Love is a Laserquest - Alex Turner/Arctic Monkeys Fan Fiction

Piece of my Heart

2014

Alex and I haven't spoken in over two weeks. He's been back on the AM tour, with shows in New Zealand and Australia, and I've been able to conveniently miss his two attempts at calling. I've managed short, noncommittal and cheery replies to the handful of texts he's sent. I don't want him to think anything's wrong necessarily, but I also don't have the strength or energy to get back into the way things were just yet– even as his best mate.

I feel like someone trying to heal after an injury– like I'm fragile and weak, like every movement brings me pain. Even walking down the street, or listening to music, feels like I need to tread gingerly. I avoid certain songs like hearing them will be pressing on a bruise, and I try to keep my thoughts occupied so they don't stray and cause salt to spill on the wound. But I've never felt like this before– never in all the times Alex has found love, or had a one night stand, or started seriously seeing someone, did it hurt like this. And I don't know if it was the fact that I truly, deeply hoped this time was different, or my love for him reached a point while we were 'together' that it hadn't before, but I feel like I'm truly in recovery, and I'm struggling.

I haven't gone to see Dad, because I just can't bear to talk to him about it, and Rosie has been good about distracting me– about talking about anything else. And I keep myself busy, constantly moving. I clean the flat top to bottom, sort through mail, organize clothes to donate. I pick up extra shifts and work events at the Mannerly. And then I spend all my free time at Rosie's, even if it's just sitting on her couch and listening to her endless chatter. It's as if being alone could make everything real– could force me to acknowledge the shitstorm of my life. And though I try to write, I can't focus, and after several attempts, I give up all together.

I'm working an extra shift, on a Thursday afternoon in mid May, when everything unravels once more.

It's Rosie's day off, and I've split the rooms with another maid, so I'm mostly cleaning alone. I've got my headphones in, and I'm listening to Janis Joplin as I tidy up the guest rooms. In the solitary moments of work, I'm thinking about the comfort I feel in other women's voices right now. I've been avoiding Alex's favorites, and some of mine that remind me of him, but soulful, strong women seem to cradle me in my heartbreak. And there's something about Janis's rough and tough voice– even in her own heartbreak– that makes me feel strong.

So it's with a sense of actual lightness that I walk down the hallway with my trolley of cleaning products and laundry. It's the promise of hope– the possibility that I won't feel so wretched forever. Until my whole body goes cold.

Walking down the hallway, holding hands with a blonde I don't recognize, is Alex.

There isn't even time for my heart to rocket into my skull before his eyes meet mine as he draws closer, and I can't hide, and the blood is rushing to my head, and I yank Janis out of my ears.

There is a look of absolute confusion on his face– a total lack of understanding. At me, walking with a cleaning trolley, in my pale, gray uniform and apron. I contemplate running, but they're right here, and they're stopping.

"Lily?" he says.

The leggy, giraffe-tall blonde looks between us, just as confused, but from an entirely different angle.

I can not move my lips, or get air into my lungs. I might die on the spot. My hands tighten around the handle of the trolley, going sweaty.

"Lily, what are you doin' 'ere?"

Oh God, does he think I'm stalking him and his new girlfriend? That I'm walking the hotel halls– disguised as a maid– out of a jealous need for him?

I still can't speak, and I truly want to, though I don't know what to say or how to explain.

"Do you work 'ere?"

Realization is dawning on him– I can almost physically see the truth seep into understanding in his brain, spread down his face– and then comes anger.

"Do you?" he practically growls, and I've never seen him like this– have never seen him so angry, or this angry at me.

"Yes," I finally manage to choke out, looking in panic up and down the hallway.

"'Ow long?" his whole body tenses like a violin string, shaking from the pressure as he asks it, and his voice is rising in the small space of the hallway– and I'm worried at the attention he's attracting.

My throat has gone impossibly dry, so it sounds like a croak when I reply: "Seven years."

His eyes hold mine for a moment– as if he's trying to eviscerate me with his dark irises– and the blonde looks uncomfortable. My mind is a blank with shock, fear, and I don't know what to say– I can't move or think or act.

"You lied to me," he says, his voice balancing on the precipice of rage, held back with restraint.

I shake my head, though it's true.

"You've been lyin' to me for years," he goes on, and I can hear the delicate hurt under the stern anger, and tears are filling my eyes before I can stop them.

"Alex, I didn't–"

"No, yeh did!" he shouts, making the blonde and I both jump, making a guest turn and look from down the hall. "You've been lyin' to me– on purpose– for years?"

I wish a tear wasn't spilling from my eye, but it is, trailing down my cheek so pathetically.

"After all we've been through," he sounds disgusted with me, and he looks at me as if I'm something he found on the bottom of his shoe.

He doesn't say anything else– and I almost wish he would– because when he turns and goes back the way they came, disappearing down the hallway, with the blonde hurrying after him, it hurts worse than him yelling at me.

Well, it happened.

The thing that I feared more than anything else for almost a decade has happened, and as I sit in the locker room at the end of my shift– completely immobilized– it feels worse than I ever anticipated. It feels like a limb has been severed from my body, like I've poured acid down my own throat, like I was staring down the barrel of a gun and it's now hit me between the eyes.

I hurt my very best friend in the entire world. I hurt someone I considered family– the love of my life. And what feels worse is that it didn't hurt until now, until I was caught. I was fine with lying to him for years, wasn't I? I must have been, or else I wouldn't have done it. And now I'm shaking– panic-stricken– because I've gotten what I deserved, because I've been found out.

Looking down at my mobile, still dressed in my uniform, I think about calling him, begging him for forgiveness. And the reversal of roles is not lost on me. Just weeks ago it was my heart he was breaking, me who should have been apologized to. In moments, I'm the villain, and I've forgotten all about my own pain for his– for what I've done to him.

I have a hard time swallowing as I put my phone aside, start to unlace my trainers.

I would give up any chance of having a romantic relationship with him– I would put my selfish, childish notions of romantic love aside– if only I could undo this.

Shaking, I pick up my phone again.

How could I even begin to apologize?

He has every right to be angry with me.

I think about phoning Dad, or Rosie, and a sob suddenly escapes my throat, taking me by surprise. I don't deserve any comfort right now. I need to sit with this punishment for a moment.

I put my phone aside, and I don't call anyone. Instead, I change out of my uniform with weak, trembling fingers, and then I walk to the tube. As if to cement my punishment, I don't listen to any music on my way to the station, or once I've gotten onto a train. Instead, I let people stare at me as I fight the tears filling up my eyes, as my body vibrates against my control.

And once I get home to my flat, I crawl under the covers and get into bed without changing, and I let the truth sink in and smother me as I decide to deal with it all tomorrow. In the meantime, I let the pain blot out anything else.