Fiction: For You
Title: For You
Genre: Fiction
Words: ~1400
Rating: PG-13
Notes: Written for fomp, for the third challenge at inrevelations. Sorry it's so late.
Summary: I tried to do handstands for you.
So, she breaks.
She breaks, and it's beautiful. It's terrible.
--
This was never the way it was supposed to be.
--
She was supposed to fall in love at 16.
Unrequited, of course. What fun is being a teenager if you can't have a bit of angst along with it?
He would be blonde, tan, flashing a smile at all the right moments. It was to fester for a few months, maybe a year, until she became so miserable, she couldn't take it anymore. She would tell him, through a note slipped into the locker, a shy smile, a blushing confession. And he would kiss her.
Of course he would kiss her.
They would date, have one big fight, and get back together again just in time for him to ask her to the senior prom. Fast forward a few years, and they'd be married. End of story.
But life rarely goes according to plan, does it?
--
Carmine was her name. Rick was his.
She fell for him on sight. He fit the story to a T - his eyes brilliantly blue, locks silky and sun-streaked.
She didn't mind when he broke the code and asked her out before she confessed to him. If anything, it was better. Three weeks is plenty of time to fall when you're sixteen.
He kisses her on their second date.
What else is there do to? She plucks out her heart and unabashedly places it in his upturned palm.
God, what that simple mistake cost her.
--
Their one-month anniversary falls on her seventeenth birthday.
It doesn’t start with anything monumental. Her seventeenth birthday is not such a huge deal. It is not like she is turning eighteen, or something. That would be much more exciting. After all he is eighteen. He would know.
She starts to sing a modified version of a Sound of Music song.
The reference is lost on him, and she cringes, cowers behind an embarrassed blush when he gazes at her with upraised eyebrows and unimpressed eyes.
This is the first day she gets the indication that something might be a little bit wrong with their relationship.
But it's just an inkling.
Surely, he can be fixed. It's still fresh, still new. He's not accustomed to having a girlfriend yet.
Somehow, she’s the cause.
She does not have any idea why, but that is what he says. So, it must be true.
He doesn't need to be fixed. She is the problem. He is never specific - maybe she takes up too much of his time, and maybe she is too demanding. Maybe her simple presence is enough to cause whatever crisis he is currently blowing entirely out of proportion.
But don’t even try to leave is the unspoken message. I need you, she hears, and she melts. Because what girl doesn’t dream of hearing those beautiful words?
--
Sex hurts like hell and she cries until he pulls back out. She curses internally all the books and movies that lied to her.
It’s better the second time.
Maybe she’s just not the type of girl who likes sex a lot.
But couples are supposed to have sex. It’s the least she can do for him.
--
Most people think theirs is a typical teenage relationship. They smile at the cute brunette and blonde driving to movies on Friday nights.
Only her best friend somehow gets the idea that Carmine’s not happy.
“What the hell are you doing?”
That frank question is too much, and she gradually eases the girl out of her life. She can’t take anyone else prying into her personal life because they simply don’t understand. They don’t see his smile when she’s done something perfect to please him. They don’t feel the way his hands can slide smoothly and lingeringly along her shoulder. They don’t hear the way he laughs at jokes.
Still, something’s off.
He doesn’t yell. He never really even seems to get angry. He just lets his disapproval roll off onto her until she’s weighted down with it. It’s her fault, he’s never hesitant to point out.
She can make their relationship better.
So, she changes. She changes her hair, from brown to blonde to red to a brief stint with inky, jet black. She changes her wardrobe, from casual to girly to slutty to utter trash. Nothing happens. Next is the attitude. She takes up cursing and make-up, Star Wars and South Park. (She doesn’t understand the appeal of either, maybe it’s a guy thing, and maybe they can really bond if they can just find something more in common).
Theirs is still a good relationship, she thinks. Sure, it definitely has its rough patches. But that just means it’s a real, mature relationship. She heard on Oprah that all good couples fight from time to time. If you don’t, the resentment toward each other simply festers until it blows up in your face, and poof there goes your relationship.
It’s a good thing they fight.
She tries to explain this to him once, but all it gets her is a shrugged shoulder and a “Whatever, babe.”
It’s better than the silence that usually hangs its thick blanket between them after an argument.
--
She reads something about feminism from a book a friend loaned her, and it’s enough to get her thinking. At least for a long enough time that she breaks up with him later that night after another of their subdued fights.
But she calls him four hours later and apologizes. It takes a solid fifteen minutes of groveling and a promise of a blowjob to get him to take her back.
She throws the book out. Feminist is a dirty word, anyway. She likes men; she doesn’t hate them.
She digs the book back out the next morning, scans a few paragraphs before giving it back to its owner.
Three more months, and she can feel something building, deep within her chest. She’s a bit numb around there, too, a hair too heavy. Even the sight of Rick doesn’t make her heart leap wildly like it used to. But she feels comfortable with him. That’s better than starting back at the beginning, alone and hurting.
Still, for a reason she doesn’t quite understand, she breaks up with him for the second time.
She stays away for a week. Surely, he’ll miss her. He’ll beg for her to take him back.
Another four days, and she’s standing on his doorstep.
He lets her into the living room, the pristine white shag carpet blinding her as she looks down through the haze of tears.
She tries to explain logically and quietly why they should get back together again.
Eight minutes and twenty seconds, she rambles - she knows, she kept her eyes fixed on the clock as she spoke.
Eighteen months. That’s something worth fighting for, isn’t it?
He nods. Doesn't take her in his arms, doesn't say a word. Just nods.
And after eighteen months, she shatters. She feels the mysterious heaviness of her heart bursting, black and thick all over the bright room.
--
When she breaks, it’s noisy. She screams. She curses. She cries.
She pummels his chest with her fists until she sees a warning gleam in his eyes.
“Goddamn it, you know we’re good together! Please.”
“Okay. God, enough of the dramatics.” His tone is soothing, and she pauses. Waits for the familiar flow of relief and joy through her insides.
He dips his head to kiss her. His cool, firm lips meet hers, and her fingers grasp the stretchy fabric of his t-shirt. A reflex.
Still, she waits.
“I’m glad you came back. I do love you.”
He presses his lips to hers again.
It’s not enough.
Not only is it not enough, but it’s not true. Why it happens now, she doesn’t know. She can feel it, though. That final click as the last piece falls into place.
She uncurls her fingers from his t-shirt.
Opens her sticky eyelids, searches his pale gaze, finally sees the watery weakness in the depths. Sees The Truth reflected back at her, with its thick scars and ugly, blackened skin.
“Goodbye.” The word is foreign on her lips, but somehow the most natural thing she’s ever said.
She feels almost weightless as her bare feet against the carpet make the barest whisper of sounds, leaving him.
The first taste of freedom invades her senses, its scent heady and wonderful.
She drinks it in.
~la fin
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