I've Had This Itching in My Shoes Since I Was Just A Little Kid
prologue.
Itchy feet. That's what we called it back when it was still harmless. Before my feet got to itchy for even you to hold me down. Before I left you. You used to find it funny, my inability to stay in one place. You cracked up on our first date, when you took me to the movies and I constantly changed seats, went to the bathroom, and exuded nothing but restless energy. I remember how shocked I was when you called me, saying that you wanted to see me again.
I remember how you used to humor me, taking walks to nowhere at all hours of the night, when the four walls of our bedroom seemed oppressive, looming, and all to heavy, making it impossible for me to breathe.
Your fingers would lace with mine, squeezing reassuringly as I took deep breaths and concentrated on nothing but the feeling of your calloused fingers against mine and the rhythmic sound of our feet against the Baltimore sidewalk. I can still remember how your tousled brown hair stuck up at odd angles, the way your brown eyes would search my face gently, waiting for the panic attack to subside, so you could take me into your arms as I knew you were so anxiously waiting to do.
I remember how much it killed you, that you couldn't do anything to help me besides hold my hand when I was having an attack. You knew how I hated, and still hate, to be touched when it felt like every nerve ending in my body was tingling with spiteful electricity. So you would wait. And when my hand would finally squeeze yours back, you would pull me towards you. I should have known, even then. I should have known that in those moments, bathed in the yellow tint of the street lamps, with the sound of the nighttime Maryland traffic surrounding us, that I should have left you.
You, Alex Gaskarth, were the only person who ever understood me, the girl with itchy feet, made to run.
I remember how you used to humor me, taking walks to nowhere at all hours of the night, when the four walls of our bedroom seemed oppressive, looming, and all to heavy, making it impossible for me to breathe.
Your fingers would lace with mine, squeezing reassuringly as I took deep breaths and concentrated on nothing but the feeling of your calloused fingers against mine and the rhythmic sound of our feet against the Baltimore sidewalk. I can still remember how your tousled brown hair stuck up at odd angles, the way your brown eyes would search my face gently, waiting for the panic attack to subside, so you could take me into your arms as I knew you were so anxiously waiting to do.
I remember how much it killed you, that you couldn't do anything to help me besides hold my hand when I was having an attack. You knew how I hated, and still hate, to be touched when it felt like every nerve ending in my body was tingling with spiteful electricity. So you would wait. And when my hand would finally squeeze yours back, you would pull me towards you. I should have known, even then. I should have known that in those moments, bathed in the yellow tint of the street lamps, with the sound of the nighttime Maryland traffic surrounding us, that I should have left you.
You, Alex Gaskarth, were the only person who ever understood me, the girl with itchy feet, made to run.
♠ ♠ ♠
this story needs some lovin'.