Through Adversity To The Stars

Chapter 7 - "If I Loved You Less I Might Be Able To Talk About It More"

For some bizarre reason, Alexander Saunders was stuck in my mind, replaying every single time I had seen him, almost. No matter what character he played - whether it even be Edmund Bertram - he was always going to be adored by everyone. Even from a distance or up close, he was flawless. He didn't need to pretend to keep up the image of who he was, him alone was enough.

I sat in the same place Alexander did the night before, wishing that it was the very same night, wishing that I had the opportunity to say something more meaningful. I didn't know what I wanted exactly but I knew I wanted to say anything again.
I let my head turn like his did, this time in the direction of his house, of where I knew he would be. The plants behind me smelled like a distant memory that would make me do something I would regret or not. Plans of stupidity took over my absent mindedness as I stood and began towards the exit of our garden. The sun was hitting the right side of my cheek as I squinted towards the entrance of his garden. I could already tell that the house was far different than ours; the bricks, the flowers, the windows and the feel of the whole building itself - it no longer felt lonely.
The doors to the grand house were open already revealing Mrs Saunders writing away, pending beside the phone. She seemed so indulged in Alexander's future it appeared as though she had given up on her own. Her eyes met mine, glasses sliding down her nose slightly. "Elizabeth," she paused, "what do I owe the pleasure of you being here?"

A dreaming sense hypnotised me into believing that what I had planned to do without a judgemental thought, was sain. 
The smell of him overrode the flowers and the entire atmosphere of the South of France, a good kind of smell that smelt safe, a smell that didn't surprise me that everyone envied him - as if that was the reason for masses of teenagers went mad for him.
My fingers fumbled behind my back as if I was so unnerved by the idea of what I was actually doing, standing there in his downstairs. I put on a smile that I had started to pick up on from him. "I was just wondering if I could see Alexander," the words I was thinking came out without a filter to change the word see to talk to.

I couldn't tell if Mrs Saunders was either confused, happy or worried with the smile she gave. I felt the need to explain to her that it was a silly idea, that I remember what I came for and he wasn't it. The obligation of explaining to Mrs Saunders that all I wanted to do was see him for no apparent reason. Not to interview him nor to say I've been with him, only to see him and be content with his presence. "He should be upstairs - third door on the right," she took her eyes back down to her sheet of paper, hand placed over the phone again.
Unlike our house, Alexander had spiral stairs, the ones you would dream of sliding down as part of a musical number which would never happen because life is far too boring for that nonsense.

I took it to the stairs, hand brushing the banister as I went, hoping that I wouldn't have to knock, hoping that he wouldn't be there and all the silliness that corrupted my mind would leave before he leaved Father.
At the end of the hall was a grand window, a place to sit and imagine what life would be like if you were somebody, elsewhere or nowhere.

Third door on the right; tingles shot up from my stomach, noticing the door and knowing it was the one. A door behind and he would be there, doing something intelligent or what people expect him to be doing.
I knock the very same way he did. I tried to make it the most similar, not particularly wanting to talk through the door. It starts to open wide revealing him, the smile, the eyes, the cheeks, the chin, the elbows, the chest, the everything that made him him. "Have I influenced you, Lizzie?" The nickname he wanted to call me sprang up at the end, a reminder for me to know that he remembered. Mother nor Father admires nicknames, too childish and informal they thought.

Alexander spun around to meet his desk that over looked the garden I walked in to get to him. Bottles of whatever gathered around the end of his bed, duvet sprawled everywhere. The walls were plain and thirsty for something to make its insides feel less alone that what the outside seemed to not present. I take a seat at the end of his bed, not wishing to disrupt his mess. "What are you implying?" I turn my head slightly, the same as I did only a couple of minutes before on the bench as I mimicked Alexander.