Day 18: Sneak Peek

Note: This is a sneak peek on a chapter from my manuscript I've been working on. I've redone this chapter three times. I think I'm finally getting where I want with it.

I stab my shaking heel into his crotch and twist until I hear him scream. This is my revenge. It's not even one tenth of my pain but this is all I would ever do. I gather the remains of my clothes and my dignity, nursing my raptured innocence back into the hotel. Once inside the confines of my room I strip out of my dress and turn on the shower. Hot. Extremely hot. I step into the shower, letting the water run down my body. I clutch onto the sponge and rub my skin. Every inch. Every centimetre. Every millimetre of bruised and tainted skin. Until I'm raw and hurting. I let myself be consumed by this new pain. Now I cry. 

After the shower, I scatter the contents of my luggage. It's not there. It's not there. The small bottle of pills aren't there. I walk to the kitchen and pour myself warm water to calm my nerves. I sip the liquid as I walk back and forth across my room. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth until my eyes swim with vertigo. I feel sick. I am sick. My whole body convulses, curved like a snake as I bend over with my hand clutching my mouth. I'm going to vomit. I let myself go into the toilet bowl, unsure whether this disgust is from the alcohol or from him. I rinse my mouth with tap water and then a mug of brewed coffee. I gaze out the large window with views of the cityscape. I let go of the breath I was holding as the sun finally rises; its orange warmth reflecting off skyscraper windows. 

The pharmacy will open soon. 

Forgive me for my negligence

So I know I haven't been the best blogger lately. . .

But I have good reasons, I swear!

I've been working a lot. And I've been writing a lot. Bits and pieces. Paragraphs and chapters. A manuscript is slowly but surely on the way. I've been playing around with the title. So far, I've come up with, "Grasping onto Thin Air" or "Lingering". I think I like Lingering more but I wonder if it's a too obvious name? The story is about Emma, someone who is desperately trying to hold onto the connection she has with Josh, even though that bond was meant to have been broken years ago. It's a story about how blind our emotions can make us. It's a story about striving hard to battle the demons that haunt our nightmares and finding happiness in every day life. And finally, it's a story about learning when to let go and move forward.

So any title suggestions? Anything symbolic or meaningful would be wonderful.

I wanted to get people's opinions about the manuscript so I was considering doing a blovel but I would like to pitch this to publishers eventually and many traditional publishers prefer manuscripts that haven't been published anywhere before. So I'm thinking of either setting up a private blovel and allowing a select few access or sending chapters as emails around to the select few who would be interested in reading and reviewing.

What do you think? All opinions and ideas are appreciated.

Train

They were in the train. They were always in a crowded train. It were only afternoons when they were going home that they got to be alone from everyone. It were these quiet afternoons on the train that she got to see him without his arrogance and laughter. He merely talked quietly with that smile of his.

The carriage jolted and her head bumped against his chest. She felt his chuckle as he patted her head. She was used to his touch by now and smiled at his warmth. But this time, his touch lingered. Sometimes, that happened. It were these little moments that she carried in her heart. His large hand remained on her head. Then, she felt the pressure on her head increased as he leaned down and placed a chaste kiss on his own hand. The very one on her head.

She gazed up at him with a questioning look but he stared ahead unmoving. That moment of warmth suddenly gone. And so they remained silent for the rest of the trip until her stop. The doors opened and a flow of people moved out. He uttered a goodbye and she stepped away from him with her words just above a whisper, 'If you're going to kiss me, have the audacity to do it properly or don't at all.'  Either the way, his girlfriend would not appreciate what had happened. No matter how innocent it had seemed. She wanted to ask him what it meant but the words died in her throat. With a heavy sigh, she disappeared into the streets. She needed to get home.

Let go

I step out of the shower with water dripping down the bare of my back. I hold a towel to my head, ruffling droplets like rain onto the bathroom floor and glance at my glowing phone sitting above the sink: 3 missed calls. I ignore it and instead stand in front of the full length mirror, studying myself carefully. 

I trace my fingers up and along my legs, pinching at everything that could be pinched. Finally, my eyes rest on my stomach. I don’t stare for long. I can’t stand it. I flick my eyes to the nearest wall and count to hundred. I need to calm myself before it's too late. Before I'm blown up like a balloon. Slowly I count. One is for one lollipop can’t hurt. Two is for two puppies playing chasies. Three is too much of a crowd. Oh God. It’s too much of a crowd. Four is for I can't take this anymore.  
I can't take this anymore.

Slapping a hand over my mouth, I spin towards the toilet and hurl bile into the toilet bowl. I watch it swirl around with water like a python curling around its prey. It's a death match with only one winner. I'm always the loser in this situation. Inside my ears, his voice still rings a ghostly whisper: Let me love you. No, that wasn't love. This isn't love. I don't want it. No matter how much I scream, his voice won't go away. His touch still lingers, even though it was months ago. No matter how much I scream, no one helped me. It still happened, I can't change history.


I slosh water onto my face and rinse my mouth. I slip into a long shirt and walked to the kitchen to brew some coffee. It will calm my mind. I slump into my chair and watch as clouds flutter across the waking sky. The sun, showers flowers of peach and orange. It's going to be a beautiful day. I quickly sling my camera over my shoulder and pointed towards the sky. Click. Click. Click. I smile contently at the photographs. More to add to my personal collection. I flick a glance towards the calender that hangs on the cream wall. September 16. Next Monday, I'll be flying back to New York for Ian McKell's exhibition. Slight shivers run down my spine. I never want to go back there.


Rachel clings onto my right arm and whines, 'Do you really have to leave for a week? I will be so lonely!' I roll my eyes at her and pat her shoulder, 'Invite Hector over. It's important, I need to show my support. He taught me so much. Bye, dear' I poke my tongue out at her as I pass through the gates. I take a long breath and let it out. Here goes nothing. Somewhere along this trip, I will either lose my sanity or fly back home crying. I hope it is neither.


Once landing, I book into my hotel and collapse onto my bed. I sit up and scanned the spectacular view of skyscrapers. I got a suite thanks to Ian. He's much too generous, even though I was his student. I check my watch, only three in the afternoon and his exhibition isn't until tomorrow. I rest my head onto the soft pillow and sleep. I need to ready myself for the night. Either I coop myself in my room every night or I face the fact that I'm here for a week and accept it. Sighing, I assure myself that those long nights of self-defence classes will pay off need be. 


The night is warm with cool breezes like a soothing caress. There aren't many people out, I noticed. I quicken my pace. I want to get out of the streets as fast as possible. I flick a glance at every dark alley. He's not hiding there.At every crazed-eye smoker. He's not them.At every incoherent drunk. It's safe.Why was I outside when I could enjoy the warmth of my blankets inside a tight security hotel? Maybe I am the insane one? You are the insane one. I ignore the voice and open the door, Living Room embraced me with its loving music. It was my favourite place in New York. I scan the crowds and saw him, my New York lover, whose name I always forget. He smiles at me and quickly scoops me into his arms, 'You've returned.' He says in his low voice. I grin back, 'Of course, I feel safe with you.'

Secret affair

Behind locked doors, your fingers brush against mine.
The blinds are closed but sunlight filters in, streaming lightly on our skin.
It's warmth does not compare with yours. Its warmth is the flickering of a delicate firefly but Dear, your fingertips are the sizzling heat of burning metal. They envelop me, pulling me close to your body and I know that we fit together like pieces on a puzzle.

It feels too right to be wrong but inside my mind, I know we won't last outside these four walls. Because you and I only exist inside this room. Outside is a different dimension where we're strangers, whose eyes follow each others steps. Your mouth lunges onto mine and I grasps your hair tight. We're like lumps of clay, moulding our bodies into each other. I want no distance between us.

I grip your unruly hair tight and you let out a groan, I bite into your mouth. Shush, or this fragile world will collapse around us. And I don't want you to be gone from me; not when I can hear your heart beating as hard as mine. Behind this locked door, you're my only lover so please don't utter her name inside this room.
And I won't talk about how much I want to walk beside you in broad day light, holding your hand.

Inside this room, there is only you and I. This is a world built only for us. But once we step outside, we are strangers. Your fingers brush against mine one last time before you leave. You turn back with a sad smile, 'Good bye'. That's all you ever say. Because inside this locked room is a secret affair. And you're not mine to love. You forget about me until you're lonely.

And I wait patiently, every day for your return.

Like magic

 Note: It's been a while but this follows on after the post, Underneath my skin from that series of short stories I was writing before.

                                              ---------------------------------

I am running. Running. Running. I am running out of breath. Running with no place to go. Simply running, out of desperation and out of fear. My thighs ache. My heart clenches with each gasp of air I force down my lungs. I cannot stop. There is no option of resting. He is right behind me. I can feel him on the edge of my hair. I can smell his alcohol stench creeping closer to my pores. Suddenly, I fall. I try to stand up but I cannot feel my legs. I look down and realised that I am suddenly without them. And he is on top of me. He is inside me. He is everywhere. I scream. I scream. I scream. No one hears me. I am nowhere.

I open my eyes.

With the room spinning around my head, I rush to the bathroom and hurl my stomach into the toilet. I threw up everything: my breakfast, my lunch, my dinner then when there was nothing left, I spewed my stomach walls. I watch as blood swirls with half-digested food at the bottom of the toilet bowl. Disgusting. Repulsive. Even now, I can still feel his tobacco breath on my skin. Itching as though fleas are biting me, I crawl slowly into the bathtub. I close my eyes but do not dare sleep. I’m too tired to return there. Hell.

I walk into the lounge room after ensuring that I was thoroughly clean by rubbing until thin layers of skin peeled off. With one hand holding my towel to my body, my other searches through yesterday’s mail. Most of the letters were either for Sally, my room-mate or scams for poor misguided fools. Finally, my eyes are caught by a flamboyantly decorated envelope. I flick a glance towards the calendar and let out a small smile. Was it that time of the year again? I rip out the letter and merely examine the first sentence for confirmation: Darling, you are invited to Chris’ 25^th birthday!  I knew it. 

From experience, I have about two weeks until the birthday party; plenty of time for gift hunting. I tap my fingernails on the dining table as I stare out the window while thinking with an absent mind. I listen to the predetermined ticking of the clock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. In the near distance, Sally is quietly snoring. I hate early mornings almost as I hate the night. I hate waking up before dawn, where the morning is a carbon copy of the night. In my mind, there is no difference. It’s dangerous either way.

I pull out my mobile and dial Neal’s number with practised ease. It takes a while and I listen to the mechanical ringing. He finally picks up and groggily tells me that if calling people so early in the morning was an act of crime, I would have been put into jail many times over. I laugh and ask him whether or not I could come over to his place then later go shopping together for Chris’ birthday gift. Begrudging, he replies, ‘Go ahead, I’m awake now anyway.’ I slip into my flower-print dress and grab the keys before escaping out the door. Without breakfast.

Neal opens the door with his eyes half-open, welcoming me. I hesitate before passing by him with a quick peck on his left cheek. He clenches onto my wrist and growls into my ear, ‘You should know by now what happens if you come over my place with eyes that scream hold me. I am only a man after all.’ I know. I know him very well and I came here expecting as much. It doesn’t matter if it’s only for a moment. I want to be held by him. I want to feel safe. I let him cling to me as we kiss, even though in the corner of my eyes, is a photo of her.

I watch him button up his shirt as I stir the scrambled eggs in the pan. I add a pinch of salt and pepper for flavour and scoop it onto his plate. He eyes me warily, ‘Where’s your serving? Have you already eaten?’ I shuffle my feet nervously, there is no point in lying to him, ‘I don’t have much of an appetite.’ Neal lets out a sigh and eats, ‘Ever since you came back from New York, I haven’t seen you eat. You do eat right?’ I give him a slight nod. I could never tell him what happened during my trip. He would book the first flight out of Australia and slaughter every man on the street of New York.

‘Did something happen while you were there?’

I drop the glass of orange juice I was holding and watch in shock as it broke into shrapnel oblivion. I quickly try to clean up my sudden mistake but Neal was on the ground in an instant. He gathers me into his arm and plops me onto the couch, pointing his finger at me he barks, ‘Stay! I’ll clean it up.’ I watch in a nervous shiver as he sweeps all the broken glass and dumps them into the bin. 

He returns to me and sits down beside me, ‘You’re hiding something from me.’ I look away, not daring enough to answer, fearing that once I open my mouth, everything will spill out. He touches my shoulder and I flinch. Not good. I’m starting to feel ill. A sickening feeling builds up at the bottom of my stomach and I know what’s going to happen. Before Neal could utter another word, I run into his bathroom and lock myself up. He shouts from the outside, ‘Emma, what’s wrong?’ I don’t answer. Rather, I couldn’t answer.

All I could do was vomit bile and blood into the toilet. 

I don’t know how long I spent inside the bathroom, but eventually I stumbled out and sleeping next to the door was Neal. At least, I thought he was asleep. He turns his head at me, ‘Tell me what’s wrong. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me.’ I walk into the kitchen and poured another glass of orange juice, ‘I don’t have to tell you everything that happens to me.’ I know that he cares but he is the last person I want to know about the incident. He stalks up to me and places the glass down and pulls my wrist until our faces are inches apart, ‘I have a right to know.’ I push him away and this time I glare at him, ‘Like hell you do. You are not my boyfriend; you are nothing but a fuck buddy!’ Immediately, I regret my words, I touch his arm, ‘Neal…I’m sorry.’ He storms into his room and I follow him, I watch helplessly as he seizes his keys and walks out, ‘It’s best that we buy Chris’ presents separately.’ 

I fall to my knees crying. Why does it always end like this?

At the party, I don’t see Neal. After weaving through mashing bodies of sweat, I end up at Chris’ private bar. Scanning through his collection, I pick the bottle of scotch and walk off with it, much to the protest of the bartender. I escape into the balcony and watch the stars. The only time, I can safely enjoy the night is when I’m distanced from it. 

I hear footsteps behind me and turn to see one of Chris’ friends that were introduced earlier. Adrian, I think his name was. He nods at my bottle of scotch; instead of passing it to him I take a long hard swig and glare at him. He chuckles at me, ‘You know, drinking too much isn’t good for your health. Especially, a whole bottle of scotch.’ I give him a side-glance, ‘What are you, my doctor?’ He laughs and combs his moppy hair with his hands, ‘No but I’m a psychologist, so a doctor of some degree.’ I let out a sigh, great he’s a shrink. Probably thinks I need counselling.

Instead of pressing my issue with alcohol, he looks at me carefully, ‘You know, I didn’t see you eat at the dinner.’ I watch him with tired eyes, ‘Please stop. I had an argument with someone earlier today about my appetite.’ He tilts his head as though to peek into my mind, ‘Your lover?’ I shrug my shoulders, ‘Something like that.’ He smiles and pulls out a packet of skittles and offers them to me, ‘I often find that eating some sweets when you have a poor appetite helps relieve your stomach. They’re like magic medicine.’

I grab a small handful and pop them into my mouth.
I grin back at him, ‘Like magic.’ 

Kiss

Note: Here is the next instalment to the series of linked short stories I've been writing. There IS a name to this series but I'm not revealing. Just yet. MUAHAHAHA. Hope you all enjoy!!

- - - - -

We are both children to the outside world but in our little bubble of make-believe; he was the older one in the relationship. He is ten when I am eight. He already learnt the things that I always found new. He will always be the one with the more experience. The one with the upper hand. Will there ever be a day where I could be the winner for once?

I’m lying with my back blanketed by threads of long grass. I stretch my small fingers out into the sky and imagine catching the falling stars. I still can’t believe that stars were merely flaming balls of gas. My fourth grade teacher must have been lying to me. There is no way such heavenly beings could be simply gas. Doesn’t gas come from our butts? How does it reach the sky? No. Stars are definitely beautiful clusters of pixie dust. How else do stars grants our wishes? I am halted in my childish pondering when he comes rushing into my backyard, ‘Emma, my Dad finally bought me a guitar! Now I don’t have to borrow my brother’s one any more.’ I sit up to see him trudging a large black case with shining silver clasps. I admit that I was impressed. Maybe just a little.

He pulls me up to my feet and we run next door to his garage. Hand in hand, I imagine this is what it feels like to elope with the one you love. Or so that’s what adults say. Once inside, he slams the door shut and throws a microphone at me, ‘We’re going to start a rock band and you’re the lead singer!’ I gently place the microphone back down and walk out. He pulls me back through the door, ‘Emma, where are you going?’ I glare up at his bewildered eyes and pull my most indignant expression, ‘I’m not going to be your singer. I’m going to be a writer, remember? Plus, I heard that most singers marry their lead guitarist!’ He pushes me against the wall and stares into my shocked-widen pupils, ‘And what is wrong with marrying me?’

‘One day, you’ll walk out on me.’

I don’t look at him when I say this because I’m too afraid of his expression. But it’s the truth. Most flamboyant men like him will always walk out. My Daddy did. He left the house with a tall woman with red rivers of hair and eyes as cold as a hungry serpent. That day, just before they left I held onto Daddy’s coat like a leach and she bent down to my eye level with a voice sweeter than sugar. So sweet that it makes you want to puke, ‘Don’t worry girly, I’ll make sure to take care of Daddy very well.’ Back then I thought: Isn’t she too old to have a Daddy? He is my Daddy, not hers! Back then, I still didn’t understand what she meant.
 

‘I’m not going to leave you.’
He entwines my little finger and forces me to pinky promise. I still don’t believe him. How can fingers keep promises? There is still so much I don’t understand about the Adult world. All I know is that men are liars. And Mummy looked so small crying on the floor. I never want to be her. I never want to be that abandoned kitten. It sounds so painful.

He can see the doubt in my eyes and tries to think of a way to maintain my trust. After minutes of ruffling his bird’s nest hair, he jumps to his feet with a shout and runs back to me. He stands me up straight and once again whispers gently, ‘I promise to never leave you.’ And he abruptly mashes our lips together. I stand there shocked and violated. He just kissed me. He just kissed me. He smiles at me proudly, ‘We just kissed.’ I glare at him with all my might and push him until he falls onto the ground, ‘No kidding. You just stole my first kiss you bully!! I’m going to tell Mummy!!’

‘Emma, do you know what a kiss means?’

I stop by the half open door and look back at him in confusion. What does a kiss mean? I never really thought about it before. Adults do it all the time. But what does it really mean? Is it something men do to trick women? Does it actually hold any meaning at all? Mummy told me what it meant once. Long ago. Before when she used to smile a lot. What does it mean? I can’t remember.

‘It means I love you’.

Underneath my skin

I'm not Her 

I got Him

In His room

 Underneath my skin

I always left him. There were countless times where I was sick of the game. So I left. Sometimes, I piled work onto myself. Locking myself in my room and doing nothing but pouring myself into my manuscripts. But mostly, I travelled. It wasn’t enough to merely be mentally or emotionally distanced. I needed to physically escape him.

Sometimes, I grabbed a mere backpack and rode the train away into another state. Melbourne was my favourite city to escape to. It was beautiful. It was a city that held the combination of the old and the new. Usually, I spent my days in Melbourne enjoying the music scene by visiting my beloved Acoustic cafe or the Arthouse. Those were my favourite venues for live performances. Acoustic cafe was perfect for a relaxing coffee and closing your eyes to a stranger’s strumming. But Arthouse is where you go to feel alive.

Sometimes, I packed my suitcase and hopped onto the next flight out of the country. I couldn’t get far away enough. Whether it was Paris, New York, Bangkok or Tokyo, it didn’t matter. As long as I was not in Australia. As long as I was not in the same country as he. In the day, I freelanced for local magazines or newspapers and shopped for souvenirs. In the night, I was usually found in a bar, a pub or a night club. I hated nights the most. Nights were lonely so I rarely slept in my own bed. If I did, I was not alone. Those one-night-stands disgusted me but they kept my empty body whole. Temporarily.

But one night changed everything.
It started out like any of my other New York City nights: bar hopping, dancing, mindless mashing of bodies and drowning in alcohol. I teleported myself throughout the lower east side; first starting off with venues that concerted live music and doubled up as bars such as the Living Room. I often went there to see a particular guitarist, whose name I always forget. In a way, he was my New York lover. But it never got anywhere. By late ten, I would have always left in a taxi for a nightclub. Without a goodbye. It never got anywhere because I never allowed it to. If I had gone home to his apartment that night, things would have been different.

It was around 2 in the morning when I stumbled out of Mehanata, also known as the Bulgarian bar. I had made the mistake of going downstairs into the “Ice cage” where I was forced to down six shots of vodka in one minute. Walking back to my hotel meant crossing through a park. It wasn’t until I was halfway through that I realised that I’ve been hearing steady footsteps for some time now. I quickened my pace. And my heart. I allowed myself to flick a glance behind my shoulder. No one. Good. I was merely imagining things. Wrong. He was now in front of me.

I turned heels and ran back the other way. But all the alcohol made me groggy and slow. I could hear his breathing quickly becoming closer to the back of my neck. Closer and closer. When the exit was so far away. Someone help me. Then it was the cliché inevitable: I fell. And he was on top of me in an instant. I clawed and spat at him but he just whispered into my ear, ‘I know that you’re lonely. Let me love you.’

Tired.
I watched as he ripped me into parts. He cut open my organs and stretched me inside out and flipped me outside in. He fingered every inch of my bloodied skin and sewed his tobacco stench lips all over my grubby clamped breasts. His beard pricked my jaw but I didn’t cry. I refused to let him have my tears. He didn’t deserve it. I closed my eyes and imagined that I was hearing the harmonics of a guitar and not his heavy grunting. When he stood up, still not wearing any pants, with my remaining energy, I kicked him in the groin, ‘Bastard, I hope you die of AIDS.’ Leaving him there to groan, I gathered what’s left of my clothing and half crawled home.

I didn’t tell anyone about the incident. Not even Him. I’m sure that if he found out, he would have flown to NYC just to slaughter the man. But it didn’t matter. Everything was okay. I pushed the memory to the furthest corner of my mind and returned to Sydney for work. No one needed to know such a trivial matter. Everything was okay. I'm okay.

Sometimes though, I found myself standing naked in front of the mirror and I could see my body being blown up like a balloon. That man was filling my insides with no room for me. Sometimes, I didn’t eat because I felt my body was too heavy. Every night, I would wake up from sleep and run into the bathroom. Where I proceeded to vomit everything out. Until I was empty.

Let me love you. If that was Love, I didn’t need it.

In his room

Note: I just can't stay away from writing!! Even though this was supposed to be only one part, I'm now making it into a mini series.
Also note: The posting for this series is not in chronological order

- - - - -

I walk into his room with walls covered every inch with guitars. My fingers sweep across the glossy edge of a Gibson and I let out the breath I’m holding, ‘It’s beautiful.’ In the back corner where there are no guitars is a ceiling tall mahogany shelf of nothing but Cd's. My back faces him while I scan CD covers with my eyes, searching for anything recognisable to my limited musical knowledge. I feel a warm chuckle tingle my right ear and realises that he leaning into me. Reaching to grab an album to my interest. My head turns a little to see him better and our lips almost brush. Heart pounding, I pull back for some distance with an awkward apology rushing out of my mouth.

All of a sudden, I’m pushed against the shelf, my head knocking on the wooden panels. Before I could utter an ‘Ouch’ his lips are upon my own. His soft honey lips forceful and non-stopping; pressing me further into the shelf with CD covers digging into my spine. I haven’t felt such ferociousness in a long time. I’m not ready. His butterscotch scent that usually calms me were smothering and choking me.  The insides of my throat clench and I gasp as his tongue dance kisses down my neck and onto the soft of my breasts. This feeling is too strong. It’s too familiar for all the wrong reasons. I’m scared. And he stops as salty tears linger on his taste buds. Finally, Adrian looks up at me. His eyes no longer clouded and he seems to be slightly horror struck. He straightens up, his large hand combing his hair restlessly, ‘Shit. Shit.’ He picks up my whimpering self and curls me into his lap. He strokes my head as he whispers apologies, ‘I’m sorry Little One.’

And he simply lets me rest on his knees. While he ties little plaits into my hair, I watch as the sun dances dust in our growing shadows. I let the repetition of his fingers and the soft murmuring of his voice lure me into the safe haven of sleep. In my dream, there was nothing but clouds of pixie dust and promises of No Entry signs. Where girls are not meat to eat or dance floors to tread upon.

I open my eyes to find myself in the warmth of thick blankets and the smell of butterscotch dripping onto my tongue. His whole bed lingers with his scent. I sit up and see Adrian playing on that aging guitar of his. Lover. That’s what he called it. He smiles as he sees me, ‘I called your room-mate before to tell her that you’ll be staying over. I hope that’s alright?’ He sits on the edge of the bed as I search his eyes, deciding whether or not to tell him. Should I or should I not? He kisses the crown of my head and asks what he should cook for dinner. I don’t reply. He stands up and settled on making me lasagna to warm up my insides. But before he could walk away, my small hand trembles as it clutches the hem of his shirt.

‘Adrian, wait. I have something to tell you.’

I got Him

 Part 1

I got Him

Behind the wood beaten door, I could feel the pounding of his fists. My finger twirl circles onto the tiles that send shivers up my spine. Cold. I fold up my knees and count the seconds that the clock tick away into the hours. Still, like an invisible connection, I know that he is on the other side of that door. It won’t open. I won’t unlock that door and walk into his arms. His arms that don’t belong to me. They never did and never will.

I hear a slight thump as he slides down onto the ground in defeat, ‘Emma, please open the door.’ I shake my head as though he could see me, ‘Never’. If I open the door, it would mean that we would continue on playing this game of pretend. I no longer want to play. We’re no longer children. Adults. And as adults, we should acknowledge that this game of chasies has gone for too long. Grow up. I wish he would grow up and decide whether to keep me or leave me. I’m not some pathetic puppy that he would return to after a date or a holiday. I’m a woman with a mind and heart. A heart that has been bashed about then mended only to be abandoned on the road repeatedly. I tire of this game of his, ‘Go home. Just go home.’ 

I press my left ear against the door and listen as he let out a defeated sigh and stand up, walking away with heavy footsteps. He’s gone. I scamper to open the door and run onto the hallway, crashing into walls and out onto the balcony. I watch as he drives away in his commodore. He’s gone. That was too easy. I can’t believe that he listened to me so willingly. In the end, it’s always her. I cannot win against her. Jessica. The girl that was everything to him. The girl that made him the man that he is now. The man that has come to be an important person in my life. I cannot intrude into that relationship. There is someone else for me. There is someone already waiting for me.

I pull out my mobile and press the familiar buttons for his number. A deep voice appears and I smile as I start to calm down. ‘Adrian, are you free? Can I see you?’ He mumbles a reply in his sleep laden state. I flick a glance at my watch: 6.30pm. I must have woken him up from his afternoon nap after hours of strumming on that guitar of his or belting away the life of his drums. His passion for music never ceases to amaze me. I laugh as a memory of one of our earliest conversations comes to mind: Since the age of ten, the guitar has been my lover. I return my mobile to the back pocket of my jeans as he groans, ‘I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’

And he was there fifteen minutes on the dot. He pulls his lancer into our drive way and leans on the side of the car, waiting for me to slip into my heels. I giggle as he opens the door for me like a gentleman. He leans in for a kiss as I buckle my belt. I hesitate, what if Adrian smells his cologne lingering on my skin? Adrian lets out a long sigh and lays his head onto the steering wheel, he faces me with his eyes hurt, ‘You saw him today.’ It wasn’t a question but a statement. He knew. He always knows. How? As though he could read my mind, he answers, ‘Whenever he kisses you, I can’t. You hesitate or flinch away from me like I’m the plaque. I can smell his scent, it smothers your body and I hate that. I hate knowing that another man has touched you beside me.’

Guilty tears clench up my throat as I run my hand through his hair, ‘Adrian, I’m so sorry.’ I kiss his forehead and press my head against his, ‘It’s not going to happen again. It’s over.’ He sits up surprised and maybe a little something else. Relief. Tears run down my cheeks as my fingers clasp his shirt, ‘Adrian, its over. He’s gone. Game over.’ And he holds me tightly as he lets me cry over another man. He kisses my hair and buries me into his warmth, ‘Hush Emma, it’s going to be alright. You have me. I won’t walk away. I promise.’ I look up at him with my mascara stained eyes and smile into his kiss that tastes like chocolate, ‘I love you, you know that?’ He smiles proudly and motions me to get out of the car. From the boot of his car, he pulls out the guitar that was his “Lover”. His lips brush the tip of the guitar and he places it in my hand, ‘She now belongs to you because I don’t need two lovers. I only want you.’

Someone once told me that they wanted me to run from the man that hurt me. It took a long time but I finally did. Where will you go now? She asked later. I already knew the answer. Into the arms of someone who deserved me. Someone who will make me happy and smile every day. Because I promised myself that I won’t wait for anyone. And I didn’t. Adrian found me.

On that day that was almost like yesterday, he found me in the throng of so many others. He approached me with his quirky conversations and attention given to no one else. Smiling, he asked for my name while I forgot his in a matter of minutes. But left with a memory that will never be forgotten. Because he had me at “Hello”.

I'm not Her

I find myself sitting across from him on my bed with the door locked. It's just the two of us. Talking. Laughing. Having fun. Just like how we always are. Happy. But sometimes, he frustrates me with his careless actions. Sometimes, he makes jokes of things that shouldn't ever be joked about. Don't say things you don't mean, "I would kiss you except, I have a girlfriend." And don't make things awkward when it would only ruin what we have.

But in my room, he kisses me. He runs butterfly kisses down my throat. I could feel the moisture of his lips. And I know that it's wrong. So terribly wrong. So I struggle to resist. I end up crying in front of him. Saying words that aren't meant to escape my mind and my lips:

Stop treating me as though I'm her. Stop telling me to do the things she would. Don't tell me to paint my nails in your favourite colour. When it's also hers. Stop monopolising me. I'm not your girlfriend. If I was, I would be heart broken.

And he's standing there, with no words to utter. I don't give him a chance for pretty words or excuses. He tries to comfort me and calm me down. But it's too late:

Don't touch me. Don't touch me the way you touch her. Stop protecting me as though I'm precious. And God dammit. Don't kiss me. Ever. When you don't love me.

I run off into the bathroom and lock the door. I can hear the throbbing of his hands as he punches the door repeatedly. It won't open. And I slide down onto the cold tiles, whispering:

I'm not her. I'm not your girlfriend.