The Nerve Wreckers

part 14: what hurt the most

Short note: Hey! This story is almost coming to an end:) about three chapters left, and I promise you'll love the ending! I drafted it thrice to make it the best, just for you :) Would you do me a favor and vote? All I want is just one vote, that would make my day! I'm on wattpad for the love of writing, not fame, but it would be absolutely lovely to know that you truly enjoyed it! <3

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I supported the drunken young chap, his arms slung over my small frame, all the way to his apartment. I fumbled in his pocket for the keys and successfully manage to unlock the door on the first try. He was such a heavy guy, that the minute we stepped into the house I couldn’t bear his weight anymore and accidentally let go of him, letting him slump intoxicated on the floor.

                  “No Marcus not here,” I said to the almost knocked out, semi conscious boy, who wanted to sprawl out on the wooden floor to sleep. “Come lets get you to your room, then you can sleep ok?” I patted his head like he was a toddler as I gently and steadily supported him to his room.

                  Nothing changed. The interior was the same. The ambience was the same. It had the Fisher’s homely scent. I vaguely remember Marcus’s hoodie also smelling like that (no matter how many times I’ve worn it, my scent hasn’t grown on it yet).

                  He fell down onto the springy bed- where we once shared a cuddle- in a starfish position, with irregular snoring noises. Assuming that he was already sleep, I unbuttoned the rest of his shirt, without any mental preparation for the feast my eyes were going to binge on. It wasn’t the first time I had seen him shirtless, but this was a totally different context. I forced myself to snap out of ‘intent appreciation’ for his upper body. Hey, anyone would agree that he was the epitome sexiness. Just as I was about to remove the shirt, he started mumbling, sleep talking maybe?

“Like what you see, huh? Sorry babe, not interested… unless you’re her…” He slurred. At first his words sounded like Greek to me, but I got the gist of his phrases. He thought I was an easy pick-up bargirl, throwing myself at him, ready for a one-night stand. He was unwilling to make love, with the exception for that one girl he had his eyes set on.

Silly boy didn’t even know who he was with the whole night.

                  “I’m not interested either,” I laughed jokingly, “be a good boy and change out of these all right? You reek of whiskey, and it smells very bad.” I tried to reason with him. His face scrunched up in disappointment and reluctance to get out of his comfortable position, but I ultimately managed to get the dirty clothes off him.

                  Pouring some hot water into the plugged basin, I soaked in a face towel. Then I tried to gently, careful not to wake him up,  give him a little rinse by wiping him with a hot towel. At least that would make him more refreshed in the morning. Drew told me this was the formula for hangovers. After I was done, I stupidly realize: I didn’t know where he kept his shirts. Ugh it’ll be my entire fault if he caught a cold. But what could I do? Not like he could wear my shirt. I simply tucked him in extra tight with the comforters. Letting him sleep naked-almost- was a bad idea.

                  So what exactly should I do now? I want to leave, escape from reality. I couldn’t even bring myself to face him after all this bullshit I made him go through, because of my selfishness. All along, it seemed as though I was the sole victim. But there are no secrets that time does not reveal. The scars he inflicted on me blinded his subtle but overwhelming genuine care, concern and love. But never did I ever stop to consider the scars I inflicted on him. Pocketknives pricked my heart, but daggers pulled him apart.

                  But I needed another chance. This chance was to set all right, patch the cracks in his heart and in all hope that he wouldn’t give up. I had to face him, no matter what. There was no running away. I needed a last opportunity to explain all this from the very beginning, because all this was obviously too complex for neither of us to understand. Both of us were helplessly lost, trapped in misconceptions and misunderstandings again and again and again. Well, even if he chose to walk away, at least I tried to keep the boat afloat.

Marcus’s

                  I woke up, surprisingly with the lightest hangover I ever had. Well for almost twelve whole pints of alcohol, the degree of this migraine was unexpectedly tolerable. Why did I only have boxers on? Someone explain what happened?

                  A scruffy and bleary film rolled in my mind as I tried to recollect the events of last night. I sat down with, a stranger, and talked about… my feelings? People sure do weird and whacky stuff three sheets to the wind. Hopefully that stranger didn’t think of me as bizarre. I mean, what would your impression be of an wasted, inebriated male talking about his feelings of a crush like a high school freshman over a jock? I know.

                  I grabbed my phone, the screen illuminated at the push of a button. Saturday 12 July, 11:34 p.m.

                  Class with Carrie Dillon in exactly twenty-six minutes. I sighed. A part of me looked forward to the class- to see her.

                  Stop dreaming. Fat hope. Obese hope, Marcus. She’s not going to be yours. You can dream however you want, but how far can a dream take you? You already gave up, so act like you mean it. Falling in love is not your thing. You’re just going to get hurt anyway.

What hurt the most

Was loving you so much

But that not being enough

What hurt the most

Was watching you walk away

Walk away into his arms

What hurt the most

Was having you so close

But not close enough

What hurt the most

Was watching you love the other

With the love that was meant for us

What hurt the most

Was knowing I can never have you,

But

What hurts more than anything else

Was when I finally realized

I never had you