1,000 Stars are Passing By

Riley just started treatments a few weeks ago. I'm glad she's on the track to getting better, but I can't just sit here and watch her, while she loses all her hair, her health. I hate not being able to do anything about it. It's practically like I'm killing her.

And Holland started group therapy. She should get better soon, too. I know that eating disorders never fully go away, so she'll still have horrible days where she feels the need to vomit, but at least it's not what she's used to. Maybe she'll learn some different ways to relieve stress in those therapy sessions.

Right now, I'm just sitting on the couch, doing nothing. Absolutely nothing. Mr. Tomas gave me back my piano, since he was the one that bought it from my mother, but I haven't felt much like playing music lately.

I don't think it's right. Riley can't play music right now, so why should I get the privilege? Well, I suppose she still can, but soon enough, she won't even have the energy to wake up in the morning.

Anyway, Mr. Tomas only bought it because he thought that someday, I'd want it back. I told him that I never wanted it gone in the first place, so he gladly gave it up. I missed it so much, but it hasn't been played since it arrived.

The only good thing that's happened to me this week is Zack. He called me, and reminded me that he has a plane ticket to Phoenix set for the 3rd of January. And two from Phoenix to California, and one has my name written all over it.

I'm way excited for that. I can't wait for him to get here, I haven't seen him in forever.

Well, tour only ended a few weeks ago, but it still seems like way too long.

Not even hanging out with the band, no music involved, is much fun for me anymore. Everything's always dead silent, even when we're talking, or teasing each other. It's gotten so tense around them. Then, Holland announces on a regular basis that she needs to head to therapy, and it reminds me that I need to go soon, too.

My therapist is someone that I never really liked when I saw her everyday, but when I looked back on all the things she did for me, I loved her to death.

I just don't want that love to be ruined by all the fucked up things going through my mind.

I don't know how I feel about Dalton anymore... I suppose I'm over him. I can't let him touch me, or Calvin, or RJ, or Ross. The only male that has that right is Zack, and I don't even know why.

It seems that, even though I know they wouldn't try anything, I'm still afraid of men. Who wouldn't be?

And, I'm not saying that Zack's not a man, he's just... different, to me. I don't know why I think I can trust him, it's just something that I do that has almost no explanation. And, if it does, it's completely beyond me.

A knock resounds on the door, breaking my stare at the coffee table. Anyone from my band wouldn't have bothered to knock, so I wonder who else would come to my house.

For some reason, I hope it's Zack. When I open the door, he'd say something like, “I just couldn't wait to see you,”, but I know it's not him. He wouldn't leave more than a week early.

“Good afternoon, Elina,” Mr. Tomas greets.

“Hello,” I smile, inviting him in.

“I just stopped by to see how you were doing,” he informs.

“I'm doing okay,” I answer. He doesn't know anything about what's happened to me, so he doesn't say anything on the 'okay' part.

Anyone in my band would have pounced on that response like a cheetah.

“That's good,” he says, “Have you been playing your piano?”

“Yeah,” I lie, “I wrote a piano piece, actually,” I wrote that while I was still on tour, but he doesn't have to know.

“Yeah? Let's hear it,” he says, “Does it have lyrics, too?”

I nod, and leave to go get my sheet music. I doubt I'll need it, but it's better to have it than to freeze up because you don't remember your notes.

That would be pretty embarrassing, seeing as how I wrote it and everything.

As a force of habit, I find middle C. The song starts close to that, so this time it actually makes sense.

When I finish the song, I turn to him, hope for criticism in my eyes.

“That was beautiful” he compliments, “It really came from the heart, didn't it?”

I give nothing but a nod in response, not trusting my voice to work after playing that for another human being. It's a really personal song, and I'd rather not do that again.

“And from personal experience.” the statement sound more like a question.

Once again, I give a slight nod, eyes fixed to the keys adorning my piano.

“Elina, let's go to the living room,” he suggests, waving his hand for me to follow, “Come, child.”

I oblige, following him like a sick puppy.

Mr. Tomas is only in his fifties, but he looks a whole lot older than that. He still acts like a kid sometimes.

“Elina, I need to tell you something,” he starts.

“What is it, Mr. Tomas?” Even though we're very close, I still call him that. I don't know why, it's just what I'm used to.

“Your mom told me about your... relations with her boss,” he states.

My heart leaps into my throat. Mr. Tomas knows about what I did with them, and I never wanted him to. I trust him, but I didn't want him to think any different of me.

“I'm sorry,” I yelp. He cuts me off from the rest of my sentence.

“Don't be sorry for that,” he says, placing his hand on my knee. “I'm not mad, or even upset,”

“You're not?” I ask, my voice very small and vulnerable. Normally, I would have kept strong around other men, but I don't. Mr. Tomas wouldn't try anything, I know he wouldn't.

I don't know why I thought that, looking back. Even when his hand started rubbing my thigh up and down, I thought that.

He betrayed me, like my mom's boss did before. He took me right there, on the couch. I couldn't believe it, Mr. Tomas did this to me, my favorite teacher.

“I'll actually thank your mom,” he says, hovering over me, “I'm very grateful for her telling me.”

My eyes are squeezed shut the whole time. I don't want to remember this, but I doubt I will repress another memory. I block out my sense of touch, and don't turn it back on. My hands cover my ears, too, since this time, I'm able to. The only thing I can't block out is pain. His touch is rough, not gentle, like his personality that I've come to know.

It was fake, I can see that now. He was hiding his true self the whole time, but I don't know why.

“Elina, you were always my favorite student,” I can still hear his words, though muffled. I don't want to hear anymore, so I push my hands closer to my ears, “And I don't think that will change now,” he laughs cruelly.

When he's done, I curl on my side, crying uncontrollably. He throws a blanket in my face.

“Cover up,” he says, voice full of disgust, “Here, I might be back in a few days for more,” he drops a small wad of bills on the coffee table.

The window that faces the couch is uncovered, revealing the neighbor's window. My eyes bore into their house, seeing small children playing with shiny new toys, their parents cooing and taking pictures.

The bright, happy, lights on their house and the tree set up next to the window burn my eyes, as I bite back more tears.

The colors on them blur together, becoming tie-dye swirls through my sobs. My eyes shut, as I sit there and cry, curling my naked body even closer to itself.

Merry fucking Christmas.