Delicate Pulse | Violentine

Conflicted

It's been seventy-two days since I tried to break up with Minnie. Now I'm just staring at a crumpled up piece of paper.

And I feel like shit.

I hate when I get like this, where all I can do is sit and listen to my thoughts. I mean, I do like being alone but sometimes it gets too loud. Then there's the fog that consumes me and all the fucked up shit gets to my head. The world stops. I can't move. I'm just trapped. On top of that, I probably look fucking dumb when it happens too. Empty eyes and shit, gaping mouth like my soul's being sucked out of me.

Thankfully, this is a type of fog I can pull myself out of...sometimes. I just keep reading the ink bleeding through the paper in my palms. Feeling the creases and cuts, knowing they will never heal. I don't know why I took it but I have it. I can't let it go.

The way it's written, reminds me of home. Home, as in, home before it was completely fucked. Grandma loved poetry. She had a whole library of them. She would sit in her rocking chair and I would perch on her lap and she would spend hours reading them to me. I hated it at first but I liked listening to her. The way her voice dance on a rhythm of rhymes. The way she would pause for emphasis. The way her breathing would rise and fall in the right places...

There's an airy whistle that zips past my ear unexpectedly. It startles me long enough for a lanky ass arm to swipe the crumbled paper from me.

"What have we got here?"

"Shit! Louis!"

I shoot up. He juggles it, bouncing side to side like the clown he is. His dreads bounce along with him, taunting me.

"Louis, seriously, give it back," I demand, spitting my words.

"Oh I see," he smirks, flicking his wrist higher while pouting his lips. "Perhaps a sappy love letter from dear Minnie Moo?"

I jab swiftly at his ribs like a snake striking its prey. He squeals and folds. I snatch the note and shove it into my pocket. I hope that didn't seem too desperate. "You're such a shithead."

"Uh, wrong," he sasses, rubbing his waist. "A shithead would've read it already."

"Nope," I sigh, sitting down again. "You're a certified shithead."

"Well, if being a shithead means a smile from you then sure."

I frown.

He plops himself next to me. I groan on the inside, hoping he was already bored. He rocks back and forth before smacking his lips to ask. "Sooooo... when are you and Clem gonna makeup?"

I side-eye him. "What made you think of that?"

"Brody."

Although I wasn't expecting to hear her name, I wasn't surprised.

"She's not taking your quarrel very well."

"Of course she isn't," I mutter. "It messes up her perfect vision."

He swings his legs standstill into the air, rolling in the dirt on his back. "Why can't all you gals just be pals?"

I roll my eyes. I'm not about to spend hours trying to drill into Louis' head the complexity of relationships. It would be a waste. He can't even compute that Brody is a classmate. Unfortunately, a roommate. Not a friend. Not a friend of mine anyways.

"She misses you," he says breathily on the ground. I continue to ignore him so he adds on. "Clementine, I mean."

I glance at him, feeling sour. "She tell you that?"

He springs up, sprawling his arms. "Nope! Gotcha!"

I drop my head. I'm a fucking idiot. "I hate you," I grumble.