The sun is rising, breaking its way through her curtains, to stain the blackness behind her eyelids an orange. She sighs, and opens them to the six a.m. sun, and her eyes feel puffy. No wonder why to her. They sting and throb listlessly, just like every other part of her.
Nora hums and rolls over, curling tanned arms around her teddy bear, the only company she ever has in this damn squeaky bed. He smells of perfume, and she inhales and closes her eyes again. It reminds her of her grandparents, a small comfort in hard times.
She feels pathetic. A typical teenager, in a misery over a fucking boy. Yes, pathetic. She thought she was above this. Above breaking down over someone not entirely worth it. Above pouring out everything she had in trying to make it work. She hated feeling like this. So...raw. So easily warped and twisted with simplistic words into something grotesque and greedy. That’s what this feeling was. A coiled, scaled beast in her stomach that would rear its broad head at any thought of his name, that would roar and make her whimper. It was a beast that ate at her, made her writhe and groan and damn everything she could think of.
Including the boy.
She gnashes her teeth into the bear’s ear, and the material feels strange on her teeth and tongue. She growls and clenches her eyes shut tight.
Why was she like this? What turned her into a needy woman? She’s never been like this. Yes, she’s wanted people. She’s wanted people by her side, in her arms, simply there, but never has it been this strong, and this painful. Not even with Mary. Mary was the exact opposite; she drove Nora away. But this...was very different. And very infuriating.
She can’t go a day without thinking about him. It’s all a mix of thoughts. I fucking hate you to goddammit just come back to America you shithead. Positivity to negativity in a flash. Vice versa. She hated him. She loved him. She wanted him to eat shit and die. She wanted him there, so she wouldn’t be alone anymore. So she wouldn’t have to face the dark alone anymore.
Nora hates the dark. And she hates being lonely. With those two combined, Nora is a self-loathing wreck. Things that shouldn’t move twitch in her periphery. The guitar on the wall has turned to a looming Devil. Her concert mask hung on the wall has turned into the mannequin face of a monster who has plagued her nightmares since she was little. She hates the dark. And she wishes that that damned boy were there to hold her and assure her nothing bad would happen. Nothing bad would happen this time, I’m here it’s okay. She wants that. She needs that. She needs assurance.
It frightens her how much she needs it.
Her nails dig into her arms, and the soft pop of skin and the warm sluggishness of blood makes her open her eyes. She stares into the ever blank face of her bear, and nuzzles down into the crook of its neck, and pretends there’s a heartbeat.
She’s forgotten about her brother’s stereo, how it plays her CD on repeat.
“Sleep on and dream of love...for it’s the closest you will get to love...poor twisted child...so ugly, so ugly...”
Fucking British asshole.
Britain.
Fuck that place, she thinks vehemently as she claws deeper into the marks on her arms.
Fuck him. Fuck her. Fuck all the plans Nora had ever made. She wants to drop it and continue on with her life. Just forget about it all and carry on. That’s what she’s done her whole life, she can do it now.
But she can’t.
She can’t drop it that easily. Like biting off a finger. She could do it, but it would hurt, and it would bleed, and it would fester and eventually turn into a sensitive lump of scar tissue, forever being bumped, forever pained.
She wished she could leave it. Leave it behind like an old drawing. She was good at that. Abandoning half finished works.
But she always went back, to fix what she could. She tried her damned hardest, erased, redrew, redo it all over. Love, she found bitterly, is a primitive form of art. It starts as an idea, just a simple flirtation, and suddenly the rough sketch is there. The fumbling words passed between them, growing into something more. Thicker lines, a thicker sense of what is happening, what could happen. A splash of color, a splash of emotion. Reds, greens, and blues. Lust, peace and happiness. If Nora could paint a picture of what she felt, she would use those colors.
She presses the heels of her palms into her burning eyes, grinding her teeth.
It’s not a picture for her to paint anymore.
No, those feelings aren’t reciprocated, those colors don’t exist on his pallet. There are new colors. There’s a new girl.
Nora feels used.
She said things to that damn boy, things she kept hidden, things she only told her pillow, things she only breathed to her room. Those were her feelings, her desires, and she shared them, and he shared his. It was exhilarating. It was scary. It made Nora cautious. Far too good to be true, right? Someone who wanted her, someone who wanted to see her scarred body, touch it and revel in it. It couldn’t be true. Not even Nora wanted to look at herself. Why would this boy?
She feels the tears building and she bites them back, because fuck all if she’s going to cry about that. No. Her chest shudders and she gasps, gritting her teeth, head tipped back till the tears vanish.
Why shouldn’t she, though? She has reason to cry. All those things she told him, nothing more than a way to get off. That’s how Nora feels, now. Nothing more than a body to use. No better than a doll. She hates herself for telling him those things. She regrets ever bringing it up.
She liked him. She loved him. She thought he felt the same way.
She still likes him, and she still loves him, but she knows, he doesn’t.
Nora sucks in breath needily, pressing her face against her bear, swallowing down sobs.
Nora isn’t sure when she turned into this. A pitiful, needy creature.
The sun rises, and bleaches her room orange. She turns and stares, looks to the poster covered wall, how the ink is dyed in different hues. How the colors have shifted and changed, and remained the same.
Nora relates. She’s been warped, she’s been twisted, and still, she remains the same. The same girl. The same thing. With her insecurities, with her loathing, with her yearning. She glances at her phone, deletes his messages, and lets out a heavy sigh. Her CD mocks her.
“He knows...he knows...or, I think he does...I live in the arse of the world, he knows I’d love to see him happy...or as close as is allowed.”
She needs a new CD.
