In My Life

Chapter 51

I'd never been one for crying.
I hadn't cried despite all the ups and downs I'd faced with John. Not even with Paul. Not once.
Round of applause for Mr Winston Lennon for finally making me crack!

Despite having taken a refreshing shower to cool me down, I could still feel my roasting cheeks were moist from the never ending stream of tears; each drop from my eye no doubt evaporating by a single touch to the cheek.

I sat at my dresser, only to observe my appearance in the mirror. As expected, it was no surprised to see my red and bloodshot eyes; I looked truly worn out. My face also held a lot of burning colour to it, as it would do after such an evening, but it was my cheek which I couldn't take my eyes off.

Lightly, I traced my fingertips over the red mark he'd left there, still in disbelief that it was him who had done it.

'"What about you? He hurt you?"'

I recalled Paul's concerning tone.

'"Never!"'

"Never." I repeated flatly to my reflection as I fought to hold back another shower of tears, unwilling to believe otherwise.

I turned from the mirror sharply, no longer able to look at myself, for I knew I'd only gawp and weep.

"Homework." I thought to myself. "Nothing more to take my mind off it that homework."

And so, I reached for my school bag beside my desk, tipping it upside down and causing a scattering across the my bedroom floor of all that consisted inside. I scampered through the masses of rubbish and mess in search of a pen and paper to start with an English essay, but instead stumbled across a long and forgotten object lost in the chaos.

'"Haven't you read that book enough times already?"

"Books are meant for reading more than just once."

"Yes but that is to a certain extent Lennon. An extent of which you've exceeded."

"You'd best take this from me then. Make sure you don't catch me getting my nose in it again."'

I brushed my fingers gently across the spine and each edge of the book, careful to preserve it in its current state, and flicked through its delicate pages only to inhale its roaming scent. It smelt like how John had always used to, which was comforting at the time.

Holding the book tightly to my chest, I cradled it mournfully as I bit my quivering lip, clasping a palm to my worn cheek.