The Space Between You and Me

PART TWO

unedited 

MOTHER was not as pleased as the doctors were. I was the talk of the town, my devilish ways and attention seeking behaviour. She refused to look me in the eye for a month, speaking to me in short, sharp sentences. More than once, she told me, a bottle of wine in hand, that she wished the neighbours hadn't of reported the gunshot to the police, that the police hadn't of called an ambulance and that I hadn't of woken from my slumber. She wished that I had of been sent to the Devil, to Satan himself. I wished I had pressed the gun to my temple instead.

Most nights after I returned from my hospital trip, she drank herself into a slumber, throwing words of hate and vases in my direction. I was the reason that father had left, she decided. He had seen the Devil within me whilst I was a child and escaped while he still had the chance. I was the reason why the love of her life, her soulmate, the person God intended her to be with, left her forever; and she was determined to make me feel every single ounce of pain she did, both physically and emotionally. Within the space of three weeks I learnt the art of stitching broken skin back together and covering black fingermarks with layers of foundation and smiles.

It peaked in the fifth week of my return, the day of my father's birthday when she stood swaying slightly, the gun I used to try and fill the hole in my chest in her hand and pointed directly at me. I grinned, an empty, tormented grin and told her to pull the trigger; so she did, the bullet grazing my arm. Blood gently flowed from the wound, a steady stream of platelets and erythrocytes and leukocytes.  I wished she hadn't of been so drunk that night so she could have been a better shot. The neighbour's didn't report the gunshot. They wished just as much as I did that the bullet had of lodged itself in my brain, erasing the dark stain I had left on our beloved town for good.

The blood stained the carpet no matter how hard I scrubbed and mother passed out before she could take another shot, bottle of wine still grasped tightly. I sat on the floor for hours, watching her steady breathing and the blood slowly clot on my arm. The scar is still there today.

Two weeks after my second near death experience, I saw you for the first time in ten months. Your hair was shorter, your back was straighter, but your eyes were empty. You smiled at me from across the street as you held hands with your latest conquest, no doubt set up by your mother (with the help of God?). They were beautiful, your conquest; although I expected nothing less, you were too beautiful to not have a partner who was as equally visually appealing.

What did they possess that I did not? Did they notice how whenever you were nervous you wrung your hands together and talked too quickly; did they notice the spark of passion in your eye when you spoke about art; did they notice how your front tooth was slightly chipped from the time when you tried to jump from one bank of the river to the other and tripped?

Did they know how soft your lips were? How warm your skin was, even on the coldest of nights? How safe it felt to be held by you?

I smiled back, all teeth and no love.

I wondered if you ever loved me.

Three months later I got my answer. We ran into each other, literally, outside of the butcher beside the bakery. You asked me how I was, a question that you already know the answer to, and I told you that I couldn't feel a damn thing anymore. You were quiet and I asked you, voice full of resentment and bitterness, how your trip was. Your eyes widened filled with shock - fear? - and you said that they fixed you. I said, 'how can they fix something that makes you, you', to which you replied, 'with a lot of determination and Jesus-loving'.

I froze, hands shaking. Were you still in there? Were you still you, the real you, the you I loved? Did they fail, did they fail, did they fail? Have you come back to me?

You smiled even though it didn't reach your eyes and said that you had to get home, that you were already running late and your mother would have a fit if you took even a second longer to return. I grasped your arm, my heart racing a hundred miles an hour and suddenly I could feel everything that I had been trying to desperately to submerge. You tried to shake it off, but my grip tightened, knuckles white as the question tumbled out of my mouth before I could stop it. Whether it was the bottle of Jack sloshing in the bottom of my stomach or the hole in my chest that I was so desperate to fill, I do not know.

'Did you ever really love me?'

You told me to stop living in the past. I could get help for my sickness, you said. I did not have to live as a sinner. I could make a full recovery, I could be the perfect child my mother always wanted, I could wipe the slate clean. You told me that God would forgive me. I told you that I would have to forgive God first. You told me that the night all those months ago was a mistake, that we were a mistake. The Devil tempted you and if you could, you would erase the night from your memory. That was the moment that I knew that you, the real you, the you I loved, was gone forever. But regardless, I lent forward and kissed you anyway; directly in front of my mother and your father and the entire fucking town because (I love you).

You were shocked, eyes wide and terrified; like the night all those months ago. I grasped onto the back of your neck and refused to let go as I breathed in your scent and bathed in the taste of your mouth; lips so soft and sweet and (oh my god I love you I love you I love you)-

Pain exploded in my cheek. I jerked away, lips tingling and you stared at me, eyes empty as you lowered your fist. Isn't it ironic how history tends to repeat itself? I bit my as you clenched your jaw and spat at you. You told me that you hated me. (But I love you) I felt my heart, what was left of it, explode in my chest, pain radiating through my body. I had lost you; they had taken you from me, God had taken you from me.

You turned away from me. Blood dripped out of my nose, but I refused to cry. I would not let you see how much you broke me, how much your rejection pained me to my very core. You met your father, shoulders slumped and he ran a hand through your hair and told you he was proud of you for refusing the Devil's temptations.

I was the Devil, the temptation that threatened to shatter your way of life, the living representation of everything that is wrong with the world we live in. I was not human to them, to God, to myself; I was nothing.

I licked my lips once, twice, trying to taste you just one more time. My mouth was dry, my head was spinning. You were gone, the real you was ripped from me.

Regardless, I got my answer. You never really loved me. Was it fake, what we had? A figment of the imagination? Did you enjoy leading me on? Was it a game to you?

I meant nothing to you and you meant everything to me and for the second time, I wished I pressed the gun to my temple instead of my chest.