The End
Word Count: 978
Rating: M (Australian rating system) for frequent bad language
Characters: Aaren, Robert, mention of Steven, Kristine, Liz, Ben and Steven's parents.
This may not make much sense, I do know the story behind this one but I haven't been able to get it down on paper, so bear with me.
Synopsis: Aaren reflects on the last time she saw Robert
"True love is when you shed a tear and still want him. It's when he ignores you and you still love him. It's when he loves another but you still smile and say, 'I'm happy for you.' When all you really want to do is cry... and cry."
I can't believe you fell asleep. I don't care how fucking tired you were, how could you fall asleep on my last day, the last day I had free in America?
I could have chosen to share it with anyone. But no. I called you. I nearly didn't; there were so many other numbers I should have could have dialled. Steven, Kristine, Liz, Ben... but I called you. You, my ex. Ex-best friend, ex-boyfriend, ex-confidante, ex-lover.
AND YOU FELL ASLEEP.
I waited until it was exactly half an hour past the time you were supposed to come and pick me up before I started to get mad. I called you, got your voicemail. And then I started to get worried. What if you'd got into a car accident on the way over and couldn't answer your phone (unlikely as that scenario was)? What if, what if... a thousand and one good reasons flashed through my mind as to why you wouldn't be able to pick up, why you would be late. And then I started to feel guilty for getting angry.
I called you again. Already forty-five minutes late, this time you picked up.
Me: "Where are you?" I had to repress a tremulous, "Are you okay?"
You: "Wha-?" An awkward silence as I imaginined you looking at the clock, realising the time. "Oh shit. Look, I'll be right there..."
I hung up before I could hear the rest, pushing the little red button with as much force as I could muster. I could tell you'd forgotten me. Anger, hot and painful, fairly radiated from me. I was just glad Steven and his parents weren't home to witness my rage and embarrassment.
I'd been stood up. Again.
I clenched my fists so hard it hurt and grabbed my soccer ball. I didn't bother to pull on my cleats, stalking straight outside where I proceeded to dent the back wall of the garage with the force of my angry kicks, pounding the ball into the wall again and again. I pretended to myself that I was practising a simple drill, bouncing the ball off the wall as many times as I could in a row, but in reality I was belting the ball as hard as I could each time, releasing my anger on the ball, letting out screams of frustration every so often. Tears coursed freely down my face as I booted the ball into the garage. Rarely had I felt so betrayed in my life...
...and never had I felt so betrayed before I met you.
"FUCK!" I roared the word until my throat was raw. "FUCK FUCK FUCK!"
I heard the crunch of gravel from the driveway which signalled the approach of a car. Despite everything, my heart still leapt. Your truck came into view and you emerged, smiling apologetically. The last of my furious volleys sailed perilously close to your truck, but missed. I'd always been ready to forgive until now. Now I felt like shrieking at you, shouting my pain and private humiliation.
I didn't. I just got into the truck without a word. My tears had evaporated but were on the edge of flowing again, prickling my eyes. I turned away from you so you wouldn't see me cry. Not again.
"What do you feel like doing?" You asked me, trying hard to be appeasing. I didn't say anything. "I'm sorry... work was, you know, work, and tiring... I just feel asleep and when I woke up..." you rambled to a halt. "Aaren?"
"Let's go downtown. Twilight Fest is on tonight." I attempted a cheerful tone. It was my last day, godammit. I wanted it to be a good one, however loudly my subconscious urged me to shout a big FUCK YOU.
So. We went downtown, had lunch (late as it was), made small talk. I could almost forget about the pain of our break up and of that mornong. Almost. It was almost like the early days of our relationship again; easy, effortless, joking, fun. Almost.
There were awkward silences, true, but those were quickly filled by talk of work or school or life in general. As we walked through the streets of downtown I almost had to physically lock my hands together to stop my traitor hand from attempting to find yours. We were no longer together, and I had to remember that... hard as it was.
And then came the moment I'd been dreading. You said you had to go. Work, or something. I felt slapped, though I tried not to show it. You didn't usually work on Wednesday nights. I knew your work schedule backwards and forwards. So, you'd either accepted extra hours on the day you knew was the last time you'd ever see me...
...Or you were lying.
I tried to be nonchalant as I handed over my goodbye gift, a mix CD, trying not to betray the agonising two hours I'd spent compiling songs which had once meant something to us, or had, once. The time had been agonising mainly because of the memories each song brought back to me. I couldn't help but wonder if, for him, if the memories would be good, as I hoped, or as painful as they were for me. You took it and gave me another apologetic smile. Your specialty, I reflected. You said you'd forgotten your goodbye present in your rush to leave the house. I nearly snorted at the word 'rush', but managed to refrain.
"I guess this is goodbye then."
I so badly wanted one last kiss goodbye, something to rememberyou by... but I didn't ask, and you didn't give. We just kind of awkwardly hugged, and then we let go. You walked away, and I let you go. I didn't call you back, I didn't cry, "WAIT! STOP!", didn't whisper, "I love you."
You walked away, and I did nothing.
I wish I'd been able to stop crying since.