When I go to class, I remember how much I hate it. It's a brief slice of time that only reminds me of my inability to distract myself. Even the doodles and lyrics I scribble in the margins aren't helping, but they keep my attention a little more than the lecture. My professor drones on, and a sliver of moon gets scratched into the corner of my notebook.
Through the haze of Whitman's words, a line bursts through, and if I weren't in class, I would scream. Because all I can think of is Clair, and she eats away at my soul, a parasite I can't a kill, one I want to devour me whole, until there's nothing left of me except her. A line of a poem I don't care about can destroy me because it's her gone. Her gone.
"I hear you whispering there O stars of heaven,
O suns—O grass of graves—"
Broken-glass stars and chilled moon and—
And graves. Always graves and bones and ghosts.
She whispers. Always the past whispers to me, and I now can't even try to distract myself with class (g r a v e s) or with Lacy or when I slink outside the room, shoving everything into my backpack and letting the door swing shut behind me. Then there's nothing to do but knuckle my eyes to keep everything tucked away, to listen to my lingering footsteps as I push myself to the bathroom.
My breathing echoes off the tiles, and I lean against the sink, staring down the drain. I shouldn't study it (a hair clinging to the faucet, stained ceramic, grime in the grooves of the tile), but I can't tear my eyes away. This moment of fatigue rolls on, and I splash water over my face, like that can wash it all away. Scrubbing my face does nothing, but it feels as though everything will peel away, and sharp bones will be the only thing left of me.
When I lift my eyes to my reflection, my skin is still there, but I don't see me. There's a girl, sure, but her eyes are hollow, rimmed with sleepless nights, and her hands grip the lip of the sink so tight that her knuckles go white and she keeps leaning forward, like she can plunge through the glass and into some other world.
When did I become this? When did she become me?
My phone is in my hands (when?), and Tyler's number is ringing before I end the call. Would his voice reassure me? Would it put me back together? Would I unbecome this girl? I don't think so.
I don't answer when he calls me back an hour later.
YOU ARE READING
Minnesota Goodbyes
Teen FictionM., a college sophomore, is haunted by the events of a year ago that ended another girl's life. In an attempt to clear her conscience, she writes her confession down in a battered notebook addressed to a stranger. This search for redemption is far m...
