The Messy Months [EDITING]

August - 4

When Marcy got back to her apartment, she was surprised to see a small package had been placed on her faded welcome mat. She looked around, wondering if maybe whoever delivered it was nearby. Marcy saw only the nice shrubbery her neighbors pretended to like, and bent to set the light package on top of her clothes so she could get her door open.

Inside her apartment, Marcy went to work folding her stuff, her eyes on the box the whole time. When she was done she felt herself cave in and began to inspect the strange thing. It was small, fitting easily in her two hands. It was wrapped classically in brown paper and had her full name scrawled across the top in fancy script. She ripped the thing open, throwing her usual caution to the wind. For some reason, she felt as though the package were utterly safe.

Contained inside the box there were two things: a teeny tiny book and an index card. Marcy inspected the book first, only because in the back of her mind, Marcy could hear her mother scolding her for looking at the gift before the card. Now she could do whatever she wanted, something she was still getting used to.

She flipped through its pages, the print faded and ugly. But similar. She closed the book, trying not to think of what the handwritten letters reminded her of. She picked up the index card. In the same fancy script that was on the packaging, the card read:

"Parting is such sweet sorrow."

Marcy dropped the card, tossing the notebook onto the counter. She stumbled back until her legs hit the back of the couch, her hands lifting to her face. Then she sunk down curling herself into a quivering ball on the floor, and didn't move for hours.

Someone had sent her a notebook filled with Donald's script. Someone had used the same phrase that Trym has said to her just hours before.

And this wasn't the first time.

It had been a few months after the incident, and everywhere she turned, Marcy could feel the toll of her emotions weighing on the people around her. When she managed to drag herself out of bed and walk into her favorite street cafe to order coffee like a normal, non-grieving person, Marcy noticed how nobody would look at her. Nobody would meet her eyes. People dawdled about, looking sunken. And as soon as she left, it seemed like business picked up and through the window, she could see the employees taking deep breaths and happily going about their work.

When she tried going to the park, it was empty. No squirrels or geese, no families playing frisbee. No breeze. But as soon as Marcy would begin to walk away, life began to spring back up.

This bothered her. Was her misery really something so heavily felt that it leaked into her surroundings?

It began to twist into a fear of hers, causing her to stay in bed for weeks at a time, which was what she preferred anyway. Sometimes she would wake up to a sparkle of sunshine dancing across her cheek, look up at the ceiling with groggy eyes and think, "I can do it today." On those days, she got stuff done. She cleaned. Glanced at the classifieds. Tried not to be surprised by the date and tried her best to ignore the mail that had begun to pile up on the coffee table.

One day, though, on the day things were looking up—two weeks before the fall semester was to begin—she finally dug into the mail. She started with the freshest and worked her way back. While she opened the very last package, she noticed how much thicker it was than the rest. She hoped it wasn't a bill she forgot to pay. The address wasn't one she recognized, so maybe she was in luck.

Marcy dumped the contents out onto her lap, gasping at what sprang forth.

A pile of photos rushed into her lap, Donald's smiling face staring up at her. She screamed, pushing the photos away, watching hundreds of Donalds skitter onto the floor. Donald smiling, Donald laughing, Donald frowning, Donald choosing what to eat for dinner. Donald kissing Marcy. It was all focused around Donald. Only Donald.

It wouldn't have been so creepy. Marcy could've coped with the idea that someone actually sent his pictures through the mail to her. If she'd known the person. Or if it were Halloween and one of Donald's old jerk friends wanted to be a butthole. But the address was unknown to her. And these photos were ones she'd never seen before. They were taken several months after they first started going out and beyond that. There was even one of them leaving the Pacifica restaurant, Marcy in Donald's arms.

Marcy told no one about the photos, figuring they'd say she was making it up. Or worse, they'd send her to a mental hospital because she sounded so jacked up. So she ended up burning what she'd received and praying that it wouldn't happen again. It didn't, but this... this was far worse. First photos, now journal entries?

She tried to stay calm but it was hard. She wanted to toss the book and box and index card and never be haunted by this ever again. But she forced herself to swallow her fear and anxiety and sit down to read the notebook. Who knew, maybe it had something helpful inside.

It did, actually.

It was Donald's beautiful documentation of some of the most perfect times they spent together. Like senior day, a day in which Donald, Marcy and all the other seniors skipped classes for the whole day. They joined up with Hammy, Spammy, and Joyce to see a rerun of The Breakfast Club at the dollar theater.

Donald documented it as follows:

"There was something about the way she watched movies. She made me want to watch them too. Whenever she gasped, squealed or gripped my hand I could tell she was really getting tucked into the story. I could tell she felt like she was there, putting herself in the shoes of her favorite characters, living what they were living. Living the life the camera showed her.

"It's magnificent to watch. Because I like to live through her. I like to live through her living through the characters. I love her energy and tension. When I start to live through her I want to get closer. I start to stare at the slope of her devilish neck and the fullness of her lips, and it takes all the strength in me to stop myself from devouring her completely."

A few lines down he wrote, "God, even when we make out she tries to watch the screen. It's so hot."

Marcy laughed, trying her best not to admit to herself that she was crying. But there she was, crying.

She looked outside to see the afternoon fading into the evening. She tried to remember the day Donald was detailing, and she couldn't quite place it. She remembered the movie theater, but there were dark holes in the memories. It filled her with panic. Was she forgetting him? Was she forgetting their moments?

Marcy hopped off the couch, leaving the notebook and index card behind. She checked the time, deciding she'd get some studying done so her day wouldn't be so long tomorrow. She had multiple classes and long work hours, so she thought she may was well start planning out a schedule too.

An hour later she was out like a light.