Hurricane

June 2005

The days were starting to grow warmer, and I found myself with Pete almost every day. And every day we learned something new about the other. I had learned that Pete was currently writing songs for his bands next album—but he was having some trouble with it. I told him about my life before I left home.

We still hadn’t talked about either of our attempted suicides. But I knew at some point, we would run out of things to say each other and all we would have left to talk about was that. It would loom over us like an ugly monster bringing out our darker sides.

I wasn’t aware that the ugly monster would be there half way through June, as I sat on Pete’s bed, watching him as he wrote something in his notebook. I watched him silently. He had been writing furiously for almost ten minutes, and I knew better than to disturb him. A few minutes later, he stopped. He looked around him for a moment before setting down the pen down and pressing the palms of his hands against his eyes. I heard him let out a sigh followed by a low, “Fuck.”

He brought his hands away from his face and looked at me.

“I lost it,” he said, referring to what he had been writing. He forced a tight smile before standing up and stretching. It was silent now as Pete sat back on his desk chair. I watched him as he stared down at his hands. I knew he was thinking about something.

After a few minutes, his eyes darted up to meet mine. I didn’t blush or look away because he caught me staring. I was always staring at him, and he knew it. There was nothing to be embarrassed about.

“I was thinking,” Pete said. I smiled because I already knew that he had been thinking, and he knew it too. “I think it’s time to talk about what happened.”

The slight smile that had adorned my face just seconds before slipped off of my face quickly and I found myself looking away from Pete’s steady gaze. I was shaking as I got off of the bed quickly.

“I think it’s time for me to go,” I said, moving for the bedroom door.

“What?” Pete asked, standing up quickly. “You haven’t even been here for an hour. And your mom wants you to stay here until she’s done with work.”

I sighed, the doorknob in my grasp. I let go of it, but didn’t look at Pete. I now felt anger towards the fact that I had to stay here because that was what my mother wanted. She had gone back to working full time, and she didn’t want me to stay home alone.

“Fine,” I said quietly. “I’ll stay. But…I don’t want to talk about that.”

“We’re going to have to talk about it sometime,” he said just as quietly. I turned to look at him.

“I’m not talking about it,” I said. “Ever. I just want to forget about it.”

“It’s not as easy as you think,” he said. “Forgetting about it. It’s just going to haunt you forever.”

It was then that I realized there was so much to Pete. Sure he had a band that was probably going to become famous—but Pete…he just…I don’t even know. But it just proved that succeeding in doing something doesn’t always make everything better. Doesn’t make life worth living.

I looked away from Pete and moved back to his bed slowly. I suddenly felt tired, and I crawled under his blankets, curling up into a ball and shutting my eyes. I heard footsteps and then heard the creak of Pete’s chair as he sat down. A moment later, I heard him writing again. I fell asleep to the sound.