It's weird how, in books, when someone goes through a devastating or traumatic experience, they have this, out-of-body feeling. They say it feels as if some outside force is controlling their bodies while they can only watch helplessly on the sidelines. They say, it feels as if, for a moment, they no longer exist.
I now know that's not at all true. I wish that's what really happens. There isn't any floating sensation. Time doesn't freeze. Your mind doesn't go blank. Actually, it's quite the opposite.
Everything feels intensified. A single teardrop feels like an ocean. I concentrate just to get single words out because there are so many thoughts running through my head like a stampede of wild buffalo. The minuscule things that used to annoy me, like people chewing with their mouth open or talking during movies, now make me want to pull my hair out in frustration.
Days are tiresome, nights are restless. I keep looking for some sign of him, his existence, wishing that what had happened, was just a dream. My head snaps up, looking for him, when the door opens. I look for him in my classes at school, but am only greeted by an empty chair. His name has even been taken off the roll already.
It's not any surprise that when I woke up from another two-hour night sleep an saw the note on my nightstand that was addressed from him, my heart skipped a beat. I'm not kidding either, if I had been wearing a heart monitor, you would've been able to tell too. I didn't want to acknowledge it, for fear of it being an illusion conjured by my sleep-ridden mind. I poked it quickly, probably looking like a crazy person who was scared of envelopes, which I guess I sort of was at this point.
The moment I realized that what my finger touched had been real, and this wasn't a mirage, I couldn't rip open the envelope quickly enough. Once or twice my over eager fingers fumbled, giving me a few paper cuts.
Inside was just one single, folded piece of paper. It was pink, my favorite color, and smelled faintly of his cologne.
"Dear Amanda,
If you are reading this, I'm terribly sorry. I really don't want to write this, but I feel like I should, in case something should happen to me. Just with everything that's been going on lately with Adam, I worry about you. I'll give this letter to your mom, in case I dobt get to say goodbye. Your mom is a lovely lady, everytime I come over she always has the most delicious chocolate chip cookies coming out of the oven. It's a wonder I haven't gotten fat considering I eat about a dozen everytime I come over, which is just about every day. I guess if this does depressingly end up being a goodbye letter, I should say something meaningful and thoughtful. But you know I'm bad at that stuff. Can I just talk about the good times? Like watching awful movies with you, and throwing popcorn at the screen. Reading books over your shoulder, but you've always read faster than me. I would pretend I was done with the page so you could turn it. I still dobt have any clue what happened in twilight. All my best memories include you. But they say if you love something, let it go. If it comes back, it's yours, if it doesn't, it never was. I guess if your reading this, then I'm never coming back. I'll miss you. I love you. Bye Amanda.
Love, Maxon."
The humor he tried to put in his letter like the classic Maxon, didn't make my tears stop, it only made me cry harder as I realized just how much I missed him. It feels good to cry. I don't cry in front of others, because then they would figure out that I'm not okay.
People don't want to know that. They want to relieve I'm coping perfectly. People don't really know how to act around people who broken on the inside. The only reason people ask if I'm okay I'd so they don't look rude and inconsiderate. It's all ably their self image.
If I actually told them how I was really feeling, they wouldn't know what to do. No one really knows how to deal with crying girls, or girls in general, with our crazy mood swings.
Actually, that's not true, Maxon knew. But hes not here anymore. He left me. I needed to get out of the house before thoughts of lonlieness made a nest in my mind.
I haven't been there since that particular day, but it's been almost a week, I think I can handle it. I don't have to bother with grabbing my keys, where I'm going there aren't any roads.
After shutting the back door quietly as to avoid waking up my family at this insane hour in the morning, I run through the backyard, towards the tiny forest behind my house. I don't care that I'm still in my pajamas, and my red hair is in a messy ponytail, allowing the wind to dry my tears as it slaps my face.
The scent of overgrown pine trees, mixed with unidentified wild flowers, overwhelms me, but I don't allow myself to slow down until I reach my destination. While running around large rocks and jumping over a tree that fell down last spring during a thunderstorm, I realize just how familiar this path is to me. It's almost as if, for a moment, everything is back to normal and he is running beside me like he always did. But the swooshing of the wind to my right reminds me of his absence. When I reach the small valley of flowers hidden amongst the mass of trees, I stop.
I put my back up against the tree closest to me, and slide down to the ground, not caring how many scratches I'll get from the bark. While watching the silent sun creep over the scenery, I can't help the tears that start flowing as all my memories of this place come flooding back to me.
Camping with Maxon when we were eight. Riding bikes when we were nine, mine was red, his was green. Stargazing when we were ten, our fingers unconsciously intertwined. Having water balloon fights when we were eleven. Him kissing me when we were twelve, me slapping him afterwards, leaving him with a red mark for days. Spending the whole day out here when we were thirteen, staring into his chocolate key brown eyes and realizing how cute he was in a Dan Humphrey sort of way. I remember getting lost in his hours of computer talk, listening to words I didn't understand. I remember taking Adam here, them Maxon beating Adam up after jumping to quick conclusions when we were fourteen. Then running here after breaking up with Adam when I was fifteen. Maxon listening to me constantly cry and whispering soothing things into my ear when we were sixteen. Maxon and I having our first official date here and second kiss when we were seventeen. He has set up the most adorable picnic, complete with grilled cheese, sweet tea, and sour patch kids.
Now, here I am, alone, eighteen. Maxon, no longer here to make memories with me. No longer here to comfort me. No longer here to protect me. No longer here to stay up all night with me. And to top it all off, it is completely my fault!
If I had never gone out with Adam, then he wouldn't have turned into some crazy stalker person when I broke up with him, sending him completely over the edge. My very last memory of Maxon was here as well. It was the day before his eighteenth birthday. I don't remember much. I was here with Maxon, sitting on the ground, talking about what we were going to do after graduation. Adam showed up, like the psycho he is, with a gun. He had pointed it at Maxon and before I could say anything or even move, Adams thumb had moved over the trigger.
I saw a flash of terror on Adams eyes as the crack of the shot resonated against our surroundings. Quickly after, Adam pulled the gun up to his own temple, fireing a second time. I was left there, the only one unharmed by the guns threatening bullets, listening to maxons last words. Before his eyes glazed over, he made out three words.
"I love you."
At the time, I hadn't been able to respond between my gasping sobs and state of utter shock. His blood was all over the ground, creating a puddle in practically no time at all.
"I loved you too," I whisper to myself inside the empty forest, allowing myself to, for once, not think about anyone else.
I didn't think about my math test on Thursday. I didn't think about my play auditions on Saturday. I didn't think about prom. I didn't think about my college essay that has to be sent in next month.
Only Maxon. None of the bad memories though. Only the good ones, the happy ones. I rub my thumb mindlessly over the soft blade of grass, looking out at the ironically beautiful valley in front of me, considering everything that has happened.
"Goodbye Maxon."
