On The Brightside

The Ellison household is a very dead place when nobody but me occupied it.

Chris left about an hour ago after kissing me over and over, and telling me he couldn't wait to see me again. After he left, I sat and thought about him for a long while, before crawling over to my nightstand and digging through the bottom drawer. When my fingers grazed the carton, I fished it out and smiled small to myself.

And here I sit, reading The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath and smoking cigarettes on the deck behind my house. My neighbors were all off at work; it was still early afternoon, and my parents would be home in a few hours.

The sun was beating down on my shoulders, making me glad that I'd changed into my bikini to come outside. The August heat was taking it's toll on me. I lit another cigarette.

Sweat rolled down the side of my face as I flipped the page. Sylvia had such a way with words. She almost made me feel better about everything. Her outlook on life was the same as mine. Bleak and gray, like the sky before a storm rolls in.

I sighed, put my cig between my lips and clutched my book, before I went to lay out my towel in the grass. The ground was soft and welcoming, but I felt anything but comforted in that moment. I rested on my back with my book lying open on my stomach.

With my eyes shut and the sunlight glowing red through my lids, I couldn't ignore the thoughts weighing down my mind. Ever since Chris left, I felt a little bit sick to my stomach with something close to fear.

But what did I have to be afraid of?

Maybe I thought he would leave as soon as he was finished with me. It made my heart squeeze just considering that.

Or maybe I was already hoping, pleading with some higher power, that he felt like I did, and never wanted anyone else. This seemed very unlikely.

That's the problem with my generation. We can never leave well-enough alone.

I have a good thing going for me. I'm young, I'm intelligent, and I have a sort-of boyfriend who thinks I'm neat. I don't have any huge commitments, and I can pretty much do what I want.

But I just need more. I need just one person in my life to be constant. I need to know that I have someone who will never leave me, no matter what. I want that huge commitment that comes with being in love.

It a lot to ask for, and damn it, I'm asking.

I want Christofer Drew Ingle to love me, and it's hard to admit, but its possible I'm not worthy of such a brilliant thing.

Who am I kidding, anyway?

I'm a drunken pothead chain-smoker with a set of dead parents and no real future. I avoid my peers like the plague and sit in my room, reading books and burning candles. What the hell would such a bright, decent, caring guy like Chris want with me?

I guess that's the million dollar question, isn't it?

Yeah. Now if only I know how to get the answer.

I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I realized, I was being shaken out of a daze by my mother, who looked a bit panicked.

"Loreli, honey wake up!" she said, her voice a bit shaky.

"What's wrong?" I rubbed my eyes and looked around.

"Oh thank god! I thought you were in a coma! You're going to get all burned, laying out here like this! Come on, come inside."

It was hard to put everything together with a groggy mind, but somehow I managed, and laughed quietly.

"Mom, I'm fine. I just dozed off. Had a bit of a bad day."

"Oh sweetie, I'm sorry. Dad's making dinner, so why don't you come in out of the heat? You're going to burn up out here!"

I agreed, and she went inside, shaking her head.

Shit. I could instantly feel myself overheating. A dull headache was forming around my neck. I groaned, dog-eared the page I was on, and finally noticed the cigarette I was holding when I fell asleep had burned to the butt, burned my towel, and ashed and scattered all over my towel. Such a waste.

I groaned. Standing from the ground, I picked up my towel with its nice new burn hole, and draped it over my arm. My book was in the same hand, and I snatched my cigarettes and lighter off the table on the deck, before stepping into the cool air of the kitchen.

Dinner was served later, and Nate got home when I was half way finished with my plate of spaghetti. I wasn't very hungry, but I ate to appease my mother while she threw worried looks at me from across the table.

After we finished, Nate and I went into the basement and lied down on the hammock we hung up from the ceiling beams. It was even colder down here, which did wonders for my headache.

The hammock was big enough to comfortably fit three, so there was tons of extra space. Nate and I both sunk to the middle, and he smiled at me.

"What?" I asked, smiling back.

He shrugged, "I don't know. You look...happier."

"That's funny, because I feel worse than I did before." That wasn't entirely true, but I definitely wasn't happy by any means.

"Was Christofer bothering you again, Lor? I'm gonna beat his ass-"

"No, no, he left right when we got home. Didn't say a word to me. I just...I don't know."

With my inconclusive statement, the conversation died, and we lied there for a while longer in silence, before I decided to go to bed. I rolled off the hammock, said my good nights, and went slowly up the stairs.

I didn't go to sleep right away. In fact, I was awake until at least two in the morning, reading and thinking about Chris and trying to ignore my headache.

And when I finally did fall asleep, it was anything but restful.