Words, Words, Words

"So Oliver, are you hurt? Are you mad? Do you want to punch a wall? Did you think last night actually meant something? Something that would last, something more than just a one night stand? Did you think that just because you look away my virginity, that would change my opinion about you? Did you think that since I used your body and mind as an exhaust, fucked with your feelings and screwed you over, that would compensate for the seven years you screwed with my body and mind? Did you really think it would happen like that? That everything would just disappear after one night?"

Amelia might as well have just spat those words in my pathetic, false love-sick face when she told me to forget everything that happened the night before. I assume that I was just angered more at myself, though, for hoping that after one night, everything in the past would have been forgotten. And when she asked for one night to just disappear from existence - well, it was obvious if one special night wouldn't light up in flames and vanish then an entire seven years surely wouldn't.

As I drive home, ignoring Amelia's car parked near my driveway, it becomes painfully evident that those seven years will always be the ghost luming above my head, haunting me as I stare adoringly at everything that's beautiful about Amelia. The seven years that I fucked up and let my temper get the better of me is what I have to pay for now; now that I see what I missed out on seven years ago at the start.

So what should I do now? That's the question in my head as I walk to my front door, pressing the lock button on my car keys an endless amount of times. Do I let go of Amelia, let her go her own way without Tom and I to help her? Or do I stay and feel like shit for everything I've ever done to her? Do I let her potentially screw herself over, let her go absolutely crazy in the confines of her body without a friend? Or do I talk her through it; even if she yells at me and puts me down to make herself feel a little better?

At this point, as I open the door to my house, feeling dead-beat and mentally tired, I just don't know.

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"Aye, remember when my brother wasn't such an arse?" Tom voice booms as he rams a pillow against my ear. I awake from my fourteen hour slumber with a yawn and an annoyed look for Tom with some brotherly love. He stares at me with the pillow still in his hands, readying himself for an attack. But I'm still dazed and half asleep so instead of pumbling his body to the piles of clothes on my bedroom floor, I prop myself up on my elbows and glare.

"Actually, no, I can't remember a time when I wasn' an arse. Thought yeh know by now," I mutter with an obvious attitude. Tom throws the pillow at me again, hitting me square in the face and knocking me off my elbows. I instantly get back, feeling wide awake now, and shoot my brother a rather pissed off look, "Wha' the mother of fuck, Tom? Are yeh jus' gonna wack me with a pillow or are yeh gonna explain your absolutely wonderful visit into my bedroom?"

“Yeh popped Lia’s cherry?” Tom states more than questions. His tone is angry but his words sound like something one guy would say to another when they’re proud. He’s glaring deep holes into me and I can’t help but stare back blankly. How did he find out? He doesn’t talk to Amelia anymore. He was equally the amount of arse to her as I had been in the past. He dumped her when she needed him most. “Olleh, yeh damn wanker, answer me!”

“Wha’ do yeh want me to say?” I yell back after a moment. I sit up in my bed and run my hands over my face. I feel sick, my head pounding and my stomach curling into knots. I can only imagine what’s running through Tom’s head at this point. But I’m sure in just a moment, he’ll tell me word for word.

“Wha’ the fuck were yeh thinkin’?” He nearly whispers, his hand rising up to the bridge of his nose, his thumb and index finger pinching the skin. The question is obviously rhetorical but I can’t help but respond for my own sake.

“I were thinkin’ that I liked her, liked her a lot,” I sigh. The statement is quiet, the words twisting with my exhaled air. I swallow the lump that has gathered in my throat and snicker more to myself, “And I though’ maybe underneath those layers of despise for me, she migh’ actually like me too, as the person I really am. Not who she thinks I am, not the wanker I’ve been showing off to her for so long. But I guess not.”

Tom surprises me when he answers to my rant.

“Yeh know, Olleh, that arse that fucked with Lia for so long is yeh. That’s really who yeh are. And some people can take it, some people think it’s enjoyable to be around; that yeh are a real comedian. But other people can’t. Other people don’t get that sort of humor. They think it’s real. Those kind of people are jus’ like Amelia. And people with humor like yours shouldn’t mix with people like her. So maybe yeh and I should jus’ leave her alone for a while. Live our own lives without a constant worry for a bit. See how the girl holds up on her own, yeh know?”

It’s the obvious answer to my heavy question. But I’m just so skeptical. Do I let go? What if she can’t hold up on her own? Is it my fault for not being there? Is it Tom’s fault because he suggested it? Or even worse, what if she gets better without us? Then I’d have to let go forever. And I don’t know about Tom, but I honestly don’t think I can just forget Amelia Maurice that easily.

But I put aside my own feelings for once and mutter, “Yeah, I guess yeh righ’.”