The Man on the Moon (The Man Duology)

Chapter 26

The sun seemed to escape through the window's panes, like small rays of happiness. Even though over two weeks had passed since my mother slipped from my fingers, the disgusting taste of grief still sat comfortably on my tongue. As I peeled my face from the sheet, tears from the night before still danced along my pillow case. Leaving my lifeless feet to dangle over the edge, I tried to circulate fresh oxygen throughout my slouched body. My chest felt heavy, like the rest of me, and resembled a collection of stones instead of organs. Though, the birds' nest on top of my head, which was tied up in a scruffy bun, weighed the heaviest. Some strands cascaded down my cheeks, stroking them in a bid to clear the tears, and caught the sun, turning my hair into a honey-coloured, matted mess.

Lifting my body, I was greeted with a familiar room. Although I hadn't been in it for a very long time, a sense of stability was shown within the pictures hung on fishing wire, which drooped across the wall opposite my bed. When I looked at them, the memories would hit me. My old life was distant. The group of girls, that I called my friends, weren't the same anymore... But neither was I. The bags under my eyes were more defined, as if someone had highlighted them with a dark sharpie. My knuckles were always bright red, almost bursting with regret. Unlike before, my smile was crooked and forced... Although, Harvey leaving hadn't put me in an ecstatic mind set... It was nothing compared to the hollow feeling in my chest.

Eating became significantly harder, therefore my frame began to swallow the rest of me. My collarbones were knives, slicing through every shirt I owned. Personally, I thought I looked like death himself. The posture of a bent spoon, voice as deep as the ocean, eyes sunken further into my skull... Let's just say I didn't look desirable. But, somehow, he stayed. As my eyes panned across the room, ignoring the empty energy drink cans and tissue boxes, my gaze met his. Every time I looked at him was like the first time... Big, brown eyes, loving smile, friendly hands... Harvey lit up my entire room. Every single morning, by default, he would nudge me awake. Coffee in his hands; hope in his eyes... It would feel like the day. The day Eleanor Parks would finally wake from her emotional coma, instead of walking around like a useless zombie. Everyone was waiting for the day. Who knows what would happen? Would I, all of a sudden, launch myself from my bed of self-pity and begin making myself breakfast, humming while I worked? Would I be sat at my desk, hacking away at a college application form? Would I be applying to start work, while sitting in an ocean of application forms? Would I be dressed in my late mother's designs, posting her work online for the world to see? Would this day ever come, or was it a fantasy?

Surely, it was a fantasy. As I lumbered towards Harvey, my heart remained still. Even the warmth of his twice-as-soft-as cotton hands would keep my pulse at a standstill. Without a doubt, I still loved him. But how could someone feel love when they don't even feel like themselves? The sadness of the moon had drained me of my emotions, leaving me a shell of inhumanity to cower in.

Harvey's husky voice would normally cause my chest to flutter, but the butterfly was now tamed by a deeper loss. "How are you feeling today?"

Letting my silence speak for me, I collapsed my lethargic body into him. Immediately, he caught me and began stroking my hair. Although his fingers kept getting stuck, and it caused me pain, he knew it was something that put me at ease, despite feeling inhumane. As I sobbed, at the peak of the morning, he shushed me. It had become a regular occurrence. Harvey would wake me in the morning, before he would get up himself. You could almost smell his hope in the air, but it was automatically demolished by my negativity. I would take one look at him, at the room... And burst into a flood. Gently, he would cause my already-tangled hair to spiral. Sometimes, he would trace love-hearts into my skull and chuckle to himself. As I felt his belly wobble with laughter, the pity in mine would burn. Other people's laughter wasn't a cure for sadness, as much as Hollywood said so.