When I Look at the Stars, I Feel Like Myself

Zack sighs in relief, “Anywhere,” he answers, “Start anywhere,”

“From the beginning, then,” I blow hair off my forehead, and say, “Let's go somewhere else, first,”

“Okay,” he says in a calm voice as he lets me lead him outside. The cool air bites my skin, but I find comfort in the wind.

I gather my thoughts, so my story doesn't come out in a jumbled mess, and Zack waits patiently for me to start. I honestly don't know where to start, all of this seems like it was forever ago, though I'm still playing it on replay.

If I can't let go of my past, then I don't want to trouble Zack with it. Why did I accept in the first place? I'm obviously not ready to talk about it.

Maybe it's the way he smiles at me; like I'm the only girl in the world. Maybe it's the fact that he cares about me, that he's trying to delve deeper than anyone else has.

Maybe it's the fact that I've fallen for him. That smile, those eyes, the way he holds me, like he'll never let go.

I sigh. I can't tell him just yet, I know I'll break, and won't be able to be put back together again.

But will I ever be ready? Will I ever get an opportunity like this again?

I decide to take my chances, “Zack, never mind. I don't think there's anything else that you don't already know,”

He gives me a disbelieving look, “That's a lie,” he states boldly.

“No, it's not,” I say, annoyed, “You already know about my dad, my aunt, my sister,”

“What about your mom?”

I'm sure the look on my face tells him that there's something there I'm hiding.

“My mom's normal. She makes cookies with me on the holidays, she tucked me in at night, when I was younger,” Both of those are bold-faced lies. My mom has never done either of those things.

“Really?” he asks, “Where does she work?”

“She's a teacher. High school,” I answer. More like was.

“Hmm,” Zack murmured thoughtfully, “You know what I've noticed?”

“What?” I ask, a little relieved that there's no more questions about my mom. For now.

“You play with your hair when you're lying,”

I've been playing with my hair? I thought, as I took them slowly down to my lap. I hadn't noticed.

“Now, tell me the truth,” he demanded.

“Zack,” I complained, whining.

“You agreed, so some part of you wants to tell me the truth,”

I think about this for a moment. It's very true, if no part of me wanted him to know, I wouldn't have told him I did. But what part of me wanted this? Was it the sane part, or the crazy part?

I sigh and state, “I don't think we should start with my mom,”

“Okay, then pick somewhere to start,” he says, soothingly.

I try to find a place where this all started, but most of my memories after my aunt died are blurry. And the ones after my dad died are almost nonexistent. There's a seven year gap in my memories.

There goes that seven again. When will it ever leave me alone?

“My dad. He was... he was a businessman. He was always either at the office, or on a business trip. And... well, you know how he died,” I shot him a glance, and he nodded gently, “After Aunt Helen moved in, I walked in on her and my mom talking in the kitchen. I thought it was strange that my mom was barely crying at all, just a few tears at the funeral. My aunt said, 'I'm sorry about Steven, it's hard on kids to lose a parent. It's hard on the spouse, too,', And you know what my mother said to that?”

I pause, while Zack gives me silence, encouraging me to go on, “She said, 'It was over anyway, I was going to file for divorce,'.” I pause once more, to let the information sink into Zack, “Somewhere in my seven year old mind, I saw it coming. They never got along, and it was like Erin and I didn't even have a father. What's the point of being with someone if they're never around?

“Anyway, after that, I can't remember much. I know I went to therapy, and I'm pretty sure she's still my therapist. She was easy to talk to, because no matter what you said, she wouldn't be surprised. She wouldn't express any disgust, if she felt it. She was nice, and she had such compassion in her tone.

“Sorry, I'm rambling. This has nothing to do with my therapist.” I chuckle sheepishly, and return to the silence, thinking of a way to share the next chapter of my life.

Tentatively, I continue, “Have you ever heard of PTSD?”

“Post-traumatic Stress Disorder? Isn't that what happens when people come back from war, and they still think they're on the battle field?” he questions, waiting for a conformation.

“That's a very common cause for it, but it's not the only one,” I explain, “It's a disorder that can appear when a very stressful, traumatic incident happens in your life. The sufferer can relive the moment through hallucinations, flashbacks, recurring nightmares, and they may experience extreme negative reactions to anything that reminds them of the event. Some mothers also go through this after giving birth.”

I stop, waiting for the right moment to speak.

“I watched my aunt die for seven months. Just withering away. At first, it was just like nothing was happening and I remember thinking, 'Why is everyone always so freaked out when a loved one gets cancer? It's not as scary as they make it sound'.

“I thought that until she started getting dangerously thin. Almost like a skeleton. The real terror came when she passed out from weight loss. We rushed her to the hospital, but she died soon after that. Seven weeks after.

“For seven weeks, I sat there, by her bed. Willing her to get better. I was afraid, I was confused, I was... helpless. I couldn't do anything to stop the cancer from spreading, and it scared me. I was fourteen, and I felt like I should have done something, anything to save her. I was, and still am, helpless. I couldn't save my father, my aunt, or Erin. There was nothing I could do to stop the first two, but I could have done something to stop Erin from her decision. I should have done something.

“But I was stupid, ignorant, and too immersed in myself and my dream to see it. I should have noticed, and I should have dropped everything to help her. To save her from herself.”

I stop, realizing that I've been thrown off track a tad bit. I forgot to tell him how PTSD connected with anything.

“But, I'm not to Erin's part yet.” I point out, just a way to backtrack back to my aunt, “Two months after my aunt died, just after I turned fifteen, I was diagnosed with Post-traumatic Stress Disorder. I went to my therapist again, soon after the death, and she was the one who diagnosed me. I wouldn't sleep, and when I would, I'd have nightmares. In my dreams, I'd be hugging her, and she'd fall to pieces right in my arms, and I'd be left with a dead corpse, rotten and grotesque. Another one I often had, she's be fine and sitting at the table with her coffee...” I trail off, thinking.

Extreme negative reactions to anything that reminds them of the event.

My aunt always drank coffee, she was never seen without it. That's why the very thought of a cup full of the brown liquid repulsed me. It reminded me of her, which in turn, reminded me of her death.

“At the table with her coffee...” Zack repeated, trying to snap me out of my daze.

I shook my head from the realization, and continued, “She'd be sitting there, and she would just keep chanting, 'It's you fault, you let me die. Why couldn't you save me?'. I know that it wasn't true, that there was nothing I could do, but it still tore me apart.

“I was always angry, or sad. I would yell at my teachers, and get into trouble everyday. Dalton was the only one there to help me, my mom didn't care, and Erin was seemingly unaffected by the whole thing. I know she was hurting, she just didn't like to worry me. I don't think she realized how much she was hurting me by not crying with me. I just needed someone to cry with.

“Back when I was suffering from the disorder, I could hardly remember anything about it. All I knew was that it hurt. I couldn't remember what type of cancer it was, and I sometimes second guessed if it was even cancer that took her life. The only emotions I could feel were sadness and anger. I was never happy, I was never afraid. I just wanted out.

“I thought that I would stay that way forever, that nothing would ever be happy again. I thought I'd just be reliving this over and over until I died. I never thought that I would grow up, or that I would have a future with anything or anyone. I tried to break off my friendship with everyone, and it worked, mainly. Dalton is just too persistent,” I laughed a little, noticing how true it was.

“He was there for me when no one else was. He got me through it, with the help of medication, of course. I took Inderal, to stop the restlessness, and the overworked thoughts in my brain, which was my main problem.

“I got better, but not before I drove Erin to suicide. I didn't think I needed my medication, that it would just make people think I was a freak, and that things would just get worse. Dalton force fed them to me, when we got Riley in the band. He said that now that we had a full band, we needed to get out and play some shows. He just wanted me to get better.

“I yelled at Erin after a day when I didn't take my pills, and a month after that, we went on tour. She died a week into the tour, and I'm sure I would have fell into PTSD again, if I hadn't already been prescribed to the drugs.

“At first, I was angry at her for killing herself. But, as I took my medication more and more frequently, I realized that I was just angry at myself, but I pushed the anger onto other people, the only ones that loved me. I don't know what I'd do without my band. Dalton, especially. He was there, before anyone else was.”

I stop, hoping he'll forget about my mother. I'm so ashamed of her, “I'm done,”

“No, you're not. You didn't say a word about your mother,”

I place my head between my knees, the stance of defeat. I can't stop the tears, they just flow naturally. I'm surprised I've made it this far without them.

“Hey,” Zack pulls me into a hug, and rubs my back soothingly, “You don't have to say a word about her, if you don't want to.” he pauses, and starts stroking my hair, too, “I'm sorry for forcing you to tell me anything. We can stop here, if you'd like,”

I try to quiet my sobs, to get a few words out, but I can't. his must be the floodgate from the stress of telling someone bursting. I want to tell him about my mother, I want to tell anyone. Only Ross knows, since he's been to my house before to settle band business. Not even Dalton, because I'm so ashamed.

“My... my mom,” I stutter out, before releasing a few more body racking sobs.

“Shhh...” Zack shushes, and I bury my face into his neck.

After a few moments, I start up again, “My mom... she's not really a teacher at the High School,” I confess, sniffling and hiccuping.

“Then what is she?” Zack questions.

“She's a... she works as a prostitute,” I let out, collapsing into his chest to cry more. I don't know why I get so worked up over this, it's the thing that's least my fault.

Maybe it's because a mom is supposed to be someone you can count on. Someone a daughter should look up to, and be proud of.

And, as they say, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

Zack's

Walking off the stage, I see Elina. She did great singing 'Remembering Sunday', like every night. Better than Juliet.

But, don't tell her I said that. I don't want The Original Gangster to hold a grudge against me.

“Elina,” I call out. When she turns to me, I see so much sadness in her eyes, so carefully guarded. She tries to hide it, and it works, for the most part. I don't know why I'm the only one who seems to notice. I want her to open up to me, she needs someone to talk to. I decide to let her know she can talk to me, if she wants, “I need to talk to you. Alone.”

Her eyes widen, and I can tell she took it the wrong way. “Why...” she asks suspiciously, backing away slowly.

“It's nothing like that,” I say, trying to reassure her, but can't hide my shock that she's so afraid of being with someone like that, “I just...” I trail off, thinking how to put it, exactly.

I want to let her know that she can open up to me, but where had that got Riley? I want her to know that she can trust me, but would she believe me? I want to tell her that I care about her, but could I?

“I know you've stuff on your mind that you feel like you can't tell anyone,” I pause, waiting for her reaction. Her stare tells me to continue, “But, you can tell me. I'm always here for you,” Oh, no. I've started rambling, “I won't get mad at you or look at you differently if you tell me anything,”

I clamp my mouth shut, so the last thought wouldn't escape past my lips. I was about to tell her that I love her. But, it's not true quite yet, so I don't want to lie to her if it doesn't actually turn out to be so.

But I'm pretty sure it will.

She sighs, after a long moment of thinking, “Well, Zackykins, where should I start?”

I'm happy she decided to tell me at least some things, but I'm also a little afraid of what I'll find out, “Anywhere,” I breath. I didn't realize I had been holding my breath, “Start anywhere,”

“From the beginning, then,” she sighs, blowing hair off her forehead.

Eventually, she pulls me out side, and I wait patiently for her to begin. I know about her dad, her aunt, and her twin, but I get the feeling there's something important that she's not telling me.

Suddenly, she speaks. I listen, but she's saying that there isn't anything I already know. She lists some things she's told me about, but I've never heard anything about her mother, but I know she has one.

I ask her about it, and her face looked like it might give something away, but she quickly composed herself.

“My mom's normal,” she states dismissively, and says some things her mom supposedly did before she grew older. I can tell she's lying, but I play along for another question, to see if she'd lie again. She does, and I feel we're getting nowhere with this whole thing.

“You know what I've noticed?” I ask, just now noticing that she is playing with her hair, and she does it a lot when I've noticed she's lying.

A look of relief crosses her face, as she challenges my my previous sentence.

“You play with your hair when you lie,” I state boldly, as she take her small hands down to rest in her lap, “Now, tell me the truth,”

She complains, we argue, and I win. She thinks for another moment, before speaking, “I don't think we should start with my mom,”

“Okay, then pick somewhere to start,” I said gently. Something tells me I might not be able to hear the whole story tonight. She thinks some more, and I dwell on what I could possibly come out of her mouth while she's telling me all this. I understand completely, it's hard to put coherent sentences together when you're on edge.

I listened to her whole story, and only spoke when addressed. I kept my initial reactions to everything she said hidden, who knows what she could interpret one little look as?

I can't say that I wasn't shocked that she got PTSD at such a young age. I know nothing about the disorder, aside from what she explained, but is it common to get it at fourteen?

I was also shocked about how much death she had in her life already. I knew about all three of them, but hearing them all together makes you realize how much that would suck. Especially since two of them happened just over a year apart.

But, Elina is strong, she got through this already. If I were in her position, I probably would have blown my brains out by now. She's keeping it all inside, and it's eating her alive.

She says she's done, but I know better. I didn't hear 'mom', 'mother', 'mum', or any other word for the female involved in creating a baby.

She collapses, crying. I soothe her, and realize that I'd pushed her too far. She didn't have to tell me a word about anything. She could have kicked me in the shin and run off, if she wanted to.

But, she didn't want to. Some part of her wants someone to know, and I don't blame her. Bearing everything on your own shoulders can get pretty heavy sometimes.

She finally spits out what she was trying to say, where her mom works, and I can't help but pause, just slightly, in touching her.

I know that I should move quick, but I'm afraid the damage has been done. She already felt my reluctance to continue rubbing her back, and I'm afraid she's interpreted it as disgust. But it wasn't. It was just shock, not many of my friends growing up had moms who sold their bodies to provide for their children. At least, not so openly.

“What?” she snaps, pulling away to wipe stray tears from under her red eyes, “You think I'll turn out just like her?”

My face pales, and I trip over my tongue to get the words out as fast as possible, “N-no. I was just--”

“You already think I've fallen that far, huh? That my mom dragged me into it, too?” she rips herself from my arms, and separates herself from my lap.

I know this is a serious situation, but I can't help but notice that she's still gorgeous with the makeup tracing her cheeks, and that she looks really cute when she's mad.

When I say nothing, she slaps me, “Say something!” she commands.

I hold my abused cheek, and look hopelessly up at her. I should say something, anything to let her know that her assumptions aren't true. But my mouth is frozen, and my vocal chords refuse to do their jobs.

I'm not sure how long we've been sitting here, and I don't know what's been going through her mind, but I know it can't be good.

She takes a few deep breaths, and walks away. I'm worried that she'll never speak to me again, Lord knows she has the willpower and determination.

But, something tells me that as long as she's in my line of vision, I'll be alright.

Elina's

He's not saying anything. Why isn't he saying anything?

I know that I'm on the verge of hysteria, but can you really blame me? I've just exposed all of my secrets to someone I hardly know, and he had nothing to say about it. But, he was repulsed.

He doesn't want to touch me now. I shouldn't have said anything, I'm so stupid! I don't blame him, I really am disgusting. I know it, he knows it. Hell, people living under a rock know it.

I barely register the smooth skin my hand sharply came in contact with. I've slapped Zack across the face, but do I care?

Absolutely not.

After another look shot toward Zack of hurt, anger, fright, and disbelief, I calm myself by taking a few breaths, then I walk away.

I was going to kick him in the nuts, but that seemed a little extreme. I had to leave before I did something I would regret later.

I'm tired of those pesky little buggers stacking up on me.

Instead of going back to the venue, I head to my bunk and cry. Bus call was soon, anyway.

X

It's been about two hours since I talked to Zack. He hasn't tried to text me, or call, so I assume that he doesn't want to talk to me. I try to sleep, but I'm afraid it's impossible. I can't without Zack, or Dalton.

Dalton is playing video games in the front room, still, even though it's nearly three in the morning. Debating, I walk down the hall towards the sound effects of Sonic the Hedgehog. When I reach the black and blonde haired boy, he pauses his game and looks up.

“You alright, Lina?” he asks, worriedly, putting the controller down.

I can't tell him that I told Zack everything, since he'll want to know it, too. I can leave the parts he doesn't know out, I guess, but if I ended up telling just half of the story, I wouldn't be able to stop. Truth is, I'm still a little peeved about it.

I decide to keep it as simple as possible, “Zack and I got into a fight. A bad one and--”

Dalton cuts me off, “Say no more, you don't have to share. It must still be hard to think about, right?”

Very.

I nod, and he leans over to turn off the console. He pats the couch beside him, and gets a blanket from the floor beside him.

“We don't have to go to bed now, I'm up for some Sonic,” I inform him, I don't want to keep him from staying up till the latest possible hour.

“It's okay, Lina. I was heading to bed, anyway,” he assures, “At any rate, and don't take any offense to this but, you look like shit. You could use a good sleep,”

I agree, and slide under the covers with him. After we get situated, her turns off the light, and pulls me into a hug. My heart beats faster when he kissed the top of my head.

“Sleep tight, Lina-bear,” he whispers.

I have a sudden, uncontrollable urge to tell him how I feel. But, I push it down behind The Wall, and never dwell on it again.

Just before my eyes closed, I felt my lips form around the words, and my voice speak, just barely above a whisper, yet with meaning and affection behind it, “I love you, Dalton,”

Something tells me he could tell that I meant it as more than a friend.

Whoops.