step into the sun || c.m

chapter twenty seven

Connor woke to the sound of the neighbors mowing their lawn. He rolled over, hoping to wrap his arms around Cierra, wanting nothing more than to tell her he loved her one last time before the moving trucks and the mortgage payments took her away. But the only thing that met his hands was a cold sheet, and suddenly he realized he was completely by himself. Not just in the moment, but in general. Now, he was completely and utterly alone. The only person he had in his life he cared about and had cared about him in return, had slipped right out of his life. 

He tried to cry, knowing all of the emotions would bubble over eventually, and he'd end up breaking something, maybe his hand since he used to have a habit of punching things, but Cierra had told him to stop, since it reminded her of her father. So he had stopped, forcing the violent mannerism down into the depths of him. Now there was no reason to keep it under wraps. But right now, he didn't feel like crying, or punching anything. He just felt like lying there. Lying there and missing his best friend. Missing the love of his life. 

He had no idea how long he was simply lying there, feeling sorry for himself, and sorry for everything he had lost, which was in fact everything. Eventually, his limbs started to numb and the once early morning light had faded into a deep blue, causing his heart to ache even more, knowing hours upon hours had been spent alone. He sat up, rather slowly as he slung his legs over the side of his bed, pulling his boxer shorts back onto his body, due to the fact he hadn't even bothered to get up and put some clothes on. He had intended to head to the bathroom, but his eye was caught by a white box, similar to the one Cierra had kept all of her pens and pencils in. In fact, it was the box that Cierra had kept all of her pens and pencils in. His feet carried him over to his desk, littered with black notebooks and canvases that had only been painted on slightly or not at all, and this white box that had her name scribbled on it in purple ink. There was a small piece of folded up card stock from one of Connor's sketchpads folded up on top of the box. His hands fumbled as he pulled the note open from its sloppy fold. 

I didn't feel like finishing the scrabook, so here's all the polaroids. I kept a few though. I decided to keep one more photo in my camera, I know we were supposed to take one today... Or yesterday if you're reading this tomorrow. This doesn't make any sense... Here's most of the photos, hope they don't make you cry like a pussy or whatever. 
I love you

He tore the note into small pieces, throwing them across his room in a scattered pattern. He didn't even care that those were the last words Cierra would ever say to him. 

Yes, ever. 

"Connor, come down stairs! It's the first day of senior year!" Connor's eyes shot over to his window, and his stomach dropped. He had no idea how long he had been standing at his desk, possibly hours, possibly a few short minutes and he had simply not noticed the slightly lightening tone of the sky. He didn't really care what time it was, he just knew that he didn't want to go to school. He didn't want to have to deal with anyone, even himself. 

"I'll go tomorrow!" He hollered back, knowing if he put up enough of a fight that she wouldn't make him go. 

"Connor, get down here now." He heard his father's rumbling voice, and he knew that today may not be the day to try and fight his way into staying home. He somehow managed to find his black jeans and a black t-shirt, throwing on that jacket he wore a lot more often than he was aware of. He pulled his combat boots out, seeing all of the doodles across them drawn by Cierra, and he decided to place them in the back of his closet, grabbing the ones his mother had picked up for him a week or so ago, adamant on not breaking the tradition of getting Connor new school shoes every year, even if he wasn't there with her to pick them out. He laced them up, trying to pretend that there were sharpie marks across the toes, when there in fact were none. He grabbed his messenger bag, the one he had been using since sophomore year, some old notebooks and binders shoved in, he knew for a fact he would never need them again. He slammed open his door, stomping his way down the stairs, his entire family already at the breakfast table.