I live for her

Chapter 4: Trials Of Self-expression

"What's wrong?"

Her lips curved into a fake smile. "Nothing.". (I know it's fake because her eyes didn't smile... but don't tell her I know her that deeply).

I grabbed her soft pale hands. "You're not one to cry over... nothing." I said tilting my head towards the soaked tissue cradled on her lap.

She knew I was right and wiped a tear running down from her left eye as it as it raced towards her cheek bone. "My step-dad assaulted my mum," she said as she stared despondently at the tissue - she looked like a flaccid decomposing sunflower. My sunflower was dying on the inside, I could feel it as she remained speechless waiting for me to say something. I could feel it as I tried to imagine the overweight-chef husband of her mum striking his wife. It wasn't a pretty sight watching layers of fat on his arms wiggle as he hit her across the face. (Okay, maybe... just maybe - it was a little bit funny. But I couldn't laugh while she remained sad.). It wasn't a pretty sight watching Emily's thin, frail and submissive mother's eye widen in shock with terror on her face and confusion stirring in her mind. I could imagine Em, witnessing it all, in a perplexed and frightened state. She probably couldn't sleep. (I don't know why she didn't text me - I wasn't asleep either...).

"Is she alright?"

"Yeah, she went to work."

"Hey, Em," my eyes make contact with her sorrowful green globes - they glistened with enough tears to stab my chest. "I know it must have been scary for you and all, but it could have been worse 'cause she's still fine."

"Leroy!" She obviously didn't understand my response and I had only two choices. To tell her what she wanted to hear or to tell her the truth... To tell her the truth... To tell her the truth. (I could also kiss her for no apparent reason, but my lips were tired? No. I couldn't. Girl's lips were crusty - and she didn't look attractive enough to kiss with those smears of tears rolling down her face.).

"Look, my mum is in the hospital right now, she's literally in between dying and living with that cancer in her brain... And your mum is at work right now concealing the marks with makeup, take this with a grain of salt, but your situation could be worse and it isn't." I exhaled a lungful of carbon dioxide after getting all those collections of words, that made me reek of pathos and insensitivity, out of my mouth. (And also, I don't know why I said that.).

After examining my eyes for signs of clowning, she apologized and wrapped her arms around me. I hugged her back. As my body surrendered to the warmth of her compassion she asked about my mum's well-being and I told her I didn't know how she was doing. I ran my fingers through her black hair - it somehow helped to calm my nerves. (Vulnerability like this always spikes my nerves. It thrusts my body into some kind of storm of emotions - I held on tightly to her until the wave of waves stopped flushing my cells with feeling. The waves subsided, the smell of strawberry shampoo glided into my nose.).

She says she'll go with me the next time I visit. I tell her that I'm not going and before I can justify my statement her slender-fingered hand strikes my cheek with so much intensity and ferocity of more than a pack of lionesses that my skull rotates upon the axis of my axial bone and my eyes land on the anxious drug smoker on his way to work adjacent the bus's window. The slap was accompanied by a two minute lecture on how my mother was a "beautiful vessel that brought me to this world" and how I owed my life to her and how I should treat her like a "freaking empress or some lady of royalty!" which did a pretty good job at convincing me to schedule a visit this weekend. (The slap, not the... lecture. Her green stones told me she had more slaps to bestow upon my suffering cheeks... so I had to say what she wanted to hear.).

She kisses my left cheek after I complain that it is searing and she laces my fingers through hers after I thank her for the kiss... And the support... or abuse. She laughs, and I don't even care about how cliché this sounds, but that giggle set my chest alight and all that cliché stuff love poets say. My sunflower was no longer flaccid, no longer decomposing, no longer dying.

She rested her head on my shoulders. "No need to worry." And even though I knew that I had a million-and-one reasons to worry, even though I knew she herself was not confident in her statement: she uttered those four words in a tone that made me exhale all the tension ravaging my body... she made me believe everything was okay, and I knew nothing was okay.

Minutes went by before she said, "I'm sorry for not realizing your mother's case was hurting you." And I realized she didn't know anything - about me. I realized I knew more about her than she did about me. I realized this was the struggle interwoven with the sweet pros of being an introvert: you expect people to understand you on a deeper level, just because it's innate for you to understand others on a deeper non-verbal level. And in my most blissful of dreams, my subconscious depicts her as someone who knows me on a deeper level - more than just my mind, but also my heart and soul: the scars running across the walls of my myocardium and the cracks in my soul where my insecurities breed as I stare at the mirror in the morning. But, they're only dreams... no one notices the non-verbal stuff I give off: they all want to hear what I feel - but the introvert sees and feels what you feel... they can't acquire his empathetic nerve cells - and vulnerability is daunting to the one who drowns in internal thoughts and struggles to drain some of them out through the human activity of self-expression and conversation. (A.k.a me...).

Please tell me somebody studies me the way I study all these human beings in my peripheral vision... I want her to know me: so she can save me from myself.

I look down at her placated face. "Hey, Em."

"Yes, boo?"

"Do you ever...?" the question doesn't reach completion as my tongue buckles and lips close shut.

"Ever what?" She sat up straight and looked up, right into my... eyes. "Baby, talk to me."

I wrapped my arm around her and urged her to rest her head on my shoulder. "Don't worry... it's... nothing.".

The words clung onto my vocal chords but never wanted to escape the imprisonment of my mouth in the form of sound waves.

But the last thing I want is for my demons to debilitate me to the point where the Grim Reaper pays me a visit on some dark night... without somebody knowing that I tried to fight. Without someone knowing I was even facing skirmishes in my head. Without someone knowing that there was more to me than good grades and isolation. If I die, I want at least one person at my funeral to be there because they knew the real me - not the social butterfly/chameleon I often was when I felt like it and my self-worth for the day permitted it. I know how wrong and depraved this sounds - but if Emily's heart was scarred in some way by my passing... then all these sleepless nights wouldn't have been in vain.

She moves a little. "What are you thinking of so deeply about?"

"Nothing, just life and death."

She smiles - I don't know why. "Hmm... Death is inevitable."

"Yeah, you're right."

The school bus comes to a halt. 

She could either spectate... or join in, I'm fine with either. I'll be fine with either... I feel my bones moan and my heart hold it's breath as a purple-poisonous and pessimistic thought crosses my mind and converts my thoughts to a pitch black mental sea void... of hope.

I don't know what to do...

A/N: So what do you guys think of Leroy so far?

Please like, comment and share and tell me what you think of the story so far please.

And what poisonous thought do you think has soaked up all of Leroy's hope.

Choo-choo 🚉 I love you so much reader for investing your time into this. Off you go now: to the next station 😉 (that's the next chapter in case you didn't know 😅) 😘❤️