Frisson

Chapter 5

Songs for the chapter are:

To Be With You--The Honey Trees

Bloom--Paper Kites

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*Eliza's POV*

I shiver.

 It’s a bit cold out to be wearing shorts and a sleeveless top now that the sun has gone down.  The lights of the city blot out the stars in the sky above as I lean against the brick wall of the stadium and wait for my mom to find me.  I know I shouldn’t have bolted out of the meet-and-greet like that, but what else could I do?  I wasn’t exactly worrying about what my mom would think.

A sigh escapes my lips as I slide down the rough wall to the pavement below.  As they are bound to do when I’m nervous or upset, my hands automatically seek out the ragged cover of my leather-bound journal and pull it from my backpack with the ease of a thousand identical past actions.

Even if I don’t actually write anything in it, the feeling of holding this old book in my hands is comfort enough at times such as this.  With a growing sense of release, I begin to flip slowly through the pages, my eyes trailing over passages so familiar they’re half memorized.

A poem here, a line of prose there, a quote from a book or song on the edge of that page, a sketch of a crescent moon on this one.  These are the inhabitants housed on the pages of my journal.  These are my creations, given life by the pen that is forever clutched in my hand.  This journal is like a drug.  I cannot go a day without having it, touching it, feeling it seep into my pores.  It calms me and balances me.  I am a dependent and this book is my enabler.

As I continue to scan through the pages, my hand stops its idle movement, and my eyes settle on a particular verse from several months ago.  The poem, first written by Robert Frost, is simple, but in its simplistic brevity lays its power.  Ironically enough, it also happens to sum up exactly how I feel in this very moment.

The rain to the wind said

‘You push and I’ll pelt.’

So they smote the garden bed.

That the flowers actually knelt,

And lay lodged—though not dead.

I know how the flowers felt.

I pull the book to my chest, as if by holding the worried pages a little closer they can somehow keep me from falling apart.

I had had this one shot to thank them.  To show that I appreciate them every single day for what they did for me without even knowing who I am.  I had had this only opportunity sent like an angel from God.  To try and explain how grateful I was to them.  I had had this last moment to see their faces and say two simple words:  thank you.

And I blew it.

     I close my eyes and lean my head back against the brick wall, fighting back the burning in my eyes.  No, dammit, Liza, you are not going to cry over some stupid boy band.  Not now; not ever. 

I swallow hard and mentally shove the thoughts to the back of my mind like the unwelcome intruders they are just as the sound of footsteps comes from around the corner, causing me to stuff my journal back in my bag and shoot to my feet, desperate to hide any semblance of weakness or a breakdown.

But it’s just Sam.

Her deep brown eyes stare straight into my own hazel irises, silent and knowing.  For a long moment, she simply holds my gaze, free of judgment or pity, before nodding and saying quietly, “Come on, Liza, your mom sent me to find you.  Let’s go home.”