The Outlier II

THIRTEEN

The better part of my summer was spent working on Mr. Mason's coursework, attending his lectures with Nick, and occasionally hanging out with Jacob and Ashton when I wasn't lying about how exhausting and taxing Mr. Mason's coursework was. But when I wasn't doing that, all I felt was an unnerving desire to do nothing but melt into my bed and never get up. Here were Ashton, Jake, Nick and Mike inviting me to plans when I couldn't even be bothered to take the steps downstairs to make myself food. 

On the occasion that I was hungry enough to eat, which had become rare, the pizza delivery guy had become a familiar face— and maybe the only face I saw in two weeks. There was nothing more seductive to me than remaining in bed, even when there was a whole world of Washington and the West Coast for me to explore. 

It felt like I had entered a grieving period, almost mourning the life I had a year ago. I was thrown into a different reality, hardly allowed to ask questions, much less share my burden with anyone. And above all, it is this matter that weighed on me. And once I had found my savior, he was ripped away from my grasp to save another, so I reckon the saving is up to me now.

I wasn't an idiot, nor was I oblivious, I knew how Ashton ended up here. As cold and aloof as my father was, I couldn't deny that he would do anything to ensure my happiness, even usurp Ashton and Ms. Reid's well-situated life with a hefty check and a promise to give her an even better life. Maybe Mike Newton's mother would do well with Ms. Reid's killer balayages. Or maybe I could do with a change in appearance. 

With a sigh, I pulled the drawer to my nightstand and looked at the book that had caused me so much turmoil. Its title was gone and as I flicked through the pages, every last bit of ink was wiped clean off the surface, and all that remained was a pair of ghostly pale hands holding a red apple. The book was no better than a journal now. It was no use holding onto it, especially when things were turning out so differently to how I expected them to be— or rather, how they were written to be. I thought I had it all under control. I knew everything, I should've had it all under control, but it is only now that I'm nursing my heartache do I realise that there was nothing more truly and sincerely foolish than expecting any kind of consistency from anything or anyone. 

A restaurant's specials wouldn't stay the same nor would a little girl's clothing. A little boy who'd gag at the bitterness of coffee would soon come to love it once he rediscovers the office job elixir. So why should anything stay in stone— better yet, why had I deluded myself into thinking anything would stay the same?

***

I woke up, who knows how many days later, and decided that a change in scenery would be lovely and maybe even necessary. I cleaned my room and finally folded the piles of clean clothes in my basket. For whatever reason, it felt like I had forgotten that I was no longer only responsible for my room. While my room was now better than the shape it was formerly in, the same couldn't be said for the rest of my house. What very little food in my fridge was expired if not mouldy or a biohazard. I discarded of everything in my refrigerator and the empty pizza boxes that had built up next to my sink. Only once my house was clean, or as close as it could get to clean in an hour, I decided to get ready to go out. 

I showered, changed, scribbled on some eyeliner and fanned out my eyelashes with mascara, only then did I decide I was pretty enough for the world to see me. I stepped into my car, turning it on for the first time in what was just shy of a month. The very action of driving my car felt like a step back into old routine. I pulled into a diner with a name I couldn't remember, careful to avoid the food spots that my schoolmates or Jake went to. It was a bit of a drive to avoid familiar faces, but it was a price I was willing to pay. I took a seat in a booth and waited for a waitress to approach me. Thankfully, the waitress was a middle-aged woman, old enough to birth one of my classmates. 

"Hi there, sweetie," she smiled, handing me the menu. "I'm Joan, I'll be taking care of you tonight." 

"Thank you," I nodded, taking the menu from her hands. 

With a possibly even wider smile, she turned on her heel and tended to the other customers. I read the menu and looked over the vegetarian options. It was only then that I felt my hunger claw at my insides. I stared down the food names, imagining them each on my plate. Once Joan was back, I felt my lips move without my control. 

"I'll have a steak." 

I haven't had a piece of meat in over a decade, yet here I was, staring at a warm, bloody steak. My hands had a mind of their own as they tore down chunk after chunk, shoving them into my mouth. Every time I swallowed, I felt myself get lighter, like a part of me was being lost. It was only when my plate was cleaned did I realise that I had eaten myself too. 

It was a funny way of thinking of it, surely, but to some degree I felt as though I was cannibilisng on every last fibre of me that remained on the other side of that book, the ocean and the world. I had no business living as though the barrier which existed before still did. That mirror was a thing of the past, my world had grown accustomed to the way I ripped through both my realities and healed around it.

A deep cut never returns to its pristine shape before the blade ever touched the skin's surface, it forms a scar to honour what had come before it and cures itself for the future. It was time I did the same