Stitches

I watched Oliver’s chest rise and fall, keeping a perfect rhythm. His relaxed demeanor instantly soothed me.

Don’t know what I want, but I know it’s not you. Keep pushing and pulling me down, in my heart I know it’s not you.

I shook that infected thought from my mind. I know exactly what I want and it is him.

Here’s my confliction; laid out in a simple 1-2-3 format.

1.) I’m in love with Oliver. I love him so much I can’t even stand myself.

2.) I can’t let his life be ruined because of me; yes, I love him that much.

3.) I don’t want to play the martyr or the poor pitiful girlfriend.

I don’t want my leaving to seem like I’m trying to be the hero, martyr or any other synonym for sacrifice. So therefore, I had to make my departure seem as legitimate as possible.

--

The rain pelted against the window, the vehicles traveling on the road below were moving slow with their windshield wipers switched into overdrive. The door made a eerie creak as it opened. Brooklyn stepped into the room, she wore one of my hoodie’s and a pair of cut-off jean shorts. Her hair was pulled into a sloppy pony tail. She walked with small “baby steps”. Brooke quietly sat beside me, her head hung low as if she were ashamed of something. I pulled her close to me. She was quick to pull away.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, brushing the hair away from her face. Deep dark circles surrounded her eyes.

“Oli, I-uh, I used again.” She spoke the heartbreaking words with quiet lips. She quickly drew her knees up to her chest.

I sighed, a thick silence hung in the air.

“What now?” I whispered. I couldn’t think of anything, my mind was blank. Everything that I planned had been erased by the hand of fate. I should have known this would happen. I should have known.

Brooke let her legs down and tangled her hands together, “I’m leaving.”

“You’re what?!” I yelled instinctively. There wasn’t an ounce of rationality in my voice, or blood for that matter.