How to Love Claire Mason

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"Claire, you seem lonely. Let's go away somewhere and hang out." His fingertips are brushing my bare arm. He is so close. He needs to leave. Now.

He's just some kid that has broken away from the group I pretend to be apart of. I've either forgotten his name or never bothered to learn it. He isn't attractive enough to follow anyway. And there's no way I can be alone with him, with anyone. The thought of it scares me to death.

Yeah, this makes it pretty hate to make friends; rejecting the few that attempt to reach out to me. But I have to. I can't let them get close.

I pull away from the boy, out of reach. He can't touch me now. I don't have to say a word. He knows what I meant. No, leave me alone.

What a strange bitch. I was just trying to be nice. God, what's with her. That's what he must be thinking. I can feel him judging me now. It stings, but there's nothing I can do. I can't get close.

Yesterday, in History, Nathan Roy told me I looked pretty. He is one of those "cuties" all the girls secretly want, but he isn't cocky. Because of his social status, I naturally, thought I'd heard wrong; I mean, he hasn't said a word to me all year. But when I glanced at him, he was staring at me, an expectant look on his face. So I took a chance. I said, "I'm sorry, what?"

"I said, you look really pretty today," he repeated, his large blue eyes unblinking. I was taken aback, but managed a quite, not overly excited, "thanks". All year we'd sat next to each other, sharing one long desk, and he hadn't breathed a word till then. Those were wonderful first words, I thought. But I couldn't believe them. Even after he repeated them, directly to my face, I tried to convince myself I was delusional. It's just a dream, Claire.

But it wasn't. This was, though:

It was another ordinary day in History, my last class of the day. We, Nathan and I, engaged in busywork, some worksheet Mr. What's-his-face assigned because he was too lazy to think up an actual lesson plan. So we were working away. Or at least, I was. I have no friends in the class, or in any class for that matter, but Nathan has a million, so of course he was chatting everyone up rather than actually working on his formulas. That's what made the dream so real, the accuracy of it all.

The only sound was the scratching of my pencil against the stark white paper and the constant, familiar drone of voices all around. I felt comfortable, there next to a cute boy who thought I was pretty. Sure, I hadn't yet managed to talk to him, but maybe I could one day. Maybe something would happen between us even. But my dream self pushed those thoughts aside, as I would have, and kept working. This went on for what seemed like ten more minutes, until there was a new sound: the sound of Nathan's pen hitting the desk. That was followed very quickly by the screeching of his chair across the floor as he turned, a few degrees. Towards me.

"Shh it's okay." Nathan breathes his second sentence to me. I can't register it, it happens so fast, but one moment we are working and the next my pencil is on the floor and his hand is on the zipper of my jeans. I must have dropped the pencil in shock. The classroom lights feel even brighter than usual. Everything, everyone around us becomes washed out in the lights as he reaches for me. My throat his dry, my head is pounding. Not this again.

Is this why he called me pretty? Is this the price I have to pay for being beautiful to someone? Is this what it means?

His hands are nimble on the button and zipper, they are undone and unzipped before I can cry out for help. But would anyone help me if I did? I can't see anyone anymore. "Shh," he says again.

I try to reach for his hands, to pull them away, to push him away, but my hands are somehow frozen, paralyzed. I cannot move them. I can only sit there submissively, offering my body to him like a sacrifice to a god. A sacrifice to feel beautiful, wanted, liked, needed.

My throat, my lips cannot form words, and so I am silent, silent as he reaches inside, forces his way with his hands inside and penetrates me with his cold, rough fingers.

I wake up with my hands curled into tight, red fists around what should be his arms, my nails digging into my own palms because of his absence. My heart is pounding, pounding, pounding. There are tears of fear and frustration in my eyes. An almost silent scream escapes my dry throat. I feel so helpless, so used. So ashamed. The sick feeling in my stomach I have upon dreaming that will not leave for days, it will only be worsened when I see Nathan, and of course, him.

Thank fucking God that was only a nightmare.

Nathan Roy and I will never, can never, be something.

I will scoot my chair a little farther from him tomorrow.

That nightmare caused by his proximity, can easily happen again.

This is why I can't let them get close.