[lj idol] week twenty | "the heaviest of weights..."
[an intersection]
*
She kicked a box out of her way and scowled, glad that for at least a few seconds she didn’t have to worry about anyone else seeing her. This wasn’t how she wanted to spend her weekend, and she couldn’t help the surge of annoyance she felt toward him for putting her in this situation.
She loved him. She did. But did he always have to be so good?
She cringed at the voices of her friends and her family in her head, telling her that he was a good man, a simple man. The unspoken words being that she, of course, was nothing but.
He always did the right thing. He always did the good thing. He always did the noble thing. Of course he did.
She kicked at the box again, this time harder and for no good reason other than she wanted to, and scowled more, feeling her face twist and her resentment stir.
Was it so wrong to want to spend time with just him? Was it so horrible to just once want to say no, we can’t help you because we have plans?
Probably.
That’s why she would never be good enough for him. She could hear their voices in her head telling her so.
She kicked the box one last time, not caring that she was supposed to be packing it, not caring that these were the last few remnants of this stranger’s life.
It wasn’t her dying friend of a friend of a friend, and she had never wanted to say yes. But she was selfish and he was not and he said they needed to help and so here they were.
She watched as the box hit the wall, her kick a little too hard, contents breaking free and coming loose, papers slipping out on to the floor, no longer held back by their cardboard cage.
She contemplated leaving them there, a sign of her refusal, but she couldn’t. She could picture his face, looking at her, disappointment in his eyes that she was not better, and it was the one thing she could not stand.
Let the whole world think she wasn’t enough, but not him, the boy who said he loved her even when she didn’t deserve it.
She bent down to scoop up the papers, to deposit them back in the now wobbly box, its frame a little bent from where she had rammed her foot into its side.
A piece of yellow caught her eye. A sheet of paper faded with time, a contrast to the bright shiny white newness of the other documents.
She picked it up, curious. The voices screamed at her to not invade someone else’s privacy - he would never do that, after all - but she could never resist temptation, and the paper was calling to her.
She spread it out, opening it up, letting its secrets into the world. It was a letter. Wrinkled, faded, like it had seen too much of the passing of time, but she could make it out. The words on the paper still legible. The voice of the girl - was it a girl? - coming through loud and clear. Calling out to someone who wasn’t there.
Dear Jackson,
That seems stupidly formal, doesn’t it? All things considered? But I’ve started and stopped a million different hellos in my head over the course of the endless hours I’ve been sitting here staring at this piece of paper and none of them have sounded quite right though so… formal it is.
Dear Jackson, Jackson dear (!!).
I bought a spinach and feta muffin for lunch today and it made me think of you. Is that weird? That’s probably weird, but it’s also the least of my problems right now. I broke the top off in bite sized pieces and left them ‘til last. Ate the soft, bottom bit first because you’re right, you know? The top bit is totally where it’s at and you should always save the best for last. If I never remember another thing you told me, I will always remember that.
(Heh, a lie. I think I remember every last word you spoke to me. That always was the best and worst part about us. You’ve been in my head forever. I think you were there before I even met you, just a distant echo that I could never quite place. And then, that day in Science class, god, I remember it so clearly. Mr. Hendrix made you introduce yourself up front and it was like I already knew how your voice would sound…)
I think I loved you once.
I think I still do.
She hadn’t realized she had sunk to the floor as she read, but now she looked around, her eyes searching the room, scanning the other possessions she was supposed to be packing.
Where were the photos? The other letters? There had to be more, right?
She picked up the box she had kicked and dumped it out, watching as papers she had just put back spread once more across the floor. All of them white. New and shiny. At least on the surface.
She frowned, but dove in anyway, her original purpose now forgotten, the words of the letter the only thing she could hear.
Is it warm where you are? There are times I hope it is and other times I try (fail) to convince myself I don’t actually give a shit.
I do. Obviously. Sometimes I think it’s literally the ONLY thing in the entire world I DO actually give a shit about, and pulling the curtain back to see the rain on the glass is how I manage to get out of bed of a morning and pretend to be a functional human being for another twenty four hours, so… silver lining?
Anyway, it’s fucking freezing here even though winter isn’t technically supposed to start for month. Jules is like a one-woman walking protest to the snow that’s threatening, and she’s refusing to wear anything but flip-flops and t-shirts, like she’s about to spend the day getting sand between her toes and not sitting in a classroom pretending to pay attention. So, in other words... I guess nothing’s changed?
(Another lie, everything has changed. I’m starting to think that was your point. Maybe even your only point. At least, I can’t seem to come up with any alternatives I can reconcile into some kind of… reason for all this.)
I’ve been marking off the days on a calendar I got given for Christmas last year but never actually used ‘til now. A skinny, grey kitten wrapped in a ball of string stares owlishly at me every time I drag the red sharpie in a cross through another day, another week. The judgment is basically tangible and I’m no longer sure if I’m counting UP the days since you left or DOWN the days until you come back.
Don’t suppose you’ve got an answer for that tucked away somewhere, do you?
No? Okay, moving on…
And I’ll never get used to that silence either.
His voice came out of nowhere - “Jenna?” - and she froze, surrounded by documents she had no right to see.
He walked in as she was shoving everything back in the box, the letter tucked inside the waistband of her jeans, a scarlet letter burning her skin, reminding her that she wasn’t good enough for him. He would never take anything that didn’t belong to him. He would never wonder about someone else’s life.
“There you are,” he said, and he smiled at her. As though he were proud of her. As though she were good enough.
“Just finishing up,” she said, and she opened her mouth to ask him if this friend of a friend of a friend had ever mentioned a Jackson.
But the words died before they came as she spotted something else.
“I’ll help you,” he said to her. He turned away to pack another box. Her fingers reached down and picked up the object. A pencil. Broken in half. Its one end smeared with red lipstick.
“Jenna?” He turned back toward her. His eyes shined and a smile covered his face. “Thank you for helping.”
“Of course,” she said, slipping the broken pencil into her pocket next to the letter, feeling like a lie.
I had (have??) all this news I wanted to tell you. Pages and pages of mental dot points that never really made it past a half-formed “I’ve gotta tell Jackson about this the next time I…” Invariably the thought kind of stutters out before the end, which is understandable if you think about it. I mean, I have no fucking clue what comes next after all.
“Next time.”
I’ve come to hate that phrase with the power of a thousand burning suns. Two words, two syllables, one giant ‘fuck you’.
I need to stop this. I need to snap my pencil in half and use the cigarette lighter that I know is floating somewhere in the bottom of my bag to set fire to these words. I’m being drunk and morose now. Only without the drunk part. At least, this time anyway.
But it’s not like you’re ever going to read my incoherent ramblings, and sometimes being drunk and morose, sometimes being really, really drunk and really, really, really fucking morose, is the only way to make the crap heap you left me with make some kind of sense. There can be clarity in the bottom of a bottle, you know. Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise…
(Do I need to point out my final lie? No?
Didn’t think so…)
*
Written as an Intersection piece for Week 20 of therealljidol by flipflop_diva (regular text, using the prompt 'Shibusa') and waltzmatildah (block quote text, using the prompt 'Rapture of the Deep'). If you'd like to comment directly to flipflop_diva's journal, the link to that is here.
previously on...
introduction | jayus | the missing stair | in another castle | nobody can ride your back if your back's not bent | build a better mouse-trap | step on a crack, break your mother's back | yes, and... | the recency effect | barrel of monkeys | open topic | confession from the chair | chekhov's gun | a terrible beauty has been born | scare quotes | disinformation | kindling
*
She kicked a box out of her way and scowled, glad that for at least a few seconds she didn’t have to worry about anyone else seeing her. This wasn’t how she wanted to spend her weekend, and she couldn’t help the surge of annoyance she felt toward him for putting her in this situation.
She loved him. She did. But did he always have to be so good?
She cringed at the voices of her friends and her family in her head, telling her that he was a good man, a simple man. The unspoken words being that she, of course, was nothing but.
He always did the right thing. He always did the good thing. He always did the noble thing. Of course he did.
She kicked at the box again, this time harder and for no good reason other than she wanted to, and scowled more, feeling her face twist and her resentment stir.
Was it so wrong to want to spend time with just him? Was it so horrible to just once want to say no, we can’t help you because we have plans?
Probably.
That’s why she would never be good enough for him. She could hear their voices in her head telling her so.
She kicked the box one last time, not caring that she was supposed to be packing it, not caring that these were the last few remnants of this stranger’s life.
It wasn’t her dying friend of a friend of a friend, and she had never wanted to say yes. But she was selfish and he was not and he said they needed to help and so here they were.
She watched as the box hit the wall, her kick a little too hard, contents breaking free and coming loose, papers slipping out on to the floor, no longer held back by their cardboard cage.
She contemplated leaving them there, a sign of her refusal, but she couldn’t. She could picture his face, looking at her, disappointment in his eyes that she was not better, and it was the one thing she could not stand.
Let the whole world think she wasn’t enough, but not him, the boy who said he loved her even when she didn’t deserve it.
She bent down to scoop up the papers, to deposit them back in the now wobbly box, its frame a little bent from where she had rammed her foot into its side.
A piece of yellow caught her eye. A sheet of paper faded with time, a contrast to the bright shiny white newness of the other documents.
She picked it up, curious. The voices screamed at her to not invade someone else’s privacy - he would never do that, after all - but she could never resist temptation, and the paper was calling to her.
She spread it out, opening it up, letting its secrets into the world. It was a letter. Wrinkled, faded, like it had seen too much of the passing of time, but she could make it out. The words on the paper still legible. The voice of the girl - was it a girl? - coming through loud and clear. Calling out to someone who wasn’t there.
Dear Jackson,
That seems stupidly formal, doesn’t it? All things considered? But I’ve started and stopped a million different hellos in my head over the course of the endless hours I’ve been sitting here staring at this piece of paper and none of them have sounded quite right though so… formal it is.
Dear Jackson, Jackson dear (!!).
I bought a spinach and feta muffin for lunch today and it made me think of you. Is that weird? That’s probably weird, but it’s also the least of my problems right now. I broke the top off in bite sized pieces and left them ‘til last. Ate the soft, bottom bit first because you’re right, you know? The top bit is totally where it’s at and you should always save the best for last. If I never remember another thing you told me, I will always remember that.
(Heh, a lie. I think I remember every last word you spoke to me. That always was the best and worst part about us. You’ve been in my head forever. I think you were there before I even met you, just a distant echo that I could never quite place. And then, that day in Science class, god, I remember it so clearly. Mr. Hendrix made you introduce yourself up front and it was like I already knew how your voice would sound…)
I think I loved you once.
I think I still do.
She hadn’t realized she had sunk to the floor as she read, but now she looked around, her eyes searching the room, scanning the other possessions she was supposed to be packing.
Where were the photos? The other letters? There had to be more, right?
She picked up the box she had kicked and dumped it out, watching as papers she had just put back spread once more across the floor. All of them white. New and shiny. At least on the surface.
She frowned, but dove in anyway, her original purpose now forgotten, the words of the letter the only thing she could hear.
Is it warm where you are? There are times I hope it is and other times I try (fail) to convince myself I don’t actually give a shit.
I do. Obviously. Sometimes I think it’s literally the ONLY thing in the entire world I DO actually give a shit about, and pulling the curtain back to see the rain on the glass is how I manage to get out of bed of a morning and pretend to be a functional human being for another twenty four hours, so… silver lining?
Anyway, it’s fucking freezing here even though winter isn’t technically supposed to start for month. Jules is like a one-woman walking protest to the snow that’s threatening, and she’s refusing to wear anything but flip-flops and t-shirts, like she’s about to spend the day getting sand between her toes and not sitting in a classroom pretending to pay attention. So, in other words... I guess nothing’s changed?
(Another lie, everything has changed. I’m starting to think that was your point. Maybe even your only point. At least, I can’t seem to come up with any alternatives I can reconcile into some kind of… reason for all this.)
I’ve been marking off the days on a calendar I got given for Christmas last year but never actually used ‘til now. A skinny, grey kitten wrapped in a ball of string stares owlishly at me every time I drag the red sharpie in a cross through another day, another week. The judgment is basically tangible and I’m no longer sure if I’m counting UP the days since you left or DOWN the days until you come back.
Don’t suppose you’ve got an answer for that tucked away somewhere, do you?
No? Okay, moving on…
And I’ll never get used to that silence either.
His voice came out of nowhere - “Jenna?” - and she froze, surrounded by documents she had no right to see.
He walked in as she was shoving everything back in the box, the letter tucked inside the waistband of her jeans, a scarlet letter burning her skin, reminding her that she wasn’t good enough for him. He would never take anything that didn’t belong to him. He would never wonder about someone else’s life.
“There you are,” he said, and he smiled at her. As though he were proud of her. As though she were good enough.
“Just finishing up,” she said, and she opened her mouth to ask him if this friend of a friend of a friend had ever mentioned a Jackson.
But the words died before they came as she spotted something else.
“I’ll help you,” he said to her. He turned away to pack another box. Her fingers reached down and picked up the object. A pencil. Broken in half. Its one end smeared with red lipstick.
“Jenna?” He turned back toward her. His eyes shined and a smile covered his face. “Thank you for helping.”
“Of course,” she said, slipping the broken pencil into her pocket next to the letter, feeling like a lie.
I had (have??) all this news I wanted to tell you. Pages and pages of mental dot points that never really made it past a half-formed “I’ve gotta tell Jackson about this the next time I…” Invariably the thought kind of stutters out before the end, which is understandable if you think about it. I mean, I have no fucking clue what comes next after all.
“Next time.”
I’ve come to hate that phrase with the power of a thousand burning suns. Two words, two syllables, one giant ‘fuck you’.
I need to stop this. I need to snap my pencil in half and use the cigarette lighter that I know is floating somewhere in the bottom of my bag to set fire to these words. I’m being drunk and morose now. Only without the drunk part. At least, this time anyway.
But it’s not like you’re ever going to read my incoherent ramblings, and sometimes being drunk and morose, sometimes being really, really drunk and really, really, really fucking morose, is the only way to make the crap heap you left me with make some kind of sense. There can be clarity in the bottom of a bottle, you know. Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise…
(Do I need to point out my final lie? No?
Didn’t think so…)
*
Written as an Intersection piece for Week 20 of therealljidol by flipflop_diva (regular text, using the prompt 'Shibusa') and waltzmatildah (block quote text, using the prompt 'Rapture of the Deep'). If you'd like to comment directly to flipflop_diva's journal, the link to that is here.
previously on...
introduction | jayus | the missing stair | in another castle | nobody can ride your back if your back's not bent | build a better mouse-trap | step on a crack, break your mother's back | yes, and... | the recency effect | barrel of monkeys | open topic | confession from the chair | chekhov's gun | a terrible beauty has been born | scare quotes | disinformation | kindling