The Pain of We (ON HOLD)

5

I paced back and forth in front of the phone. It should be a simple process. Your number is easy to remember. All I have to do is pick up the phone and get the courage to call you.

I punched in the numbers and hit dial before I could change my mind. I still paced, twisting my finger into the phone cord. Your line kept ringing, and just when I thought you'd never picked up, you did.

"Hello?" You sounded very confused.

I slammed the phone back into the cradle.

I took a deep breath and tried again, my fingers shaking as I entered in each digit.

"Hello?" This time you sounded slightly more pissed. Bad timing?

"Uh, hi, this is..."

The front door slammed shut and I knew my father was home. I stuttered back into the phone. "I have to go."

"I don't even get a name?"

I already hung up, ready to face the wrath of my father.

...
Dad was passed out on the couch. It was now or never.

I snuck into the kitchen and dialed your number. The phone rang until you picked up. I hoped it wasn't too late at night.

"Jarsen?"

"Yes. Is this the same girl from earlier?"

"Maybe."

"Do I get a name this time?"

I paused, hesitant. "It's not too late at night, is it?" I bit my lip, worried that I woke you up.

"Naw. I was just laying down. Who are you?"

"Who do you think I am?"

"Well... I don't give out my phone number often, so unless you're a stalker or a friend of my sister's, it's very likely—I'd even said certain—that you are Ms. Larkin."

"So you found me out. Why did you give me your number?"

"I don't know. Why are you calling me instead of texting like I thought you would? Is calling more personal?"

I laughed. From the other room I heard my dad moan before going back to snoring. "No. I... I don't have a cell phone."

"Really? Hm. That's... interesting. Why did you hang up earlier?"

"My dad got home and I couldn't talk."

"Hm... Well how are you? Having a fine night?"

"Well. Right now I'm sitting in my kitchen talking to you on a corded landline... So there's that. But otherwise I'd say I'm fine. How are you?"

"Well. Right now I'm sitting in my bed, talking to you on an iPhone... So there's that. But otherwise, I'd say I'm fine."

"You're such a dork."

"Only on days that end with Y. What's your favorite color?"

"I don't know. I like bright colors, they make me happy. What about you, ignoring the fact that that's a very five year old question,"

"I happen to like five year old questions. I like black."

"I could've guessed that."

"Lark,"

Jarsen."

You lowered your voice, all tones of joking gone. "Why don't you tell anyone about your dad?"

My breath caught in my throat. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You've got the scars to prove it."

"Jarsen, there's nothing to prove. I don't know what you're talking about."

"Please don't bull shit me."

I glanced at the clock on the oven. "Jarsen, it's getting late, I should sleep."

"Wait, before you go, say my name again. Please, Lark,"

I sighed. "Why?"

"Please?"

"Fine. Jarsen. Goodnight."

I could feel your smile. "Goodnight, Larkin,"

How did you know that's my full name? I haven't been called Larkin since my mother was alive. You're... different, Jarsen, you always were.

...
I opened up my notebook and took out my blue pen. I have this thing about blue pens, and I'm very particular about them. It bothers me when the ink is a different shade of blue than the pen I wrote with before, so I always write with the same brand, and the same style—because even the style changes the shade.

I never write in black if I don't have to. Black is too dark for writing. I don't like pencil, it's too temporary. I prefer scribbles to half erased words. Red is too bright. Red pen is a sign of failure, the color teachers use to point out where you fucked up.

So I use blue. It's brighter than black, but doesn't remind me of failure like red.

The class let out a collective moan as the teacher told us to write into the day. While she got her lesson together, we were to write. She'd give us prompts, usually single words or statements. Or, we could write something else.

Today, I felt oddly poetic.

Remembering a sad poem I read a while ago, I changed it, making it almost completely my own.

Raindrops on roses and bloodstains on linens,

Razors and long sleeves that keep my scars hidden,

Jumping off buildings like birds without wings,

These are a few of my least favorite things.

Talk to a friend about your tough day,

And remember it's temporary, and that depression fades.

Sure it's hard right now, but put down the knife,

Think of all the things you'll miss if you take your life.

I put down the pen, pleased with myself. My English teacher stood in front of the class room, sharing what she wrote in a different hour. She then asked if anyone wanted to share. Just like always, no one spoke up.

"No one?" She asked, almost disappointed.

I took a deep breath and raised my hand. She smiled at me and I started to read my poem. Once I got to the last line, the class was silent—something very odd in the loquacious group of kids.

I looked back down, and softly at first I hear snapping. I looked up and saw you, smiling and snapping. The class joined in reluctantly.

Thank you.

We actually do this in class and I'm like the only one who shares. Also I wrote the second part to that. It's something I like to do, take sad poems or sayings and turn them into something happier.

Maybe I'll post a few.

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