Outsiders

Just the sight of those two together should have been enough to make me turn back. But no, of course I had to go look, check if John was actually up for whatever he thought he was doing, or if Tim perhaps was forcing him along. But of course he enjoyed being with Tim - enjoyed it quite a lot, as it seemed - how could I have been stupid enough to think differently? And so, once again, I felt the tears fall from my eyes. And for what? Well, because my only friend was leaving me for the guy I hated the most. And I was all alone. It sounds cheesy, it really does, but I had no one else in the whole world. John was my best friend, my crush, my everything, and not only had Tim already taken my dignity, my pride, my self esteem… he had also taken the last thing I valued in life.

I rushed back into the library, gathered my books and then made my way to my locker and pushed them all in. Two fell back out and I kicked them aside, smashing them into the metal of another locker, groaning in frustration before I bent down and picked them up, neatly placing them on top of the others instead. I grabbed my coat from the hook on the side of the locker wall, then slammed it shut, forgot to lock it, and ran out of school. I didn’t even care. I wanted to get out of there and I didn’t seem to be even thinking before I found myself on the steps of my house, searching for my key. I stopped, looked at the door, then looked behind me. No one was following me. Of course not. No one even noticed me. I could get away with ditching school and no one would even care. I didn’t realize how the tears had actually stopped until they started falling again, my vision blurring as I tried to push my key into the lock. I cursed under my breath, making up all kinds of swears my parents had forbid me to say. I kept fiddling with my keys, all in vain, then fell against the door, my forehead leaning against it. I closed my eyes tightly and allowed the tears to fall, just to get them out of the way so I could see and be able to get inside of my own house. Hopelessly I knocked on the door with my fist, but no one was home. So instead I started slowly slumping, my knees giving in as I slid down from the door, falling into a heap on top of the stairs. Still with keys in hand, still with John in mind. Still crying my eyes out.

I assumed this was what they called true despair. Desolation. Being heartbroken. I had never experienced it before. It wasn’t as exciting as other new things in life. But I also assumed that everybody went through this, now or later, one way or another. Maybe I’d get married in the future and eventually go through a divorce? Then at least I’d be prepared to feel this horrid pain. Maybe it was a good thing to have an experience with the cute guitarist boy?

Or maybe I’d just live alone for the rest of my life because I’d never meet someone as perfect as him again.

“Fuck!” I got out, a sound close to a gasp but even closer to a whimper. In other terms, a pathetic call aimed for no one but my loneliness.

I threw the keys at the ground, pulling my knees up to my chin and burying my face in my scarf and in the jeans fabric. It was so stupid, wasn’t it? To get so wound up over one guy? It wasn’t like I had a chance on him anyway, and he’d leave me eventually anyway, right? But did it have to come so fucking suddenly?

“Goddamn it…”

I rolled down my sleeves, tugged on the hem, and furiously dried off the tears from my face. Not to act tough or anything, rather for wanting to be able to control myself. Jesus Christ, I hated crying. It made me feel dumber than anything else, because boys aren’t meant to fucking cry. But I wasn’t sure of what else to feel. I wasn’t sure if I was mad at John. It was like I hated him, everything about him, but I still loved him.

I picked the keys up, hugging them tightly in my hand. “Focus, for fucks sake…” I whispered to myself, taking a deep breath, my eyes squeezed shut. Then I opened them again, everything seemingly light around me, cautiously getting off the ground. I wiped some dirt off my trousers, sure of that my mother would kill me if I didn’t, and easily inserted the key into the lock. Sadly, something didn’t go according to plans, and a drop of blood rolled down the cold metal and splashed down onto the stairs. I stared at it for a bit, coming to the conclusion that my hand was bleeding from gripping the keys so tight, then I opened the door and quickly got inside, locking the door behind me.

I leaned my back against the wood, exhaling a deep breath, gently closing my eyes. I felt exhausted. The tears were still burning in my eyes, ready to escape again. It seemed like I was completely unable to stop. Like trying to get over a silly crush; no matter how hard you try to ignore it, the feelings and the needs will always come back and so you’re back at square one.

I kicked my shoes off and walked straight into the bathroom. I opened the door behind the mirror above the sink before I had even entered the room. Anything to not see myself at the moment. Then I started digging around in the ton of pain killers, anti-depressants and sleeping pills, creams and ointments, pads and swabs and strange liquids in differently coloured bottles. Somewhere in the back I found plasters, disinfectant and bandages. I took out a pad and poured some of the fluid over it, wiping the blood off my skin. I flinched as the cold hit the sore skin. I couldn’t even put words into the feeling, but it hurt more than making the damage itself. Which should be obvious, since I hadn’t even noticed when I had cut myself with the keys. Anyhow, I threw the pad away in a rubbish bin underneath the sink, then took another one and dispensed more disinfectant, put it over the wound and then started wrapping the bandage around it. As I was done I put everything back in place, looking my masterpiece over for a brief moment.

“Neat”, I mumbled.

I brought down the bottle of pain killers, took one, left it on the shelf and brought down the anti-depressants, took two. I closed the opening and stepped back into the hallway.

I didn’t feel better. Quite far from better. I barely felt anything. And it was a weird thought. A scary thought. So maybe I felt fear? I wasn’t sure. I was numb as far as I knew. Which should be scary too, but I found it quite comforting.

I went into my room and didn’t turn on the lights. Instead I closed the door behind me, drove the curtains in front of the big windows, and found myself in obscurity, almost complete darkness but enough for my eyes to be able to see contours of everything. I walked into the corner and opened the closet. Under the lowest shelf of socks I kept my special sweater. Well, it wasn’t mine. Rather, John had forgotten it here, once when he was over to watch a movie together with me. He had taken it off as it became too hot underneath his blanket, and simply forgotten it. He hadn’t asked for it back, so I had kept it. I wasn’t sure I was selfish, or a thief, or if I was simply too in love to let it go.

I picked it up, pulled it over my head, and went to lie down on my bed. The sweater was too big for me, as big as things I’d normally wear; both John and I had noticed that. Maybe that’s why he had allowed me to keep it. I wasn’t sure. I wasn’t really sure of anything at the moment. Nothing ever went as planned and I had lost motivation to even breathe. I curled up, the scent of John surrounding me, the wool’s warmth embracing me. And so I started crying again.