gasps claw at the air, to no prevail. Clutching my throat, I lay suffocating in a room of oxygen. Eventually a rush of air fill my lungs, and I cling to each breath as if it were my last. Breath is a precious gift for me now, sometimes unattainable. My pale skin shines against the luminosity of the moon, my sweat gleaming in the light. I draw my blankets closer, as if they will shield me from the horrifying dreams. Reassuring myself of reality, I run my fingers along my shaking arms, wincing a little as I come across the wounds punctured in my flesh. My mind shifts to a time before they defined me; when life was a thing worth fighting for. I brush a tear from my cheek as I make my way out of the comfort of my bed.
A nightly routine, I tear open a fresh pack of cigarettes. The clock reads 2:23 A.M, about right. Seventeen and addicted, I heave a scornful laugh at the ridiculous thought. Shame and a rush of adrenalin make a mess of my emotions as I light the match. Complete relaxation washes over my being as I inhale my first of many drags. I watch the puffs of smoke disappear into the frozen morning air.
“What is sleep?” the words hardly make it through the crack of my raspy voice.
I allow my thoughts to wander for a few short minutes. Instinctively, they shift to her. My mind rewinds to two years ago, and yanks at the emotions I’ve tried so desperately to conceal. I see my mother, her soft features, genuine smile, her booming laugh echoes in my mind. Despite the cigarette’s attempt at relaxation, my body begins to shake once again. My secret is a lump in my throat, throbbing to escape, to be shouted from the mountain tops. The guilt like bricks on my conscious, the blame for sleepless nights. The scene of the accident is a permanent image staining my memory. Her blood, the shatter of glass. The nostalgia is too much for me as I find myself on the freezing ground, tears streaming down my face.
With a short memory of this morning’s meltdown, I make my way to school; the residue of my mascara caked to the bags of my eyes. My gaze doesn’t leave the ground, past the marble staircase, the waxy tiled floor, and to my first hour desk, alienated in the corner of the classroom. They don’t stare anymore. Yet I know better as I watch the curiosity of my classmates consuming them from the inside out. I fear their thoughts; their whispers in the halls as I maneuver through their clusters, my gaze never leaving the tiles of the floor.
“Charlotte, why don’t you give it a shot?”
My head snaps up, theres a soft snickering from the front of the class. I can feel everyone’s eyes on me, the burn of their stares heating my face a bright red. I look away, feeling as though their stares alone could undress my hidden secrets.
“ Charlotte, it would be much appreciated if you would atleast make an attempt to answer me.” Mrs. Sprague spits at me.
I want to slap her. Out of every kid in class, she chooses me for one of her ridiculous torments. The woman lives to put me down.
“ I..uhh, I’m really not sure.”
“Think.” There is no sense of warmth in her voice.
My face is a burning coal. I wish I could sink below the floor, forever forgotten, unseen. I lower my eyes to my navy blue converse and count down each second until the bell.
School is a living hell. An accurate analogy. I see it as an obstacle course and everyone is out to get me, to tear down the barrier containing my secret. Everyday is a struggle to avoid eye contact. To share a glance is to reveal a piece of me, the real me. Yet not even home is safe. The silence urges my thoughts to wander, allows my guilt to swarm. In an attempt at distracting myself, I brush my fingers across the source of their judgmental stares, my swollen wounds. My shameful, yet only escape. A nervous habit, I continue to run my fingers along each imperfection; feeling each crevice.
I snap back to reality as a paper ball hits me in the side of the head. As if it were painful, I rub my forehead, reassuring it did no damage. Mrs. Sprague’s eyes are a magnet on my every move, my every breath. I don’t understand why she continues to wait, as if the answer will somehow miraculously come to me. I feel as though she has been waiting an eternity yet my estimate must not be too far fetched for she’s beginning to tap her foot. With an aggravated eye roll she shifts her attention to the eager student in the front row and I feel as though a heavy weight has been lifted off my chest.
“Psst.”
I shift my attention to the blonde haired boy a few rows ahead of me. He nods towards the crumble of paper on my desk, the one that had been earlier used to taunt me, or so I thought. Unassuringly, I reach for the small ball now lying beneath my desk. Cautiously, I begin to uncrumple the mess of paper as if some type of bomb lies beneath it. I predict what the message will read, most likely some derogatory comment about my scars. Or maybe a witness of the night, claiming my secret, my innocence all in a small slip of a paper. I cringe at the thought and look down to find my fingers at a standstill..The creases of the paper are littered across it’s white surface, now sprawled about the desk. A single flip of the paper and my secret could be revealed. I know its a far fetched idea but better safe than sorry. The bell rings and my fingers remain frozen, as the classroom transforms into a mad hustle. Survival of the fittest as the other kids push and shove for the door.
I quickly ball the paper back into its original shape and toss it at the bottom of my bag. I leave the room, with fear of the unknown hanging on my back.
A hand grabs me as I pass through the door. The blonde haired boy loosens his grip on my forearm as he recognizes the fear in my eyes.
“Oh I’m sorry I didn’t mean to scare you.” he tells me, his smile broadening, revealing a set of perfectly straight white teeth.
“ And you are?” I come across ruder than I had anticipated.
Somehow he finds my bitterness humorous as he lets out a genuine laugh. I can’t help but reveal my confusion as I furrow my brow.
“I’m Spencer, Spencer Kraig. Funny to think we’ve been in class together all this time and we don’t even know one another.” he chuckles as though the idea is unheard of.
“ Ya, uhh sure. I mean throwing paper balls at random people isn’t necessarily my ideal strategy of making new friends.” I accuse him.
Friends were never my strong point, especially not now. Nothing about the “creepy quiet girl” seemed to appeal to my peers. I don’t care though, i’ve never understood the point of friends anyway. The only person worth relying on is yourself, and even that’s risky.
His lips continue to move yet my gaze wanders to his crystal blue eyes. In only a matter of seconds I’m lost. His words a distant echo in the back of my mind as their blue beauty mesmerizes me, They sparkle like the afternoon sunset striking the ocean water, diamonds rebounding off the surface. Through a glance at “the blond haired boy’s” eyes, a mirage is painted in my mind, and somehow I feel a longing to break our “stranger” title. Like always though, my thoughts cling to the back of my mind, guarded by my insecurities.
His eyes transform from my bliss and I snap back to reality. The coals beneath my skin begin to burn once again, ashamed for holding his gaze for so long.
“ You forgot to open it, the paper ball.” His every word smothered in playful humor.
I can feel my heart skip a beat. No, no he doesn't know, he couldn’t.
“Why do you care if I open your stupid paper ball or not?” I spit at him, desperately trying to conceal my panic.
His hands fly up in defense as though my next words might sting.
“ Look sorry didn’t mean to offend you, just thought I’d offer a helping hand for a friend that’s all.” His eyes no longer resembled the sparkles I so much adored. “ Suit yourself. See ya next class Charlotte.” And with a polite nod of the head he headed down the hall.
And there i go again. Transforming his welcoming ocean eyes into a tsunami.
A short encounter with a strange boy weighed on my mind heavier than I would ever had anticipated.
“37”
The “hidden message” crumbled within his paper ball. The answer to Mrs. Sprague’s question. What an idiot I was, to think he knew my secret. Or to even have been so rude to him.
I lay on my bed replaying my meaningless conversation from today. My single conversation I’ve had in months.The smidge of a chance I had at making a friend, gone like the rest of my hopes and dreams. I don’t need friends, a consistent self reminder. Yet if it was true, then why did it feel so, so good to converse about absolutely nothing with a random stranger? At one point, I almost felt the urge to join in with his laughter, to pretend like, only for a few minutes, I truly was happy. To pretend like life was good.
Yet for now, happiness is a far fetched idea. I scramble for my needle as the thoughts of my mother ignite. Spence Kraig becomes a thing of the past as I drive the needle deep in my arm. Pulsing through my veins, numbing my mind, the closest thing I’ll ever be to happiness. For now, drugs are my only escape but for once in my life, the hope I thought that was forever deceased, revealed itself to me through a blonde haired boy and his twinkling blue eyes.
I can’t remember the last time I combed my hair. I instantly regret it as the bristles entangle in the knots of hair billowed on top of my head. Beauty truly is pain. Fifteen tiring minutes later the bird’s nest is replaced with a sheek blanket of brown, soft curls. If you look close enough, a thin streak of black eyeliner can be found along my hazel eyes. A slight layer of berry gloss aligns my lips as I make my way to school, My mind draws a blank as I attempt to recall the last time I had any type of inspiration to look decent for school, or anywhere in general. Pathetically, my efforts are all contributions in hopes of catching Spencer’s attention. Even a glance would be more than satisfactory.
I seem to have forgotten to avoid eye contact as I make my way to class. I catch a wink or two from a few upperclassmen and can’t help but stifle a giggle. I hate to admit it, but this type of attention I might possibly be able to get used to.
“Charlotte’s got a new look, ayyy.”
The anonymous remark sends a flush of pink to my cheeks as I make my way to my desk in the back of the classroom. My feet come to a standstill as I look up to find my seat occupied. Legs propped against the window sill and arms clutching the back of his neck, Spence Kraig is sitting comfortable in my usual seat, a wide grin displayed across his face.
“ Well don’t you look mighty fine today, Charlotte.” he winks at me.
His eyes are just as beautiful as I remembered. They twinkle against the sunlight seeping through the blinds. I can feel my face igniting bright red under his gaze.
“ I can see you’ve made yourself comfortable now haven’t you?” My bitterness wasn't going to run him off this time.
His smile didn’t waver. “ I just figured you had to get lonely back here so why not offer a little bit of company. Yet this class is pretty exhilarating so I could be wrong.” his tone full of sarcasm.
“ Well if you insist, I supposed I could make this work.” An unpredictable smile seeped through my usually grim lips.
With a scoot of an extra desk, the bitter, isolate girl gained a friend that day. Little had I known, a friend is a wonderful thing. The two hour class period passed in what seemed like seconds, with countless words exchanged and leaving me with stitches of hope.
Yet night is when doubts are made, when guilt builds it’s army. Cold sweats, terrorizing screams, and memories stained with the bitter past. A sleepless night is better than dreaming. Dreams are only reminders of my mother, that horrific night, and my hands, forever stained with her blood.
It was raining, the roads were slick and I was overconfident, the same self assurance that cost my mother her life. We were so close to home, so close, but not close enough. The whole night remains a blur to me, all but the scene of losing my mother. Horrific what alcohol does to the mind honestly. Scrutinizing how careless actions can transform your world upside down. I had under half a mile to go and sleep was more appealing than usual, so I picked up the speed. My mind was spinning, my surroundings nothing but a blur. The next thing I knew I was spinning, not the trees outside my window but I was physically spinning and then I heard the scream that haunts me in my dreams every night, The bloodcurdling cry of my mother. My mom’s cry for help before her death. The crash of our cars, the shatter of glass, and that scream, echoing in my dreams. I killed my mother-and for that I don’t deserve to be happy. My mother’s blood will forever be on my hands. I will always be the careless, selfish girl who murdered her mother.
My tears stain my cheeks as I gasp for breath. I deserve to allow the memories to engulf me. I lay motionless on my bed drowning in my own sin. No more numbing the pain. This is reality, the terrorizing truth. I’m soaking it all in, absorbing all the pain I’ve tried so hard to hide from, to disguise the cold hard truth.
So broken, yet the longer I lay there, I feel a sense of healing. I’ve finally received what I deserved. My horrific secret is no longer concealed from my life. I’ve let it free, and with it I am letting go my guilt.
The pain clings to my body still the next morning as I meet Spencer as the school bell rings. Despite the sting, I embrace his arms and allow myself to crumple against his warm chest. I focus on the beating of his heart as I soak his t-shirt in my tears.
I lost my role model in life, my inspiration of a mother but through my struggles and wrong turns, I’ve regained my hope, hope to be good again. I remembered the way the blonde haired boy held me in his arms that day as I lay down for bed, and for the first time since the loss of my mother, I slept all the way through the night.