Bitter Sweet

Letter to Grayson - Love

This will be on hold for the month of November in order for me to complete NaNoWriMo :( Therefore, I won't be entering this into the Wattys.

Dedicated to Natalie because she finally found her iPod; God bless her. We should've met in the summer when I went to her town, ugh.

Three more letters and epilogue. This is where everything goes downhill ah non

~


Hey Grayson,

I love Mom; I love her so much. And I know that she loves me back, but sometimes I'd get the notion that it was only because that she was my parent - she was supposed to love me.

Yesterday night, I went seven minutes past my curfew time. Mom was scolding me. I didn't reply; I just put away my book and turned off the lamp. But then her voice started getting louder and louder until it became shaking screams; you could hear the uncontrollable anger with every word that she spat out.

And you know what kind of things Mom said? She told me to quickly grow up and get the hell out of this house. That she wished that she could kill me. That she regretted giving birth to me.

Then what followed all those curses really caught me. She vowed that I could turn a good person bad.

Did she mean that have the ability to infuriate people? If this was what she tried to point out, then I agree - she was right. There were so many incidents in the past that proved her correct; I'm not going to even list all of them.

Mom went on ranting about how I made her sound and look like the Devil when she really wasn't - oh no, not one single bit.

I could pretend all I want that those things didn't hurt me, but the truth of the matter was that it did. I woke up today with a face sticky from crying.

"Sarah." How many times have you said my name this week? How many times have you struck up a conversation? How many times have I waited for you so hopefully to talk to me, to make me smile? I lost count.

"Yeah?"

You put a hand on my shoulder, the way you did everyday. "I read this riddle - well, it's not really a riddle - yesterday. It said that once there was a train track."

"Mm-hm?"

"On one end, there were five workers that came to check on the railway, and on the other side, there was just a person. The train is heading towards the five workers but you have a switch."

"A switch?" I asked with skepticism.

"If you flick the switch, the train would go the opposite way and kill the one person instead. So the question was: Would you flick the switch or not?"

There was a silence. Many of our silences before were comfortable, but this one felt like something heavy weighting down on my shoulders. It was the beginning of a bitter, frost-coated January; you've been acting strange ever since that day on the twenty-third of December when we spent our afternoon failing to ice skate on Eramosa Creek, escaping into the woods and hiding under a giant Christmas tree. And though you may not have noticed these days - your friends take note of it. While you are dwelling inside your mind a mile too deep with a constant Rubik's cube in your hands, they give you meaningful glances and discontent mutters (they do those same things to McKenna, don't they?). Your friends want the old Grayson back, and don't get me wrong - I do, too.

"What kind of people - what kind of people were the workers?"

You shrugged. "I don't know, they're just... people. Pretend that they're all equal."

But that could never be possible in real life. Nobody's equal - not in the same way, anyway. Favouritism always comes in the way, be it teacher-to-student or person-to-person or parent-to-children.

For the full three minutes while we walked to Chemistry class, I didn't reply. When I stole looks at you, your eyes were staring straight ahead. They were dark and grey, like the colour of the sky when a terrible storm was soon arriving. Your posture showed a slight stiffness - and while I know that it shouldn't bother me as much as it did - I'd never associated being serious with you, Grayson.

"I guess," I finally said, "I guess I'd flick the switch."

"You're reacting to the situation just like how a robot would."

"But that's because I don't know the character or morals of those people - if they had done more good than bad or the other way around and all," I protested.

"It's human nature," you explained, "Humans choose the greater quantity. But either way, there is always loss. Even winning has a loss to it - you lose the experience of not winning, which drives you to work harder and therefore achieving higher than winning in the first place."

Were those things what you tried to make sense of every day? I had a feeling that it was only a part of your thoughts, which was blended in with all those other philosophies and beliefs and theories that plagued the lonely. And you seem so lonely now, lost in your own world and impossible to reach.

"What would you choose?" I blurted out.

You gave me a small smile and momentarily, even your blue eyes lit up. That second, I believed that I had truly penetrated the barrier of your mind, like something that could be understood despite all the doubts that existed in the small world we existed in.

"I'd do the same as you, Sarah."

After all, you were human, too.

"The Winter Formal is coming up next week, isn't it?" I asked, even though that I knew perfectly well that it was. In eight days and approximately fourteen hours.

"Yeah," you replied half-heartedly. "Next week Friday."

Before I could think twice and regret it, I mustered up the little courage I had inside of me and asked, "Are you going to it with someone?" I made extra sure for there to be a playful tone in my voice.

And you told me, "Yeah. I'm going with Sarah Addison. Other Sarah."

First there was confusion. Then something inside of me broke - a clean, resonant snap only I could hear. Frozen in place, January frost branching off from my heart and reaching my fingers and toes.

"Oh."

"She asked me a while ago, like in November or something."

"Do you like her?" My smile was weak.

"I don't like anyone," you stated while flipping your hair from your face. Then you looked at me directly. "Sorry Sarah."

Before I could say anything else, we had arrived at the classroom doors. You quickly went in and sat beside Sarah Addison. I took the seat behind you - all alone. For the rest of the period, I didn't listen to a single word spoken by Mrs. Calvert. My eyes were burning holes into the back of your head. They widened in disbelief as my chapped lips were slightly parted, taking silent gulps of air, like a child opening a present to only find it empty.

Crazy thoughts raged inside my mind. Greedy, psychotic, insane, desperate, lunatic.

You were supposed to be mine. Mine. Mine. Mine mine mine mine mine mine mine mine you were supposed to be mine

Why? Why did you do this to me?
I should've know. Oh I should've known I should've known I should've known before

before

before I fell

in

love

with

you.

I love you.

I don't.

I do.

Someone like you was never supposed to be meant for someone like me. Nobody was supposed to be for me. I

should've

known.

I love you. I do. I do. I do. I really do.

I am poisoned by love. Tainted. Tortured. Killed. I blinked back the tears that were clouding my vision and blamed them on yawning and lack of sleep.

Mom just told me to come downstairs. When I made my way down, I was careful to walk - not run - because she hated the loud creaking of the wood floorboards.

"Sarah." She was brewing herself a mug of Kenyan coffee, which reminded me of the better times when I begged for a sip from her with a pleading face and smothering hugs. Now, it was just me and after-school trips alone to Tim Horton's.

I shifted on my feet while my eyes wandered around our small kitchen, with its dirty mops strewn on dark green counters and day-old food in plastic wraps that were yet to be sent into the fridge. We lived on arguably the plainest and the most secluded-looking house on the street, and for a total of five years.

Mom turned her face to me with one hand holding her favourite mug. "I'm sorry about yesterday."

That surprised me. She had never apologized in the past and I never did expect her to.

"I'm getting old. And tired." She shook her head.

Mom did look tired, more tired than I've ever seen her. There were deep frown lines engraved onto her once lively face. Her weary eyes resembled glass.

"Sarah, dear." She sighed. "Look at you. Thinner and thinner everyday."

I said nothing. I ran upstairs - yes, ran - and into the bathroom.

In the mirror, there stood a girl no older than fourteen. She gave me a measured look, like she was trying to analyze the entire world through a pair of washed-out hazel eyes.

That girl was me.

The skinny jeans I wore hanged baggy around my thighs, where it used to be tight and fitted. I cinched my t-shirt at my waist, revealing an alarmingly thin midsection.

I've changed so much in these few years. While I've always hoped to lose some pounds, here I was, unintentionally achieving my goal but still not feeling the triumph nor satisfaction that I imagined coming along with it.

You'd think that I'd end this stupid letter in some kind of grand, poetic fashion, Grayson, but guess what? I'm not. I'm only going to say this:

I'm tired of fabricating an illusion of a beautiful future for myself.

I'm tired of fighting a war that was already lost.

I'm tired of not being worthy of love.

I'm tired. So, so tired. I'm going to sleep now.

Lots of love (ironic, isn't this?),
Sarah.