Chapter Text
Songs used for inspiration:
Overture by Sleeping At Last
Through The Eyes Of A Child by AURORA
Have You Ever Seen The Rain? by Creedence Clearwater Revival
Small Memory by Jon Hopkins
Good Works by Sleeping At Last
001
The Music Room
I was shifting uneasily in bed, cold sweat slicking my back and forehead as I trudged through layers of sleep to semi-consciousness. With my heart on my throat, I finally broke free from the trance with a jolt. My eyes swept quickly across my surroundings before relief washed over my body. I was awake, it was Monday, I was in my room, in bed, under the safe protection of my comforter. I was safe.
I sunk deeper down under the squishy soft, the scent of home stained onto the satin cover as it rested slightly beneath my nose. I pulled a deep breath. Lavender.
Rolling onto my side, I pulled my legs up so that my position was that of a fetus. My toes were cold. I snuggled in deeper.
The daylight was glowing faintly behind the creamy curtains, illuminating my bedroom. The walls were of this greyish light turquoise; a fresh, calming color––like a tropic beach. However, it was the wall facing the window that was my favorite. It was covered with fading cream-colored floral wallpaper, adding that sweet vintage touch to the room.
The floor was of the usual weathered hardwood, a carpet in front of the matching white metal bed that squeaked whenever you moved too much (much to Jackson’s dismay, aka. Mr. Boyfriend.) But it was cute nonetheless, covered with layers upon layers of blankets and duvets––not to mention my collection of puffy pillows and plushies, which mostly end up on floor overnight.
Across the bed, were a wardrobe, a dressing table, and a drawer, where upon it stood a pot plant of my favorite flower: peonies. They were fake, however. Unlike my mom, I didn’t possess or inherit her green fingers. All the plants and flowers I have ever tried to take care of has only died on me within a couple months. A shame, really, as flowers were something that I loved next to books.
Beside the pot plant was a pink plushy of Mew. It was a gift Jackson had won (after a great deal of attempts) for me on one of those grabbing machines at the arcade. Most of my plushies were, except from the teddy bear sitting on my nightstand. It’s the one I got from my dad when I was baby.
The room itself wasn’t small, although it could look like it at first glance. The blame for that was mostly what was above my bed, and on the rest of the wall facing the wardrobe. It was my shelves filled with books. It was full, sadly, so some were piled in the corner of the room and under my bed in cute boxes. However, my books were perhaps my greatest pride: the room being its treasure chamber and I the dragon to protect it. That’s only to be expected from a bookworm, I guess.
I snuck a look at the old clock on the wall. It was ticking softly, each secondhand stroke cutting the chilly morning air, calming and guiding my heart rate back to normal. It was slowly lulling me back to sleep until I first registered what time it was actually showing. Twenty past six. My heart sunk.
I slung the comforter over my head in protest. It was pointless, but I was determined to collect the remaining minutes of my sleep, convinced that they would make a difference. I had precisely ten minutes before the alarm would be screaming at my ear. I shut my dirty green eyes and emptied my head. Sleep I shall.
It was the second time this month. The second time I had that dream. Or memory. Honestly, I wasn’t sure what it was. Perhaps a mixture of both.
It’s a strange thing the things you remember; the imagines, sounds and feelings that stay with you down through the years; like a doll you once saw on a store, an ice cream you once had, or the color of a butterfly that once flew before you. But in my case, it’s even stranger.
I was only five when my dad passed away, thus my memories of him are vague (if memories at all and not the work of pure imagination.) Regardless, one memory seemed to have carved itself in my very bones. It was as clear as day: the intense feeling of grief, loss, anger and despair, all balled into one, and a sentence along the words; “me and more.”
It has always been there with me, haunting me in my dreams, but not as often as it has in the couple months.
When I was younger, it would come as rare as every other year. I didn’t think much of it back then other than a nightmare. But it worsened the older I got, and now I wonder if it’s some sign or message from my late father.
I wasn’t really the type to believe in the supernatural, although my life consisted by reading books from all types of genres. But for what other reason would that particularly memory repeat itself in my sleep? Why couldn’t I remember something else? Something nicer. Something like the sound of his laughter, or the scenery where he taught me how to use the pot?
I groaned in utter bitterness and turned to my stomach, drowning my face down the pillow.
It was just a dream, I decided, stupid, stupid, stupid dream.
As I was about out of fresh air, and the tick-tocking from the clock had turned from something that calmed me, to something that ticked med off, I had accepted the fact that there was no way for me to get more sleep. The morning chill as well had gone, leaving me under this unbearable heat. My toes were still cold, though––and clammy.
I peeled off the duvet, revealing the blue Stitch onesie I’ve been sleeping in. I guess with that, there was no wonder why I was all drenched in sweat. But it couldn’t be helped. It was my favorite piece of garment. If only appropriate, I would’ve worn it day and night. Jackson wanted to burn it, however, and Mom has come to realize it was a mistake buying it for me on Christmas two years back.
Swinging a feet out of bed, I sauntered out of the room and down the end of the hall. Mom was up. I could hear the sound of her rummage in the kitchen, preparing breakfast––and the smell of something burnt. “Wobs!” was what I heard next as I reached for the doorknob and entered the bathroom.
A wave of something floral and sweet, and the touch of something fresh and minty was what met me first. It was the signature scent of my mom in its physical form of hot steam. I sucked a deep breath, the odor filling my lungs with warmth and tickling my dry throat. Making my way to the sink, I wiped the steam kissed mirror to reveal my own pale self.
“Hello beautiful,” I said ironically, surprising myself by how hoarse my voice sounded as I watched what had become of the bun I made last night.
After I had brushed my teeth, let my light auburn hair (a better description than ginger) loose, I stripped off my onesie and knickers and threw them down the laundry basket. The floor was wet when I stepped a foot inside the stall. Closing the glass door, I grabbed the showerhead out of its hook and flinched as the jet streams hit my leg. I waited till it had gone warm before I placed it back up, welcoming the pleasurable pelt of hot water on my skin as I closed my eyes and let my mind drift.
I had a normal dream at first. I couldn’t recall any of it, not even bits and pieces, but there was a dream there for sure. I knew, because before it disappeared into oblivion, it left this feeling of confusion. I think it was one of those meaningless dreams that go on and on without anything happening to leave an impression. But then the darkness came, like someone had suddenly switched off the television while I was watching it. I wouldn’t have mind, it was a boring show, haven’t this darkness come closer like a giant wave of apprehension and swallowed me. Next, all I could hear was faint voices talking and crying, before it all built up into a chaos of screams and fire. Yes, a blaze as though a dragon had opened its jaw and spit its flames on me. Then there was this horrible feeling; this despair and grief. I have never felt something so strong before, and so real, as that sadness that had haunted my dream. That’s until it was all erased by the lingering sound of my dad’s voice. I just knew it was his. Gentle. Comforting. Soft.
“…me and more,” I whispered and turned, running a wet palm across my face. “What does that even mean?”
Tipping my head backwards, a shiver zapped down my neck as water devoured my long hair, caressing my shoulders and spine on its way down my legs. Brushing through the wet mess, the excess water came splattering down the floor before I turned back and grabbed my shampoo. I snapped the cap open with my thumb and tipped the bottle to see its red content spill into my palm. It smelled of strawberry candy, the fragment stinging my nostrils, making my mouth water for something sweet. I scrubbed it onto my head, massaging my scalp as it lathers my hair, leaving it fresh and clean as it rinses away.
Next, I grabbed my conditioner, turning off the shower before taking a dollop and splattered it on top of my head. It felt smooth and slippery in my fingers as I brushed through the tangles. Reaching for the soap and sponge, a farting noise echoed in the room as I squeezed the bottle. The creamy content smelled of coconut and lime, a crispy sweet scent reminding me of a beautiful evening in a tropical beach. Not that I would know, I’ve never been, but I’d like to imagine it would smell something like this.
Rubbing the sponge across my arms and shoulders, it felt as though scraping off layers of fatigue as I worked my way down. I turned the shower back on, and welcomed the warmth as it rinsed my bad night sleep away, the drain slurping and sputtering with the influx of soapy bubbles, covering my feet like clouds.
Feeling all refreshed and new, I stepped out and grabbed a towel, drying myself before wrapping it around my body. The air outside the bathroom was freezing compared, and I small-jogged down the hallway, leaving footprints of damp on the floor. Upon reaching my room, I could smell what Mom had prepared and it awakened my apatite as it yawned with the sound of a distant low rumble. Pancakes.
I was quick to dress. Today I felt white, so I put on my favorite garment next to my onesie; a white dress full of frills and laces. It was on the shorter side, however, so I pulled on a pair of white yoga shorts underneath, just to be on the safer side. I then grabbed my brown boots, pulled on the pendant I always wore, before catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Now I looked like one of those vintage boho chicks on pictures––with the turban aside that is.
I dipped my head down, unwrapping the towel from my head. My hair looked so dark when it was wet that I could almost see the resemblance to my mom. I smiled a bit as I saw it drape down passed my shoulders like seaweed. I was too lazy to blow-dry it, though, so I brushed through it with a comb, and let it be to air dry as I put on some make up. I didn’t put much effort in that either––nor did I have the skill. I smeared on a thin layer of BB cream to mute down some redness around my nose and not to mention the freckles scattered across it. I then brushed a coat of mascara before I went out of the room and followed the scent that lured me.
Mom was on the stove, frying pancakes when I entered the kitchen. She was wearing a white blouse, minty green jeans and a flowery apron. A plate was already ready on my side of the dining table; three pancakes stacked, drenched in glassy syrup and two bacons on the side, along with a glass of orange juice. My mouth watered by the sight, and my belly rumbled excitedly, giving way to my presence.
Mom turned, beaming an all too familiar warm smile at me. “Good morning!” she cheered, turning off the stove. “Slept well?” she stacked another pancake on her plate before joining me at the table.
“Morning,” I took my seat. “I slept fine,” I lied, but it came so naturally that I didn’t even think twice about it. Mom didn’t notice either. “You?”
With the same joyful smile, her mouth was already stuffed. “Verhi ghud!” she mumbled.
I half-scoffed and half-chuckled before I began to devour my meal as well. It was a big one.
“What’s the occasion?” I took a bite of the puffy madness.
“Hm?” she looked at me befuddled.
“The pancakes. It isn’t Saturday.”
“Oh! You see, I had this strange dream…”––You and I both––“I was on this pancake world, sliding down on bacons, swimming through cream. Your Dad was there too! We were battling giant blueberries. Can you imagine? I thought it must’ve been a sign... So. That’s why. I just had to make pancakes,” she explained before she shoved in another bite.
I propped my chin in my palm and smiled at her softly. I wasn’t the only one Dad haunted at night it seemed. But I’m glad her dreams weren’t like mine. I wished her nothing but happy dreams. To think of something sniff out her glow made my heart stir uneasily.
“Sounds fun!” I tried to mirror her joviality. “I wish I remembered mine. I just know it was a weird one. Wasn’t I in your dream? I should’ve been fighting along side you guys,” I took another bite of the hot sweet pancakes.
“Well, that’s the thing… The reason your Dad and I were fighting in the first place, was because the blueberries ate you!”
I choked, reaching for the orange juice. “Seriously?” I laughed, Mom nodding across me with an overly serious expression. “I died?”
Then her head ceased moving, before she shook her head rapidly. “No, no, no. God, no. Nothing so dramatic. You were just trapped inside of it, but God we were worried.” Then a pout fell across her face. “I’d like to know how it ended, though. I woke up before we won and managed to save you.”
“I’m sure you did,” I smiled, grabbing the bacon and heard it crunch between my teeth. Then my brows shot up as my taste buds exploded by the sweet syrup and salty crisp. I took another bite. It was melting into my tongue. “This is really good!”
“Really?” her hazel eyes now sparkled back to life before she ate some more. “I hoped it would!” she cheered happily, smiling ear to ear.
To think she was mother to an only child, she would be one of those strict, grumpy parents, but no. I admit she was on the special side, but I loved her for it. I’ve always wondered how the world looked from her eyes. Something told me it was colorful; with rainbows, unicorns and God knows what. Her persona was that colorful at least.
“Want some more juice?” she asked.
I shook my head. “No thanks.”
“Well, I want,” she rose from her seat and sashayed towards the fridge. Then suddenly she froze, gasping. “What has happened to you?” For a second there I thought she was talking to me, but when I flicked my eyes up from the plate, I scoffed to see her hurry towards the bonsai tree on the kitchen island. “My poor darling,” she was frowning as the tiny tree had lost some of its leaves.
Mom was no doubt a beautiful person in and out. Even a blind person could tell. She had dark hair that melted into brown and gold in sunlight, small lips that carried the sweetest smile, a body that could seduce any man, and a voice you’d think belonged an angel––well it did. Both her manners and perspectives in life were very childish, but it didn’t mean she was blockhead, on the contrary. Although not like it at first glance, Mom was a lot smarter than what she led on to be. Even I’ve been surprised a couple times.
Sadly, people in this town believe her to be an ignorant airhead, just waiting for her to make a mess of things. A little scandal can come a long way in this place, you see. Beacon Hills was a small town after all, everything came around eventually, and anything out of the normal was enough to make it to the history book.
My mom was only eighteen when she married my dad and gave birth to me the next year. Now, this on itself was big news around, but according to old rumors, it was because she got pregnant that they got married in the first place. Scandalous!
This rumor was of course not true, but I guess Dad and his lack of patience was part of the blame for it to exist it the first place. It was peculiar and suspicious to marry so young, at least in places like Beacon. Why the rush? However, they fell in love––and I mean the Twilight kind of love––and he put a ring on it. That’s the true story.
However, Mom’s old classmates couldn’t believe it, or more correctly, they didn’t want to. So instead, they made up their own story. Mom got pregnant, Dad had to take responsibility, and voilá! Of course people chose to believe this version. It was the better distraction from their soppy lives.
I guess growing up by her side, I learned from an early age how rotten people could be. I hated this place and especially its people for the hardships they have caused her. I could never imagine how it must’ve been to loose the love of her life and be left alone with a five-year-old. She had no one to turn to, no support, not even from her own good-for-nothing-family. Still, she pulled through, and she’s my hero for it. And exactly because of that, I took it upon myself to take the role as the mature one. I wanted to protect her. I had to.
Maybe Mom was oblivious, or perhaps she’s simply turned a blind eye to it, but I could still see it. I saw the glares from the grown women she used to go to school with, the fake smiles they gave whenever they met on the grocery store. I hated it.
I hated how, in elementary, when she came to the open days, or to watch me in the school plays, tension and silence would fill the room. How they would ignore her, unless they were spoken to, thus forced to engage a polite pep talk, or that they would cling onto their husbands whenever Mom neared.
I hated it.
I hated them.
“–Lydia? Lydia!” Mom called and I snapped out from my train of thought.
“Y-yes?”
Mom was sitting across the table again, eyes narrowing as she inspected me. “You have a crinkle between your eyebrows and you have your angry face on. What’s wrong?”
I felt a blush on my face before I rubbed the space between my brows to see if what she said was true. I then met her piercing eyes, and at first I thought she saw right through me, but that wasn’t the case. Her eyes were just so clear, it’s as if nothing escapes them.
“It’s nothing–“
“Is there trouble in paradise?”
“What?”
“Did you fight with Jackson?”
“Mom, no,” I laughed.
She was watching closely for a couple more seconds before her expression softened and she looked at me expectantly.
“So. What were you thinking about?”
I brainstormed after something that would sound believable, but nothing came to mind. Perhaps I could mention the unpredictable plot twist on the book I read last night, or that I had an assignment I was struggling with. Then I saw a glimpse of outside and my lips began to move on its own accords.
“I just saw the weather and realized I had put on the wrong clothes,” I pointed nonchalantly before stuffing in the last bacon; it crunching in my mouth loudly in contrary to the pending silence as my mom turned to see it rain out.
To my defense, it was partly true now that I noticed. Here I thought I looked nice, but now I have to change into something else. Something colder. The bus stop was a five minutes walk from the house, and just the thought of cold raindrops on my bare legs made me cringe.
“Oh… Then I’ll drive you,” Mom said, and as always, a smile on her face.
“No, it’s fine.”
“It’s raining, Lydia. What if you catch a cold on your way?”
“That’s why I’m gonna’ change to something warmer,” I reasoned.
“Lydia. I’m driving,” she stated.
I looked at her for a moment and I saw her persistent eyes gaze at me.
“Mom, it’s ok. You’ll be late for work.”
“As if I have customers this early in the morning,” she rolled her eyes on me. “I’ll do it,” she insisted. “The good thing with having your own shop is that you’re your own boss. It opens when I say so.” She was showing off her keychain now, a ladybug on it, along with plenty of keys jingling in her hand.
I scoffed as a smile crept on my face. She makes it sound so easy, but I knew there was more to having a shop than just having it there. However, I didn’t want to argue any further. I guess a lift every so often wouldn’t hurt. Plus, she seemed very determined on this one.
“Fine,” I gave in, rising from my chair and walking to the sink. Pulling the faucet, the water came like a hiss as I washed the dish from remains. Turning my head to the side, I glanced at the clock on the wall. “If we leave now, you’ll make it in time,” I said over my shoulder, before leaving the plate and glass down the dishwasher.
“We’re in no hurry,” Mom replied as I dried my hands.
“Mom… You actually have to open your store, when it says it opens seven-thirty.”
“Don’t be such a worrywart, honey. It’s going to be ok,” she laughed at me now, rinsing her plate with water.
“What about your delivery?”
“I’m sure Jamie can wait a few minutes.”
“Mom…”
“Lydia…”
We looked at each other, two pair of identical hazel eyes having a stare down. Both who owned them were stubborn to the core as well. However, I knew I was facing a loosing battle. Not even I was as stubborn as my mom.
I rolled my eyes and shook my head. “Fine… Whatever you say.”
Mom huffed happily now, pecking my cheek before strolling out of the kitchen and down the hall.
“When are we leaving then?” I called. “I’d like to be there at least ten minutes prior.”
“Soon. I just need to poop!”
I chuckled silently.
Yep. That’s my mom in a nutshell.
Drumming her skinny long fingers on the steering wheel, Mom was humming along, Have You Ever Seen The Rain by Creedence Clearwater Revival. Ironic, as out the window were the tar black sky and the large clouds over our heads. It was raining harder now. The roofs of the passing cars danced with spray, and the downpour murmured through the windshield, sounding like the buzzing of angry bees––quite the contrary to the wipers that waved harmonically along the chorus.
“…I wanna’ knoooow, have you eveer seeeen the raaain,” Mom sung lightly.
Coming down in a sunny day…
I sat quietly in the passenger seat, watching people run for cover and umbrellas in screaming colors like walking M&Ms. Steam kissed the window as it met my warm breath. I reached up a finger and drew a smiley face. That was the mask I had to put on today. I then clutched the collars of my coat, hugging myself as a mental preparation to go out. Then there it was, coming to view as Mom followed a gentle swing; a box looking building made of an odd mixture of dark stone and jutting brick. It was Beacon Hills University.
Yaaay, a voice with a lack of enthusiasm hoorayed in my head.
It’s been about two weeks since the first term began, and I already miss the summer vacation. And it’s not that I had a blast either. In fact, I was bored out of my mind––which says a lot to how school felt like.
I was actually looking forward to start here weeks ago. I thought of it as starting a new chapter; the prior being terribly long and dull. I had hoped that a change would happen. That this new chapter would reveal something extraordinary––that college would be different and something unexpected would occur. Something that would sweep me off my feet and pop colors onto my greyscaled world; like an alien invasion! Or a zombie apocalypse!
Believe me when I say I’ve read enough of books from these genres to know about every tip and trick to survive. As a matter of fact, I’m actually quite positive to make it out alive––a couple months at least.
However, much like high school, I was being tested in subjects that I already knew, and taught things I would most likely have no use for in the future. I’m not claiming to be a genius or anything of that sort. I think it has something to do with me reading as much as I have. Even fictional books can be very educational, you know? I also read other less amusing things, like my assignments for instance––sometimes the whole book.
Nerd alert.
To survive socially in this place, however, was a whole other thing. Three more years I will have to spend like the bobblehead Yorkie upon the dashboard: stay put, smile and nod. I wish I could say I was more true to myself than everyone else, but all things considered, I was probably as fake as the rest. Not that I was pretending to be someone I was not, but I was certainly not being myself either. I was more that kind of person who was there, but you sort of don’t notice. A person who just slides by without making a noise; a ghost. At least that’s what I was trying to be.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve always felt like I didn’t belong. Like I was some alien in disguise as a human girl––which I was not, of course. Just to have that cleared. As far as I’m aware, I was 100% human; Mom giving birth to me June 6th 1996, and our likeness in appearance being the proof of that theory––well, apart from that my mother had dark beautiful hair, while mine was fiery and red. She calls it strawberry blonde, but I could see no trace of blonde in it all. Weird part is that I have no idea where it came from. Dad was dark blonde. Perhaps my genes couldn’t decide, so it picked a color in between.
However, among the seven billion people on earth, there’s only two that I cared for. Only these two is whom I have any kind of importance to as well: that being Mom and Jackson. Not that anyone, other than myself, was the blame for that, of course. I didn’t really try to get friends. Sounds lonely, but I preferred it this way.
My mom reached for the silver thermos on the cup holder and sipped down its warm content. That was maybe why she was so chirpy, even so early in the morning. If only I liked coffee myself, I would’ve sung along the song with her, but the grogginess made a comeback the second I stepped out the house. Now I wanted nothing but to go back to bed and lay there for as long as my bladder allowed me.
Apparently, my dad was the rise and shine type too. I suppose that’s why I was the complete opposite. I got both their gloomy sides, resulting to this super gloomy and brooding self.
Mom followed a roundabout and ceased by the entrance. The phrase, new day and new opportunities, somehow crept into my head as unbuckled my seatbelt. I rolled my eyes and pulled a deep sigh before I leaned over with a “bye” and a weak smile. Instead of a hug, Mom pecked me on the cheek, rubbing the stain with her thumb as a giggle left her lips.
“Want me to pick you up too?” she asked.
I smiled faintly at her offer. “No, it’s fine,” I slung my satchel over my shoulder.
She didn’t press on this time. “Oki doki. Have a nice day then. Love you!” she waved as I stepped out the yellow mini cooper.
“Love you too,” I replied, ducking my head slightly as cold raindrops splattered on top of it. “Don’t work too hard.”
“Ay-ay, captain,” she saluted with a wink.
I then shut the car door and waved as she cruised around and down the road. Turning, I rushed to the school building for cover, hearing it splash under my boots. Upon reaching the entrance, I sucked a deep breath, filling my lungs with humid air as a mental preparation for another day of staring out of the blue, and counting seconds. I exhaled, grabbed tightly onto the strap of my bag and entered the pit.
The hallway was wide and crowded, lit by light panels on the ceiling that beamed ugly yellow. The walls were white, the floor was gray, and students were chatting away with one another, exchanging gossips and whatnot.
I was walking down the hall, minding my own business, but there was no ignoring how some had paused to sneak a glance as I went on. I assure you it was not a glance of admiration or whatsoever. It was judging and analyzing glares, as they probably pondered about how I could catch a big fish like Jackson with my small frame and burning hair. Not even I could answer that question. I’ve never fished before. Jackson literally jumped up from the lake and onto my lap.
I tried to return some of the glares with the courage I had built up, but they would look away just as quickly. A part of me wanted to hiss at them, confront them, but even a larger part tried to forget and move on. It wasn’t me to make a scene, so I continued on walking as if it didn’t bother me at all. However, the frustration was there.
My locker was on the third floor, and I was collecting my books. My first class was history, so math, and then biology before lunchtime. The strap of my bag gnawed against my shoulder as I tried to press a notebook in it. It was so stuffed I could barely close it. Eventually, I gave up and figured I just had to carry it around.
I shut the squeaky locker and hooked on my code lock, twisting the notches longer than necessary. Then, with no warning, a pair of hands pinched my sides and I fleetingly lost control over my body––along it, every bit of my sanity.
With a squeal, I instinctively wriggled and tried to slither out of the tickler's grasp. But with a swift move, I was turned and pinned against the locker wall.
I pulled a deep breath, performing a quick meditation to gather what was left of my equilibrium. With the notebook in hand, I swatted the offending tickler and whined.
“How many times do I have to tell you? I hate that!”
It was Jackson. Who else. Hovering over me, he kept me on place with his hips.
“Good morning, sunshine,” he teased.
“Jerk,” I mumbled, feeling people’s eyes on us, burning on my skin like lasers from his back. I looked away, trying to hide the embarrassment that had painted my cheeks with crimson. “Let go,” I tried to shrug free, but it was no use. Jackson was like a mountain compared, and he had no intension of moving.
“Hmm?” he cocked his head to the side and crunched his brows, playing dumb. “Didn’t hear ya’,” a devilish grin grew across his face, full of mischief as he grinded closer, his bulge pressing against my stomach.
“Jackson. Please. Let. Me. Go,” I said through clenched teeth, pressure on every word so it would come across as clear as day.
He bet his bottom lip, however, and hungrily watched mine before his eyes flicked up. They were steel blue-gray, like the color of bleached jeans, or the palest watery blue like the eyes of a ghost. Perhaps that’s how he noticed me. A Ghostbuster.
“Oh, that’s what you said…” he trailed in realization. “Let go of you, eh?”
“Mhm,” I mumbled, straining a smile before he cupped my chin between his fingers and bent closer so our lips barely brushed.
I closed my eyes expecting a kiss, but instead, he whispered: “Well… Give up, babe. Ain’t happenin’.”
Warmth flooded through me and there was a spark of anxiety. Suddenly I felt claustrophobic. “Then I’ll make you,” I pressed against his broad chest, but he only chuckled as I pushed and pushed, my face turning from red, yellow, white to purple.
“Careful now, Liddy. Pop a child, and the people in this town will loose their mind.” He laughed and there was this click before I burst with anger. I pushed him aggressively and I think he noticed as he stumbled backwards––well an inch, but enough for me to shrug off of him and squeeze through the space under his arm.
“Not funny,” I rebuked as I stomped off down the hallway.
“Oh, come on. Babe,” he called after me. “I was just kidding,” he followed.
I crossed my arms tightly around myself, notebook against my pounding chest, trying to get rid of the fever on my face. I wasn’t really that angry. I wasn’t that easily aggravated––perhaps a bit annoyed he referred to my mom to pull off a joke. However, I knew the joke was on the people on this place. Regardless, I needed air.
“I’m sorry,” Jackson grabbed me by the arm. I stopped. “I shouldn’t have joked about that.”
“No, you shouldn’t,” I said calmer, although every bit serious.
“I’m really sorry,” he repeated, regret filled his voice. Then he crept in closer, nuzzling my nose. “Don’t be mad at me, please.”
I sighed. “Class starts soon. I need to go, so we’ll talk later,” I smiled weakly.
“Forgive me,” he insisted, his lips teasingly brushing my upper lip, silently asking for permission.
I looked away and down the floor. “I’m going to be late, Jackson. It’s fine. I forgive you. Now, let go of me,” I tugged my arm, but his grip was firm. He could be so persistent sometimes. He might even beat Mom.
Might.
“Say it like you mean it at least,” he implied, a hand on the nape of my back, holding me close. “Please,” he added, his warm breath brushing my skin as he was pondering between whether to kiss me or not, and if it was safe––not because he was scared that I would hit him. But because he was scared I would break my hand if I did.
I sighed and reached my palms up to cup the sides of his chiseled face. Further I wrapped my arms around his neck, and hoisted myself up to my toes to kiss him softly on the cheek.
He stared at me disheartened, and there was a moment of silence.
“I think you missed.”
I shrugged. “Nope. Don’t think so,” I pulled away.
“On the cheek? Where are we? Kindergarten?”
“See ya’,” I walked away.
“No, you can’t leave me like that.”
“Watch me.”
“Lydia,” he called and the corner of my mouth twitched into a victorious smirk. But not for long, however, as the second next, he spun me around and crashed our lips together.
A punch. That’s what it felt like at first. But it softened up quickly, his warm tongue pressing against my bottom lip, asking for entrance. I denied him at first, but eventually granted him access to satisfy his hunger. He devoured me with no mercy, but his aggressiveness faltered gradually before he drowned me with sweet French kisses.
“I have to go,” I pulled away, but reluctant, he held around me, pushing me a little closer as he planted kisses around my face.
“No,” he mumbled kissing my chin and a smile crept onto my face, a detail that didn’t escape him.
“Jackson,” I whined before he made his way down my neck, tickling me.
“Hmm, say my name one more time,” he whispered into my ear.
“Stop it!” I giggled, slapping the notebook onto his arm before finally he let go. “I’ll see you at lunch,” I untangled his limbs from my waists.
“Fine,” the word came out sharply as though it was hard for him to say. Reaching out his hand to caress my cheek, I smiled and nuzzled slightly onto his palm. I then gave him a chaste kiss.
“Bye.”
“Mm, bye,” he mumbled, almost sulking.
I scoffed.
If I have to compare Jackson with something, it would’ve been a pet dog. Like a dog, he required a daily dose of lovey-dovey time, or else his world would stop spinning. I guess, it’s partly my fault. He hasn’t seen or heard from me all weekend because I have a tendency of keeping my phone dead when it first runs out of battery. This of course resulted that Jackson’s need for intimacy would be like a vampire’s thirst for blood.
“You should go before I change my mind.”
“Roger that,” I giggled as he tucked his lips and pressed, clearly holding back.
I’ve known Jackson since high school. He was sort of a big shot back then, and still is. So imagine my surprise when he asked me on a date few weeks into our senior year. Jackson wasn’t one to do love letters or rendezvous either; he asked me head on in the middle of the cafeteria for everyone to see. Obviously, it broke my plan on living on the sideline. I thought whatever I chose; there was no turning back. People had already noticed my existence. I took the wrong choice, however. That’s if I wanted to maintain my low profile. My choices were whether I wanted to be stamped as the crazy girl who rejected the one and only Jackson Whittemore, or be just another girl he dated.
Back then rejecting him would’ve been the right choice. The fuss of them finding out who I was would’ve died out eventually, and they would’ve just thought I was stupid for rejecting him. But I didn’t think much of it back then. I thought Jackson just wanted to try out something new, bored of all the other girls who flocked around him. I was curious to, as to where it would take me. I’ve read about it so many times before; the popular boy falling in love with the quiet girl because she was different from everyone else. However, instead of a happily every after, I counted that, with time, he would get tired of me and dump me on the ditch somewhere. I was after all not that very amusing of a person––not to anyone other than myself.
However, my prediction told me wrong, and before I knew it, it went months and months. Now it’s been about a year, and he has even our future planned out. Crazy.
The classes lasted forever, and when it was finally time for lunch break, my mind was still stuck in biology. The images and smell was haunting me. As today’s experiment, we had to dissect a bullfrog. It killed my appetite obviously, so I decided against going to the cafeteria and wandered around the school instead––even though I knew Jackson had bought lunch for us both and waited. Terrible girlfriend right there.
However, I was in no mood to sit around with Jackson’s loud friends, or with Jackson for that matter, nor near food. Did you know frogs had hearts? I never really thought of it before, although it’s obvious they had one. But seeing it, how tiny and fragile it was, made my own hurt. I didn’t even like frogs.
“Lydia?” someone called and I turned to see a gorgeous woman with raven black hair and lovely sky blue eyes.
“Mrs. Hale… Hi,” I tried to smile, but something told me it didn’t come across that way as she frowned as if there was something wrong with my face.
“Are you alright, dear?” she cupped my cheek, furrowing her full brows concerned. “You look a little pale,” she checked me for fever.
That’s just my complexion, I’m afraid. That’s what I wanted to say.
“Oh… Yeah, I’m fine. I just feel a little nausea after biology class.”
“Ah, I see. I heard about that at the office. Poor creatures, may they rest in peace. Perhaps you should rest a little in the infirmary?”
“No, I’ll be alright. There were many who didn’t have a strong stomach, so it’s probably crowded in there already. I’ll walk it off eventually,” I smiled reassuringly, until she smiled back, although worry was still etched onto her face.
Mrs. Hale was my homeroom teacher. She was my favorite out of all the teachers I had, mostly because she was a fan of my writing, but also because she was kind and caring––the kind that seemed genuine and not because it’s her job. She was very beautiful too: tall and curvy. There was no doubt why she had so many admirers, both students and teachers.
“What happened?” I looked pointedly at the pot she was holding.
Showing it to me, she sighed. “Oh, you know… I’ve come to realize plants and I are like rain in Sahara. A nonexistent relationship.”
My brows twitched at her metaphor before I chuckled. Then I gushed, astounded at what I saw. “Is that…” I pointed. “Is that the cactus you bought two week ago?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Hale answered with a soft chuckle. “And here I thought I was being practical buying a cactus so it would live longer than just a month.”
“That’s really strange,” I gushed, looking at it closely. It was all dried up and withered; I could barely see it in the pot along with the soil.
I remember when she put it on her desk first day of school. Back then it was all spikey and healthy. Cactuses are like the best plant for those who are horrible at keeping flowers alive; that being Mrs. Hale and me both. It can live for months without water. I mean, yes, I’ve killed a few cactuses myself, mostly because of overwatering, but not as fast as Mrs. Hale. Now that I think about it, all flowers Mrs. Hale has bought for class has died faster and faster, the cactus being her record.
“I guess I’ll have to buy a new one,” she sighed again. “Maybe I’ll stop by your mom’s flower shop after work!”
“I’m sure she’d be happy to see you,” I smiled at her.
“Well, I should go and give this one a proper burial at the bin.”
“Yeah,” I chuckled before we parted ways.
“Oh, and Lydia?”
“Yes?”
“I read your short story last night and it was amazing. And such beautiful ending! Keep it up,” she smiled and showed her amazingly white row of pearls. She even had those adorable buckteeth.
“Thank you,” I replied, and felt a noticeable weight lift from my chest.
Mrs. Hale was actually my English teacher in middle school. Imagine my surprise when she started here and became my homeroom teacher. Quite the coincidence, I’d say. However, I think that’s why she’s been looking out for me more than the other teachers have. Not that she treats me a lot better than the rest of her students or anything like that. I guess it’s just because she has known me for three years already, and probably think we have a special bond for it. Not that I mind. She was a nice lady.
I continued walking around the school, making my way up the floors. It looked so much larger now that it wasn’t filled with students in every corner. The hallways were deserted and peaceful, only my footsteps echoed the air. Everyone was down having lunch, so I enjoyed the silence while it was. I then came by this old music room at the top floor. I couldn’t help but peek inside when I saw the door ajar. However, no one seemed to have been in it for a long time. It was dusty and empty, aside from the grand piano in the middle of the room, a shelf with a couple binders in it and few sheets of paper scattered on the floor.
I walked in, my footsteps loud. Picking up a paper from the floor, it was a music sheet of Lavender's Blue. I scanned through it quickly, smiling slightly before I laying it on the shelf. I then walked towards the door by the windows. It was locked, but I assumed it was where the other instruments were stored.
I could hear my stomach whine and rumble for something to eat. I hushed at it every now and then while looking around, before I took off my bag, leaving it on the floor as I sat down on the piano stool and opened the fallboard.
“Poor thing,” I said to myself as I brushed my fingers across the smooth keys. I then stared out the rain while I sat in the darkness. It was quite the pretty setting: gloom, empty, and forgotten. The light from outside was the only source to illuminate the room. The pitter-patter against the window was loud, but soothing at the same time. I could see the dust motes in the air and the fine layer on top of the piano. I yucked after I brushed it with my palm, the sound of my hands clapping like explosions compared to the lingering silence. I then brought my hand back to the keys, and played a little melody.
Before I knew it, I was on autopilot. My fingers began to play, and the sleek, black beast before me woke up to life. I could hear the vibrating octaves; the lilting notes, a sad, sweet lament. It was Small Memory by Jon Hopkins.
Lost in thought, I poured my feelings through the keys and the beautiful instrument sang them out loud for me. A small smile appeared on my face as my thoughts landed on Jackson. When I first met him, and a long time while I dated him, I despised him. Yes, you heard me right. He was such a stuck up brat, arrogant to the core, and I hated how he couldn’t leave me alone. Not even for a second. That’s when I realized it was the cause of that magical little something labeled into four letters: love.
So cliché.
At first, the overwhelming change of having a boyfriend got me like a wrecking ball. Literally. He shattered all my four walls after I said yes. From being alone, to having someone watch over me was a very big change. Eventually, as time passed, I began to care for him as much as he cared for me. He’s cocky. Yes. Stupid? Absolutely. But he’s also thoughtful and warmhearted. And above anything else, he was himself. I adored him for that. I adored how his heart was so pure, and that he wasn’t afraid of showing his feelings or sharing his thoughts.
Then my smile faltered as I thought about myself and us. He deserved someone so much better. I’m not saying it due to some stupid and insecure reason, but because I’ve read enough romance to know what I should be feeling. I loved him, but it was a different kind. His love for me was bold, blind, desperate and true. Even after I tried, I couldn’t return it. My love had its limit, but his was endless. That’s when I realized that we weren’t meant to be. As much as I hated to admit it, he deserved someone else. Someone who would answer the phone the second he rang, live as though he was the center of the universe, drown him with kisses, and look at him the way he did me.
I should’ve ended things between us for a long time ago, but before I knew it, he became a part of my life. He was someone who fought to be in it and stayed. No one has ever done that. He became more than just my boyfriend. He became my best friend––my family. If I ended things now, I’d loose him forever. I mean, why would he stay around? If I shatter what we have, he’ll never to talk to me ever again. It was too much to risk, and despite how selfish it might be; I didn’t want to let go. Not yet. However, I knew. Eventually, I will have to. I just hope it won’t be anytime soon. I can already imagine what a mess it’ll be. He’s the type who’d make a big thing out of it, even put himself in harm’s way to prove a point.
Suddenly, the sound of a handle twisting, and a creaking door open, ceased my train of thought and stopped me from playing. I tilted my head slowly as the room drowned in utter silence.
The sound was coming from the storage room. It was open.
I gulped down a cube of ice as the sense of danger caused a frigid chill to zap down my spine. My common sense told me to pack up and leave as soon as possible. But my curiosity told me otherwise. What could be on the other side?
Like the first person to die in a horror movie, I dared to call out whom it was that hid in there. “Hello?” my voice echoed through the room.
I peeked through the tiny crack while normal thoughts as “maybe it’s the wind!” crossed my mind. But I knew far too well that there were no open windows in this room, and that wind couldn’t open locks.
I rose from the stool and padded cautiously towards the door. The floor beneath me creaked at my careful steps. I winced as the cold metal of the handle touched the tip of my fingers. Pinching my body in the crack of the door, I hesitantly peeked inside the room.
Little did I know, on that moment, my faith was sealed.