Possessed

Chapter 2

    A monster.

    You were the varsity football quarterback our freshman year. You were on the honor roll throughout middle school. You were voted ‘most likely to succeed’ and ‘Best looking male’ our eighth grade year. You saved me from James Covington trying to put his hands down my pants at our freshman graduation.

    But you were a monster.

    It’s so hard for me to explain, because no one seems to get it. And I hate thinking about everything because it means that I have to drudge up all these memories that feel like gunshot wounds to my chest. You are the blood that seeps out of the gaping whole in my lungs.

            It is the third night that I’ve been back in town, a Friday. I decide that the weather is alright and go for a walk. I can’t stay in this house any longer, knowing that you’re right next door to me. I pull on a pair of loose blue jeans over my tights and a thick pea coat over my wool sweater. I don’t brush my hair or wash my face. I haven’t showered in days.

    Before I leave, Francesca asks me where I’m going. I shrug my shoulders and quietly close the front door behind me.

    I can hear the faint trumpet like sound of crickets humming. I imagine that, if I listen carefully enough, walking down the cobblestone path into the forest next to the house, I can hear the thrum and whirring of insect wings. They beat rapidly, like the incessant flutter of a heartbeat; I can feel the air vibrate against my skin; electric and painfully real.

    I hear the front door open and close slowly behind me. I pick up my pace.

I wish this forest would swallow me whole, consume me. It’s not cold, but instead incredibly humid and windy. You can taste rain in the air, thick and heavy and so tangible. I feel a drop, like condensation from a glass, roll off of the tip of my nose as I sit on a large rock at the edge of the forest.

    I want time to be alone, to think and to just simply be alone, can’t you see that? Can’t you ever just let me be alone?

    It is a rhetorical, internal question, and a stupid one at that. Of course you can’t ever let me be alone. There is no alone when I’m with you. You are everywhere, even when you’re not. You own me.

    You own me. And I’m sick to death of my weak, pathetic resolve.

You sit down next to me on the boulder and leave enough space between us so that I don’t feel uncomfortable. You don’t say a word. Instead we both look toward the sky, and I think of the impending storm, hoping that the rain will break free from the clouds and wash my face. You are looking up into the clouds, too, though I’m not at all sure what you’re thinking. Finally, you put your hand on top of mine and I sigh deeply.

This is the moment I have been dreading. You swallow thickly; I can hear it echo in my mind.

    “You’re so cold,” you say, and I know that you are not talking about how I feel physically. Emotionally, I am frozen solid. “It’s like you’re empty.” You read my feelings as though they were written on my face, plain as day and I cringe away from your touch.  You rub your hands together, as though that will be enough to wash the feeling out of them, but I know that you will be cold tonight. Just like me.

    “Please don’t do this,” you whisper “don’t shut everyone out.” Still, my head is turned up towards the moon. I wish for thunder and lightning to drown out the sound of your voice. Instead, it rings in my ears. “Fuck!” You yell. “Cora, please,” you’re much quieter, softer this time. “I’m not sorry,” and this doesn’t surprise me when it comes out of your mouth. “I’m not sorry, does that change anything?” I am silent and you grab my wrist, it doesn’t hurt, but it’s not gentle. “I did what was best for you, always, and I did what was best for us.”