In the Midst of it All

Not The End

I walk down the path, gulping as I do so, at the mere thought of what I am about to do. The soles of my boots scathe the chalky ground lightly, my footprints barely scarring the place I have traced with them on so many occasions. It is as if the memories themselves draw a protective sheath over what will be the cause of their undoing: me.

I lift the brass knocker, taking a sharp intake of air as I do so, debating whether I should do it, mentally preparing myself for what I have to do. I knock one, twice, three times, shivers running down my spine in confusion and sorrow. The door opens, fast, and I have a couple of seconds to regather the thoughts I once had held of what I should say, how I could say it.

As if words and their petty combinations could soften the blow.

Jackson kisses me the moment he sees me, slowly walking backwards so I can enter the house. When we pull away, he whispers: "I missed you."into my hair, and I can feel his heart beating steadily. How am I going to do this? I shut the door, and turn to him, opening my mouth to tell the news but I simply cannot bring myself to say it. He sees the serious expression on my face.

"Are you okay?" He says, concern flooding his face. I try to lie. To say "I'm fine." Normally it comes so easily to me but now, here, to him, I can only cry.

I bury my face in his shoulder, trying to stifle the hideously unsubtle sobs. "Cassidy, what's wrong?" His voice is now thick with worry, and I mentally kick myself for doing this to him. What kind of person am I?

But leaving him is the only way to truly find out.

Once I am sitting beside him on the leather couch, I try to form a sentence. I have to use every fibre within me to hold it together, but I stop myself from the inevitable fragmentation I will later encounter. We had our first kiss on this couch. Not here, I think. Don't cry.

Once I have given up on trying to start the sorrow with the words I cannot say, I simply hand him my expulsion letter. Or rather, my "we feel it would highly benefit you if you chose a career path that solely focuses on your poetic abilities" letter. It was basically my school, kicking me out because I had started a fight. Okay, that's an understatement, I started a high school alternative to World War III, and Jackson was there to witness it. He was actually my right-hand man. In your face, Brooklyn Matthews.

Except Brooklyn Matthews wasn't getting expelled. Neither was Jackson. I was leaving because I was the one with the label. The one with the giant sign protruding from her head reading: bad, misunderstood teenager. Needs help. But for some reason, Jackson didn't see that sign. He saw me. Except, even I don't see that anymore.

He reads the letter, slowly. Normally I would make a dig at him for not reading like I do, i.e: three hundred words per minute. But now, I jut watch in anticipation, trying to forget the words on it, though they burn so alight in the back of my hectic mind, layering stronger each time I have read them. I tried to forget what they said, what they meant, but I have read them too many times for that. When he looks at me, sorrow is not what I see in his eyes, nor disappointment. I am halfway between laughing and crying when I see the hope that illuminates them. How can he be hopeful when the truth is staring him in the face, in black and white?

It is both impressive and heartbreaking, knowing he is still being positive when the situation is unavoidable.

"What's this?" He says weakly, trying to manage a wavering grin. Oh. He thinks maybe it's a joke, a wind up. That maybe the world isn't this cruel, to bring two people together only knowing they'd be torn apart. It is an idealistic, optimistic, notion. But reality is an attention-seeking, insensitive, impudent, urchin that despises happy endings. It hunts them down and rips them to shreds.