first love never die

| Three • Déjà Vu |

| Chapter Three ~ Déjà Vu |

Some moments are better than others. That has always been something I had known and understood, for better or worse. There were moments in my life during which I'd had undeniable clarity, while others were buried by sadness, by pain. That was true for most people, of course, and I'd be the first to remind myself of it. But that fact, in and of itself, had always done very little to comfort me.

I was never quite able to understand people who'd react to things by taking solace in its inclusive pattern. If anything, it only made it worse to think that whatever difficulty I'd be going through could somehow not be exclusive to myself, but rather extensive to all, meaning there were others out there, at any given moment, feeling just the way I was.

Why take comfort in the fact that there's a universality to pain?

It should be restrained, confined to that one particular individual. That would not only potentialize its meaning, deepening it somewhat, but would also keep others safe, somehow shielded from it.

Some moments, however, were better. Like the ones involving the people in my life. Those I couldn't seem to fathom going on without. People, I had always found, could make them better, and it often was the case—just like music, poetry, or the vastness of the universe along with all the possibilities it presents.

And while some moments were indeed better, others, alas, were simply not.

It's one of those facts people like to throw around as if they knew its meaning, but seem to do it with nothing but recklessness. They repeat it because it's how they've learned to cope with it; as if by saying it casually and recognizing it as one of those things would somehow make it easier to bear.

I've always hated that; those pieces of "wisdom" people tended to give out on a whim, carelessly, like slogans to a better life. It lessened the entire thing, turning it cheap and metallic—not to mention how it stripped it from any real meaning. I could never comprehend it, either. I refused to do so, as a matter of fact, for in my mind there had to be something more to it; there needed to be meaning behind it all. No matter how difficult or deeply hidden it could be, there had to be a reason, any reason, for it—good or bad. Sometimes you could spot it. Others had a tendency to creep up on you when you least expected it.

Out of the things I knew for a fact, the three certainties I had managed to keep my brain from taking from me or tainting it, and all the ones I could only guess at, returning to St. Yve's was something I never truly thought I'd have to do ever again.

Still, there I was, standing across the street, absolutely frozen in time, as I looked at the blue and red neon sign reflected on the asphalt, mirrored by the water, and tried to tune out the noise of ambulances and doctors as I let myself feel every drop of rain that had refused to stop falling, hoping for it to take away with it every bit of anxiety that seemed to hold me hostage.

It wasn't a lack of courage, nor was it any sort of ambivalence from my part. Yet I stood there, letting the water wash over me, desperately trying to prevent my Super 8 from kicking in. I'd learn how to[better]control it over the years, but for whatever reason, ever since I was handed that note earlier that afternoon, I had found myself struggling to remain in the present.

I did gather enough strength to cross the street and walk into the ER, eventually. It was as busy as one would expect, and as I slowly made my way up to the counter, the noises from within began to overwhelm me in a way I didn't think was still possible.

"Can I help you, sweetie?" A middle-aged nurse with a single blue braid on her hair asked, exuding a kindness I'd had no time to earn.

Up until that point, I'd been making a conscious effort to keep my head down as much as possible, on the off chance some nurse or orderly could somehow recognize me. It took me a second to actually realize I was being talked at; a few seconds more to understand I had only answered the question in my head. But once I did, I willed myself to speak.