Insomniactic Tendencies

Seb,

I remember the smell of your car.

Cigarettes and perfume intertwined to create a bittersweet musk.

I never understood how you could manage to drive that old car around, the seats soaked with the aroma of ever changing heartbroken girls. I suppose you managed though, the smell of smoke was familiar to you, and the cloying perfume didn’t drown you with the question of ‘What am I doing here?’ like it did to me.

The neat mess (does everything about you have to be contradictory?) of your backseat. Band shirts folded neatly and all your shit in a garbage bag. You hated it when I messed with your CD’s. I can still see them stacked and alphabetized in that old Doc Martens shoe box.

When we stopped at the gas station I stared at the concert tickets taped to your windshield, wishing I had lived as much as you. Wishing I had accepted your offer. When you came back I pretended to sleep. Somehow you knew I was awake and just didn’t want you to see me cry. Because when I finally opened my eyes, you handed me a tissue and pitched your offer once again.

I accepted.

I wish I hadn’t, it wasn’t dying I wanted. I just wanted to live. You could’ve shown me how, if you hadn’t been so selfish (I don’t really mean that, this isn’t a hate letter I promise).

I still remember lying in the leaves, you beside me, not caring as the sky covered us in a thin sheet of snow. We were so numb; it was ironic that you wanted to die that way.

The whole thing reminded me of my pool in the winter. Whenever one of us (me or my neighbors) stood by the edge to dip our toes in the water, someone else would push them in (it went on for most of the winter till’ our moms made us stop in worry of hypothermia.)

The point is that even though my toes were in the water, that didn't mean I wanted to fully submerge.

Or maybe it was the other way around.

Maybe someone pushed you in. Maybe in the chaos of everything you flailed out and grabbed someone’s hand, and that someone turned out to be me. In that case I’m sorry I couldn't keep you from drowning. I’m sorry I wasn't stable enough to keep from falling in.

My mom just walked in.

I shoved the letter under my pillow, so if it’s crumpled when you get it I’m sorry.

It feels weird to apologize for a trivial thing like that; I’m starting to feel like “I’m sorry” should be saved for only the big things. Not everyday things like accidentally bumping into someone or crumpled letters. I’m almost never sorry for bumping into people (or for crumpling your letter). Shit happens and life goes on (even in our case).

My mom walked in again.

The letter’s now nearly illegible. I’m not going to apologize again.

She asked me if I was ok. I said I was fine. Then she asked me if I’d talked to you recently, and if you were doing ok. If I’m being honest (which I am, because it’s a lot easier to be honest to paper than it would be to look you in the eyes and say everything on my mind) I started laughing.

We aren't friends. We never were, and hopefully never will be. And I’m not saying that to be rude (this really isn’t a hate letter). It’s better for everyone that we aren't friends. We rarely talked even before everything happened.

After she left I started thinking. Do you ever wonder how I’m doing? Does anyone ask you these questions? You were always charismatic; I remember the flock of people you attracted, each different but for one identical quality: insatiable curiosity. I suppose that’s what pulled me in as well, the misery in you that we all mistake as mystery.

(I’m not actually expecting a response, in fact I’d prefer if you didn't write back, so don’t get any ideas.)

If you ever wonder about how I’m doing, I want you to know that I’m not ok. I’m getting over it, but I’m definitely not ok. I hope you’re getting over it too. I don’t want you to be ok, I’m far too selfish (not as selfish as you) for that. When I’m ok you can be ok, but if anyone asks I want you to tell them we’re fine. They don’t want to hear our sob story. Yes our sob story. It’s not just yours anymore.

- Violet

* * *

The night is weird, how it slowly draws to early morning without you realizing, the stars draining from the sky and replacing themselves with an array of pastel brilliance. It becomes tangibly stranger, strung out by the act of staring out into the sunrise from your window at 4 am, because you can't force yourself to succumb to the relief that is sleep. My eyes are heavy with an unquenchable desire for me to walk over to my bed and lay down, but every time I do the impatience for sleep overwhelms the actual desire to rest. There's a lull of meaning in that space of time as the stars vanish one by one from the morning sky, and I think maybe that's why my insomniactic tendencies are so addicting. There is no fault in not fully existing, when everything around you ceases to exist as well.

Seb’s reply letter is another looming presence in the back of my mind. Somehow his letter has become a monster under the bed, adding to my insomnia. Written on an old Marlboro Cigarette box was his familiar messy scrawl.

Violet,

I always admired your honesty. Why lie now? We both know that wasn’t a love letter.

With hate,

Sebastian Cross

I expected the reply. Sebastian detested being told what to do, and my request for no reply had only made him do the opposite. Though by the messy scrawl and lack of care in writing material, my guess was he'd merely skimmed over my letter and jotted down a fast letter on his finished cigarette box.

His eagerness to hate me was annoying. I should be the one hating him.

Scowling, I fiddled with the cigarette box. It was heavier than it should've been. Overwhelmed by curiosity I slowly opened the lid, inside was a white bic lighter and a lone cigarette. Written on the lighter were four familiar names: "Kurt Cobain, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison."

The names struck a cord in my memory.

"Violet, this is Sebastian Cross. He's going to drive you out to the accident site. His dad-" My mom trailed off, her voice wobbling.

"I'm the son of the other driver." Sebastian finished. I turned to survey him. He was good looking with dark hair and light green eyes. I already didn't trust him. I wondered what he'd done to earn my mom's trust so easily, surely the accident wasn't much of a trust warrant, especially if he was driving me there. My mom sighed a little, she had been in love with my dad at one time, her slight depression was reasonable and expected. Nobody expected me to be affected, and it wasn't like I was sad. I was just angry. Angry at the world, angry at my dad.

Sebastian nodded at me, "Your bags are already in the car." I muttered my thanks and leaned over to my mom.

"How do you know he's not a rapist or some shit." I whispered in her ear.

"You don't remember him?" My mom asked, her eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "You two were so close when you were little."

Sebastian Cross.

I repeated the name in my mind, slowly mulling over each syllable. Then I remembered, I had known him. We'd been best friends when we were little, at least until everything fell apart.

"Well, I don't want to keep you." My mom announced suddenly, her blue eyes blurring with tears. She didn't want us to see her cry.

"Ok mom, love you." I smiled at her and turned to Sebastian. He was playing with a white bic lighter, flicking it on and off.

"You know these things are supposed to be bad luck," He told me as we climbed into the car. He motioned towards four names written on the lighter, "They all died with a white bic lighter in their pocket."

He sighed a little as he started the car,

"They found this one in my dad's pocket after the accident."

I looked over the white bic lighter carefully.

The sharpie was smudged in some places, and the safety had somehow been broken off. It was undoubtedly the same lighter. I grimaced as I flicked it on and off, without the safety my thumb kept sliding towards the flame.

I shook the lone cigarette out of the box as well, written in small letters was: "We all die anyways."

The smoke curled above my head as I lay staring at the ceiling on my bed.

I coughed out smoke, unfamiliar with the feel of it in my lungs, and looked at the alarm clock next to my bed.

It was 4:00 am, and I was laying in bed awake my room filled with a thin fog of smoke.

Even far away Sebastian could still influence my every move.