May [H.S]

19

Magnolia
•••

Les chiens ne font pas des chats.

The ice was always so serene, forgiving, and consistent.

I could be a street racer, a drug addict, a bad friend, the town tramp, an orphan, none of that mattered. At the end of the day, I was still a figure skater, and the ice was still ice, sparkling, frozen solid, cold to the touch.

Engulfed in the brisk air that loomed the rink, froze everything in place; the surface layer of my skin, exposed bit of my neck just where my head met my toned shoulders, plentifully bestrewn with little curly hairs that never seemed to obey— everything was simple— It didn't end there though, all my doubts, worries, ambitions were entangled too, stuck below that foggy layer of liquid glass.

All that was good, talented inside of me beamed in the center of that rink. Flourished out of barren, tired nothingness. I mattered grazing alongside some pretentiously intricate concerto, the long-gone voice that captured generations with their glory. How was I so perfectly certain dressed in glitter and tight spandex, and so hazardous without the weight of my skates?

That question thundered in the back of my mind this entire week, the malleability of my brilliance, genius on the ice, and idiocy off.

It overrode the nail-biting stress– the paranoia not so much. I don't know if it's classified as paranoia when the gut-wrenching feeling in my stomach was justified– justified was a weak word for how warranted my feelings were. 

Things felt off since the night with Harry, out on the town street racing. I couldn't handle how abominable I felt for it all– that sounds a bit dramatic, but for the amount I was beating myself up over it I suppose it fits.

It wasn't just the leftover guilt from the other night, though I wished that was the only thing on my mind. Most of what's causing me to glance over my shoulder when I'm supposed to be alone is that the night I got home from that messy train wreck I define as enjoying myself, I'm certain there'd been someone in my apartment. The liquor in my belly made it more than easy to write off but the walls of my apartment felt as though they had their own set of eyes, following me around in my drunken haze. It'd been like this all week, that icky, dark feeling radiated from the naturally light area. 

Brushing off the icky sensation of someone watching me was near fucking impossible when buffoons with camera's stood out the doors of my apartment all hours of the day, following me to and from the rink, to the police station when I visited my mom, even. Anywhere they could, it ruffled me to the point of driving up to my parents barren shell of a mansion. I stood behind the gated area in my car until the sun went down. Just having that peace of mind knowing that they couldn't reach me there satiated something in me to the point of debating whether I should stay there now that both of my parents being around wasn't an issue.

Obviously, that tricky thought was shot down by the surge of bad memories associated with the paneled walls inside. I ended up swallowing my ego, seeking out Luke and sheepishly asking if I could stay with him for a few nights, just until things died down and I felt safe enough to not be followed home.

After what happened earlier this year with the break-in at my old place, I couldn't stomach the thought of being alone again, sleeping alone.

Luke, being his witless, teddy bear self, practically cried tears of joy when I showed up to Rubies asking for a place to stay. There he went and started profusely apologizing for his actions, one sorry after another– not caring there was a bar full of burly, tattooed men staring at him like he'd grown another head. Seeing him all shaken up over it was satisfying, to say the least, I mean after everything. He wasn't like Harry in that way or even Joey, he wasn't proud. He didn't care how stupid he looked and I hated how my heart swelled at the thought of that, especially when I'm teetering between forgiving him and vowing to never look into his blue eyes again.