LIV
It's nearly a two mile walk to the 7-11 from whoever's house I leave. And honestly, I don't care how far I have to go; I just need to be anywhere else.
While I can stand parties for a little while, they eventually start to make me feel like peeling all my skin off. I don't tell my parents this, of course, fighting through it until I have to give up.
As I walk, kicking a rock ahead of me, I shove my hands into my pockets. Trying to take in as much fresh air as my lungs can hold at once before loudly exhaling, I mostly hope my head will stop pounding come morning. I'm tired of waking up with headaches, something that has been plaguing me since I was just a young child with pigtails. Back then, it used to make me cry but now I just grit my teeth.
The street is dark except for streetlights placed evenly every few feet and a porch light or two providing an alternate light source peppered between the larger lamps. This eases the ache in my skull but disregards the fear stitching itself into the marrow of my bones.
Just as the 7-11 comes into view up ahead, glinting like a diamond in the sun and flooding me with great relief, my phone buzzes. Carefully slipping it out of my pocket, the screen lights up when I hold it out in front of my face, but I have to blink a few times for it to come into focus.
I see an Instagram message notification and instantly my heart swells with anxiety as I opt to open it, because I would have to do it sooner or later anyways. Might as well get a running start, right?
oPaL: hey. this is the same liv i met at the party tonight, right?
Immediately, the knots untie themselves from my chest and oxygen returns to my lungs. Whether because it's Opal or because it's nothing really to be anxious over after all, I don't allow myself time to mull over. Instead, I type out a reply quickly and wait, watching as the three dots dance. Up and down, up and down.
liv! : In the flesh. or... in the screen?
liv! : sorry, I sound stupid.
oPaL: you don't sound stupid.
My heart melts, her answer a welcome break from how most others react to texting me, so I shove my phone back into my pocket without responding. I don't know how to respond.
The bell above the door jingles as I step inside the store, white light and that slightly odd chemical smell bathing me instantly. Everything is pushed to the back of my mind as I browse the aisles, brightly colored packages and vivid drinks engulfing my field of vision.
I wish I didn't always have to come in here alone, picking skin off my fingers as I wait in line behind a man buying cigarettes. My mind wanders to Opal, smoke curling off her lips in the weak porch light. It's almost enough to make me want to buy cigarettes too, but I don't even smoke. I did once and it made me sick to my stomach, so I gave up the bad habit before it even took off the ground.
At that moment, with my brain spinning like a tornado, it's almost too much for me to face the employee behind the counter when it's my turn and I step up. Placing down my can of Monster and bag of Sour Patch Kids, I notice my hands are wobbling. It's almost too much as he scans the items, staring at me all the while. It's almost too much as I hand him the money and he asks if I need a receipt. Weakly, I mutter that I'm alright without it and then grab my items and all but run out the door.
I wish I didn't always have to be alone.
I sit on my traditional spot on the curb outside the store, chugging down half my drink before working up the motivation to even dial mom's number.
The night air is thick and heavy, a warm breeze blowing my hair this way and that.
"Hey! How's the party?" She asks.
"It was good. It was fine. But I'm actually at the 7-11."
"Oh. Is everything okay?" I swear I can almost see her eyebrows furrow in concern as she gets to her feet, one step away from anxious pacing like she always does.
The 7-11 is always where I come when things get bad, and I think she remembers that. I think she remembers after school in ninth grade when I came here, crying because my best friend said we couldn't hang out anymore or because the girls on the track and field team bullied me so badly that I quit. I think she remembers the summer after tenth grade when Lucy went away to college, and I could barely imagine functioning without my big sister around. I think she remembers that and more, and especially now I expect it's all flooding into her brain at rapid speeds.
"Yeah. Everything's good. I was just getting a headache and wanted to leave." I'm not ever sure if that's the real reason anymore, seeing as I've pushed through many a headache for events prior to tonight, but I obviously don't let her in on any uncertainty. There's really no other reason I could give anyways.
"Okay. Well, stay where you are. I'm on my way to get you."
"Okay. Thanks, mom. Love you!"
"Love you too, dear." I can hear the smile in her voice before the line goes dead.
In the next five minutes it takes for her to arrive and collect me, I manage to finish my Monster and more than half the bag of sour gummies. That combination of items does nothing to make my stomach feel good; my heart is hammering for a much less positive reason now and I swallow back the urge to throw up right there in the parking lot.
My mom smiles, that warm smile where her eyes crinkle at the corners, and I feel like crying. Those two don't go together, I know, but I'm not sure what else to do.
The car smells like cinnamon as I climb into the passenger side, where I close my eyes comfortably for the first time all night. Between the familiarity of the firmness of the seat and the scent, I think I can already feel my headache dissolving. Mom has had this car since way back when I started third grade, and with all the memories accumulated in the beige interior, this car is as much a part of the family as anyone. I couldn't even imagine getting a new car.
"So," she begins as she looks both ways and pulls out onto the street. I want to tell her it's past midnight, nobody's out, but I bite my tongue. "How was the party?"
"Same as all the other ones." I reply, dismissing her question in as subtle a way as I can manage. She doesn't catch onto my hint, because who would, and picks her side of the conversation back up.
"Yeah? Did you meet anyone?"
Does she mean meet as in friends, or more than friends? Does she mean meet as in talk to or meet as in kiss? My brain feels disconnected from her point of questioning entirely and so I just sit there blinking too often and crinkling the candy package between my fingers.
"Well?" She prods.
I figure I have to give her something to get her to stop, so I give up my Opal secret fairly easily. Not that it was ever even going to be much of a secret anyways, but the words still roll off my tongue without a second thought. "I talked to this one girl. Opal. She was nice, I guess."
"Do you want to see her again?"
"I don't know. Maybe." All my responses are so vague I feel myself flinch at the emptiness of it.
This conversation is getting a little weird to have with my mom, or at least I know it will spiral into uncomfortable territory if it continues on any longer, so I turn my attention to the neighborhoods passing by beyond my car window.
Mom takes this as her cue to stop, which she doesn't always do when I grow distant, so I am very grateful she does this time.
As I drift to sleep that night, the ghost of cigarette smoke dances around me.
YOU ARE READING
memento mori
Teen Fiction"remember you'll die," she whispered before taking a drag of her cigarette. at least, i thought, in the end i'll die by your side. •••• after bumping into each other at a party or two, opal and liv - despite al...
