Broken Rules - Phan

Part 12

(TW Little bit of blood)
I had grabbed my shirt, wrestled jeans back on and walked straight out of the reformer block. I could smell the dank on the walls and practically feel the dirt and dust cling to my sweaty back. I threw my shirt back on and slammed the door behind me. I ran to my dorm, tears brimming high in my eyes.

My heart was racing. And it wasn't the good kind. My hands were sweating. And it wasn't the good kind. My eyes were starting to prickle properly, my throat was closing and my heart, I guessed, had stopped now. I heard the door being knocked frantically and I looked through the spyhole.

A sob hitched in my throat as I saw a mop of black hair and two blobs of blue through my blurry, tear clogged eyes. I slid down the door on my back with my head in my hands. My body convulsed with no sound pouring from my mouth,
"Dan! Dan open the door please!" His voice was frantic and his knocking was beginning to set me on edge. Phil wasn't allowed in the dorms. If someone heard him... But could I bring myself to open the door? To face what I'd done? Who I'd done?
"I know you're in there Dan! Please?" I could hear him holding back tears. I could hear him breaking down outside my door. But could I open it?

No. I couldn't. He was too much.
"Leave." Was almost incomprehensible under my sob. But as the knocking stopped and soft footsteps started to become inaudible, I let out all the breath I'd kept in my lungs from pressing it all back. And with that breath came a burst of tears and sound. My nose started to dribble, my chest and my eyes panged with pain, my legs and my head began to feel very heavy and suddenly I was full of inconceivable anger.

Pushing up from the door, I looked around. My hands were shaking and everything was red. My chest was banging like an African drum and my eyes felt like I was being pierced by needles. I punched the wall to my left and watch the blood trickle off my knuckles. Instead of anger pumping through my veins, I started to become very heavy. My eyelids were dropping, my chest weighing me down and my legs wobbling like jelly. I fell onto the bed, the tears staining the pillow considerably, and I let my body jolt.

I let myself move, wobble and jolt. I let myself cry. I let myself feel sad. And I had no idea why. Here I was, sobbing and panicking over a photo which might never be shown to anyone. The photo... Maybe I wasn't being selfish. Maybe I was looking out for Phil, because he could leave and he could leave me... No matter how many 'maybe' situations poured from my mind, they all ended with me being a selfish, greedy prick.

Something scrunched in my pocket and I stopped, I wiped my nose and my eyes on a tissue by my bed and tried to throw it in the bin. I missed. I plucked the piece of paper from my pocket; it had been folded neatly and into quarters. Pulling it open carefully, I sat up. It was a poem. It was written in scrawly handwriting, curvasive but to the point it was scraggly.

Maybe we're something special,
Maybe we're not,
Maybe we were just two lost souls,
Who were searching for a place to stay,
And for a few months,
We found a home in each other,
Maybe they made the rules,
Just so we could break them,
Because the best kind of rule,
Is a broken one.

I had put on the wrong pair of trousers. And these were Phil's. Phil wrote this. His beautifully formed piece of shit handwriting was in a blue biro writing about us. Me. Probably. He was so artistic and his words were so different. I usually hated poems that didn't rhyme. And here I was. Crying over something that didn't rhyme and was written by a guy.

Suddenly, I became very tired. Every limb was aching, telling me that I needed to sleep. But my mind was flitting. I had so many unanswered questions, so many situations I hadn't analysed. Like Chris. He had something to tell me, or ask me, I had forgotten right then. Was he going to warn me about it? Ask me why I wasn't around as much as usual? Why he hadn't seen me? Why would he care?

What was Phil going to tell me that he couldn't say through the door? Why had he written the poem? Did the photo fiend stop him from saying he loved me? Did my running away make him confused about it?

Did I love him? Did I love Phil Lester? The same Phil Lester with dark body ink but a light spirit. The same Phil Lester that told me 'flaws made you real'. The same Phil Lester that could scorn me without saying a single word and melt me with a single glance. The same Phil Lester who had taken up my entire life within a span of just a few weeks. Almost months.

The photo fiend. The more I thought about it. The more questions flew about in my mind. I knew only one person with long, curly, black hair. One girl. One girl with the motive, the know-how and the skills to do it. One girl who I hadn't seen for a very long time. Maybe Phil threatened her, and she had to be the one to get vengeance. But she was my best friend. Wasn't she? Dottie. She couldn't have..... Could she?

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Bum, bum, buuuummmmmm