He has to come over, first, we have to figure out how. I throw on a cardigan, slip into hip hugging leggings and bounce out the door. This morning its a little more chilly but not chilly enough. The sun is still managing to make me sweat bullets.
Thump, thump, thumping my way in worn down converse down a deserted nine a.m street. I'm practically sprinting on the pavement with no soles. Everything fades to static. Be it earbuds or sudden lack of imagine everything moves snail slow. The cardigan leaches to my skin like a thermal blanket set on high, my skin even starts to fight the fabric. I peeled it off and tie it around my waist, there's no time to assess the pools of pit sweat. My feet have a mind of their own, they know the destination while my head struggles to screw on right. I nearly forget Conner was on the phone with me tweeting in my ears as I autopilot down the sidewalk. All I catch is his direct comment,
"You're breathing hard there... Are you running the Miracle Mile?" I nearly jump out of my skin. I pause to catch my breath. My legs jerk to a violent halt like a car treading rubber, they didn't want to stop, neither did I.
"I guess I am," I stammer. My head's really ringing now. I probably sounded like the drunk mom that comes home on Saturday nights totally sloshed. Conner chuckled, "Alright baby. Just please, breath!" I grinned, he never really calls me "Baby". It had a ring to it, I liked it.
"It's okay if I call you that right? That's what boyfriend's do... Right?" Conner studdered, sounding unsure. I paced to a slow gallop, heavily breathing on the earphone mic. I giggle. Who would've thought I could giggle so girly? I had a voice as thick as molasses, way deeper than most girls. I was able to sing to the deep tenor of Brendan Urie's voice, I considered that a natural talent. I smirk, continue on my tail wagging way to the park. It's a shame I'm not a blissful puppy on a leash, life would be too good with constant pampering. I felt more like a horse. I began to gallop again, the wind played with my hair as I ripped through the sidewalk. Conner tried to take me by the reigns, leashes don't work on horses, do they? Neither of us spoke while I run away from more disaster. My head begins to throb. I'm choking on unsaid sentences that begin to rot in my head. I'm shackled to this voice in my head leeching up my throat. Am I making a mistake again? Teenage love is stupid, never lasts, I won't last.
"Park bench!" Huff, huff, "park bench," I repeat, swallowing hard as my hands hit cold bench sweat. I stumble onto the bench being careful not to collapse completely into it. I exhale smoke, my lungs have disintegrated into dust. I'm doing things I never thought I could achieve. Physical activity?
"You'll be picking up dust by the time you leave," a voice echoes inside of me.
"That's new." Conner's voice rings in my ears, unexpected again. I feel light-headed. I need a glass of water, maybe wine to calm the cutting edge my throat develops.
"Wh-what's new?" Did I do something different? No shit you just miracle sprinted 14 kilometres.
"That thing you just did. I forgot what it's called... Physical activity?" I snorted at his humour, my smile slipping on worry. I glared at the flock of geese that necked the lake. They spread their wings like they were the shit and squawked at me. One let out a fat turd as I stuck my tongue at them, would've given the finger if I could've. My hands were tied under my paper thin legs, the thin margins represented my muscles. The flock squawks at me again, swarming my little isle-of-a park bench. One has a nasty thing for tugging at shoelaces, the others just bad-mouth me like I violated public park regulations.
"Shut up!" I chuck out the words with the force of a paintball catching my tongue on my teeth and tearing it open. Conner goes dead silent. I prayed that he wasn't talking beforehand. Blood bubbles from the gash on my tongue, my eyes welling into deep grey pools. Before I know it I'm crying, must be the period season. The geese backed up finally figuring out my head case label: total nut. Something about the way they watched me made me cry even more. Their beady eyes shared some common nature-like connection, pity.
"Chloe, did something happen?" Conner asks. He must hear me crying. He hears everything from my heart beating to the thought of devilling myself some goose eggs. I want to slap myself so hard but my legs restrain my punchy hands. I tremor, the metallic tang of blood coming up my throat. I lose grasp of reality again. My eyes blocked out all the sunlight like an aperture. This would be such a shitty picture (or maybe sell for thousands with the title: tunnel vision of a depressed teen crying about who knows what... Scratch that, name it Chloe.). I considered the angle photographers would take of me, the crowd of geese chanting my name, protesting. I shake my head like the stupid dust shelver (shelf duster?) I was. No one was watching me except for these foreign geese who forgot how to speak English.
"C-can I call you back in a bit..." Before he could answer I hung up. I sit there perched on my pretty blue bench untied lases and all. I'm unimpressed. I dig out my earbuds wishing my brain would come out with them. I instantly regret taking my earbuds out. Every noise, every sound is irritating me. It sounds as if a hornet is sitting right next to my ear. Is it Thursday? Thursdays, they're equivalent to a coin with two tails. (Oh, look! I got another tail!) I feel like a thrown out piece of garbage that's been recycled a thousand times, too bad I'm still the same bag of flesh. I sink into the bench, hornets buzzing in my ears and geese picking at my fingertips. I watch the water as it sloshes against the bank and throws up plastic waste, that sickeningly reminds me of how well I've kept my breakfast inside of me. I vomit horrifically into the convenient trashcan next to me. I shrivel up and cry, wiping away traces of throw up and dialling up a playlist.
Buzz buzz. I don't pick out my phone.
Buzz buzz. I consider turning my phone on silent.
BUZZ BUZZ. Whoever is texting me better have a good reason.
Three messages, one out of the three sells importance:
"I'm on my way, don't you dare leave."
YOU ARE READING
Mid-Life Crisis (WIP)
Teen Fiction"A work on progress should be put on my life!" Chloe is a fifteen year old girl who struggles into a new lifestyle in efforts to get rid of her grizzy past lover. Along the way her summer expirences are getting interesting. She gets thrown into the...
