My Love Was My Decay

Her eyes were the color of blue sea glass, their beauty only intensified by her jet-black hair, which was cut shoulder-length and into choppy layers. Her lips were red like parting of the sun and parted like the Red Sea; she was laughing. He knew her braces had come off just three months ago, had been there as she squeezed his hand and the orthodontists took the foul instrument to hack the little brackets off her teeth. Her skin was like as clear as porcelain and her cheekbones were Scandinavian high. Her straight nose wrinkled every time he told her about another prank his brother had pulled, even though he was laughing the whole time. She ended up laughing with him as well.

He remembered the first time he’d seen her, in seventh grade, when she was smaller and dorkier and more of a kid. Back then, she’d followed trends, not set them like now, and succumbed to wearing Bermudas and tube tops. Her body was long and lean and didn’t support them very well, and her beauty was masked by the hideous outfits. He never made fun of her, even in his head, just watched her from afar as she was swallowed up into middle school’s obnoxious cliques.

He remembered the first time they spoke, in art class. He even remembered the song – “Soul Meets Body” by Death Cab. She mentioned to him that this is one of my favorite songs ever! That night, he burned her the entire Death Cab album and gave it to her in class the next day. She was beyond ecstatic, and they made small talk about the most random of things, all of which he remembered – his art project (a collage of eyes), her art project (a collage of prescription drugs), what her project meant, why couldn’t anyone hand out prescriptions, what college were they planning to go to, the flowers in front of her house, his brother Paul, and her parents.

He remembered the day he walked into school at eight in the morning, high school now, late for homeroom, and found her collapsed in front of her locker, a mess on the floor. Her face was buried in her hands and her bag was cast carelessly beside her. He remembered crouching down and gently prying her hands away, only to find her eyeliner-lined eyes splattered and bloodshot. He remembered thinking nothing about how she looked, in all honesty. She was crying and he was there, so he did the only thing that went into his mind and asked, “What’s wrong?”

That put her into a renewed sobbing act, and instantly he felt something pull at his heartstrings, making them ache painfully. Somewhat disoriented by this, he bit his lip and moved closer, touching her knees to his chest. “Ashleigh?”

“My parents,” she finally said, reaching up one arm to stroke her hair. It wasn’t out of vanity or anxiety over personal appearance – he knew that she was just doing that for something to do with her hands, which were shaking. “They told me this morning.”

“Told you what?” he coaxed. He released her other hand and seated himself beside her on the cold linoleum floor, wondering if the administrators would yell at them if they saw what state she was in.

Her lip was trembling again and she quickly bit down on it. “They – they’re getting a divorce.” And her head fell back into the crevice between her knees and it was silent in the hall.

Something broke in him. He could feel it. It was hot, and then cold, icy to the tips of his toes and wrists. His fingers were numb for a moment before the pain in his heart returned, stronger than ever, and then numbing feeling dominated his ankles and arms. What was this strange feeling? This feeling that was so indescribable to anyone but those who have felt it?

Instinctively, he put one arm around her shoulder and the other around the front of her knees, and pulled her close to him. A tremor wracked her body and he clenched her tighter, not for intimacy or the pleasure of her body so close, but just to let her know that he was there for her. And that he always would be.

He would always be there.

He’d promised himself that, what felt like years and years ago, but somewhere in the back of his mind he knew it had only been a few months. He would never leave her alone, always be the shoulder to cry on, the person to listen to everything she had to say.

And now, as he sat on the swing in the park, with the sun falling out of the sky and the day coming to a close, with his shadow stretched across the ground, he was aware once again of the empty swing next to him. The one that she usually occupied, when she was angry at home again and his brother was out, not to be expected home until much later. He would let her vent and then console her with his words, and they’d end up just swinging in peace, laughing at the world and what a place it was.

He remembered every conversation they’d ever shared, everything she’d ever told him about herself.

He didn’t want to remember, now.