Words, Words, Words

Thomas Haynes Bayly once said the words, “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.” In response to such bullshit, I wrote a paper in secondary school stating he had never experienced the feeling of strong need; the need to be better than the rest, the need to be a priority, the need to be loved. If you need something so badly, then the fact that it isn’t around must only make it harder.

The words from the paper written so long along come rushing back to me as I watch Tom park my car in my driveway. Oliver’s black car eases slowly behind it, but he stays inside the safety of the vehicle while his younger brother steps out of my car and locks it. I watch him pull out a piece of paper and pen from his pocket and he scribbles a quick note, leaving it on my windshield before walking to the passenger seat of Oliver’s car.

I turn my back and stare into my bedroom, trying my hardest not to listen to the car back away from my house and zoom down the coldasac. And once I’m sure the Sykes’ brothers are long gone and aren’t going to come back for any misplaced objects or late goodbyes, I bolt out of my bedroom and down the stairs. I’m in a war with the front door, pulling at the knob until I realize it’s locked. But once I twist the copper lock, I swing the door open and run outside, forgetting about shoes, forgetting that it’s below forty degrees outside. I run until I meet my car and grab the piece of paper from the windshield. The ring of keys fall to the ground but I ignore them.

Amelia,

Don’t you ever forget that I love you.
With all my heart.

Tom

___________________________________________________

I’m laying in my bed because the warmth of the sheets tangled around me remind me of a pair of comforting, warm arms. The only difference between the two is though I wish I could trust someone enough to hold me, I know my sheets won’t do me wrong.

I’m staring at my ceiling and I’m trying to block out everything from my past because it all revolves around Tom and Oliver. I’m trying to become a new person, an infant with no past, just present time. And even though it’s clear to me that trying to block out all memories only brings them back, I can’t help but trick my mind into thinking that it’s working.

I’ve become a master at controlling every part of my body. When my mind tells me something is wrong, I simply ignore it and do what I feel is right. When my stomach tells me I’m hungry, I shrug the pain away and substitute it with a past comment from Oliver. When my limbs ache and tell me they need energy, nutrition, vitamins, I find a bottle of Advil and force myself to be content with two blue tablets. The only part of me that I have yet to get take a hold of is my heart.

When my heart tells me I’m in pain, I listen. When it tells me that it’s empty, I listen. When it tells me I need someone to be there for me, I listen. And after I’m all done listening, I cry a little because I know my heart is right. And then I call Tom.

But now Tom is out of the picture. So as my heart recites itself, I try to ignore it. I try, try, try and with every failed attempt, I let just one tear fall. And by the time I give up, I’ve cried a waterfall. Though my eyes wander towards my phone, I know those seven digits that I memorized so long ago are now off-limits. So I just cry some more.

I lay in my bed with silent tears falling from my face as I let each memory pass in my mind like a slide-show. Once each slide-show is over, I pretend that it’s over for good and that I’ll never be able to see it again. But my silent, desperate call for help is broken by the loud slam of the front door and two voices yelling at one another.

“No, James, you can’t explain! The picture explains for you,” I hear my mother yell. Her voice cracks under pressure and she sounds like she’s caught a cold. But I know she hasn’t because just yesterday, she was fine and healthy.

“Samantha, just stop yelling at me and let me talk!” My father cries. His tone is desperate as he calls after my mother, who has retreated to stomping loudly up the stairs. I can hear his weaker footsteps behind hers, echoing in the large house.

“I don’t want to listen to anything you have to say anymore!” She shouts, but her voice grows quieter as she walks further into her bedroom. My father follows, closing the door behind him but their shrill words are still clear if I listen closely.

My parents never yelled at each other. They never fought like other parents did over bills and discipline. They were always very calm towards one another when they disagreed on something, using soft tones and optimistic words. I figured it was because they rarely saw each other, my father always being busy with work and my mother always busy with worries of me. By the time they finally were together, disagreements just seemed like a waste of time.

I let my burning curiosity get the better of me, slipping out from the warm covers. Waves of cold air attack my paling skin, goosebumps forming as I open my bedroom door and walk out into the hallway. I'm not sure what to do. Should I go inside my parents’ bedroom and try to calm them down? Or should I just back into my own bedroom and wait until they’re done?

I glance down the stairs while debating, being indecisive as usual. My eyes meet the local newspaper, strewn across the floor in front of the door. To waste time, I walk down the cold stairs, my feet dreading each step, until I finally meet the papers. I bend down and begin gathering the newspaper until a title catches my eye.

“JAMES MAURICE; Sheffield’s infamous business man caught in a kiss.”

My stomach twists and churns as my fingers latch onto the paper. I stand up staring at the article. I can feel my cheeks flush of all leftover color while my eyes scan over column. I’m only catching key points but it’s enough to get me to start shaking and my eyes well up with all too familiar tears. I wonder if I ever did really stop crying. My vision’s blurred but I’m still able to make out the black and white picture of my father, lips locked onto his blond secretary, Miss Adams.

My parents’ bedroom door opens and I instantly look up to see my shameless father. His usually perfect slicked back brown locks are askew, his face is covered in stubble and his green eyes look glazed over as he looks down at me. I can hear myself breathing over my mother’s muffled sobs as I take in the sight before me.

James has a suitcase in one hand, his keys in the other.