forget me not [severe hiatus]

chapter two - baby lips

Chapter 2 - baby lips

Callie

Be nice to everyone, always smile, and appreciate things because it could all be gone tomorrow. -Ed Sheeran

"Leave me alone," I turn my head away from her voice, cropped hair falling against my cheek. It tickles my neck. "Go back to work, Mom."

"Don't push me away. I love you," she pleads, and a warm hand grabs my arm. I have quick reflexes; the arm is shrugged off quickly. I can feel the her hurt hovering in the air, the sting of my rejection. I know this hurts her, but doesn't she know it's for the best? That hurting her hurts me just as much?

"I love you, Callie," she says quietly, sadly. I continue to sit on the hard chair, keeping my back straight like I was taught in primary. There's another sigh - I've been hearing those a lot lately. A few feet away, there's a jumbling of keys and rustling of a furry winter coat before I hear footsteps walking away.

The feeling of being lost hits me like a hurricane. That feeling in my chest, like a child lost at a grocery store... That's what I feel when my mother starts to walk away. But I brush it off just as quickly as it came and keep my face as expressionless as possible.

Only when I hear the door click close, do I whisper, "Love you, too."

*****

Damnit. Where are my Baby Lips? My hand moves shuffles around in my bag clumsily, knocking all of my products around. I think I cracked something, but right now that doesn’t matter.

Finally. I grab the lip balm out of my bag - I can tell it’s the right one, because I had my mom wrap a piece of tape around the bottom. Just to be sure, I tug off the cap and hold it up to my nose. Grape.

Good. I move my hand down to my lips, twist the balm out of the cap and glide it across my bottom lip. After smacking my top and bottom together, I take the nail on my pinky and swipe it around my mouth, getting any excess balm off. How embarrassing would that be?

That’s why I use Baby Lips - less noticeable if it’s uneven. Also why I don’t wear much make-up anymore - some of my old friends offered to help me with it, but I couldn’t let them. They don’t care, anyways. See how none of them talk to me anymore?

I hear footsteps behind me, and I freeze. I feel tempted to open my mouth, shout, “Who is that?” But I  can’t. Because I have to act like I don’t care, that an unknown presence in the bathroom doesn’t frighten me. That living like this doesn’t scare me.

“Callie?” I hear a familiar voice say, and I immediately relax. It’s just Milla - Camille. Just Camille.

I pretend like I don’t hear her and take a mascara out of my bag. I don’t usually wear it, but I have to do something while I wait for her to leave, or get into a stall. But Camille takes steps toward me, which I don’t like. I bring the wand up to wear I suppose are my eyelashes and bat wildly where I imagine they would be.

“Do you need help with that, Cal?” Camille asks gently and takes the wand firmly from my hand, warm skin heating up like fire against my cold skin. I feel her breath on my face as she starts to whip it firmly against my lashes, and I feel the comfortable, familiar heavy coating of liquid on my eyes.

It’s too familiar; it’s too the same. And familiarity means missing, and missing means not forgetting. And I have to forget. So I reach out to where I suppose Camille’s hand is and wrap my fingers around her wrist lightning fast.

“What are you doing, Camille?” I ask, but it comes out as more of a statement - a monotonic, emotionless voice that doesn’t really expect to be answered.