Lighthouse Lullaby | ✓

Part 1 | Friday, 18th September

I think it's safe to say that change sucks. When things change, stuff happens. And in most cases, it sucks when stuff happens.

That's why I love when things stay the same. For example, it would be best if my closest acquaintance, Evy Thomas, remained single. At least until the end of high school.

You probably have two questions for me at this point.

Question 1: Why did I say 'closest acquaintance' instead of 'friend'?

Answer: Certain unwelcome changes in my life have given me a buttload of wisdom. Which I will share with you for free! (I'm one sundress and a few cryptic rhymes away from becoming The Oracle.)

The best course of action in life is not to have any friends. Friends, like most other things in this unfortunate world, are subject to change. They love and fight, laugh and cry, come and go. Friendship is just a big inconvenience.

That's why I refer to Evy as my closest acquaintance. We have a relationship that is healthy enough that I am not deemed a 'loner freak' by the horny apes that are my peers. At the same time, I am careful not to invest my emotions in this relationship. That way, I have acquired all the perks of friendship without getting too affected by any changes in Evy's life. More or less.

Question 2: Why the hell would you not want Evy to find someone?

Answer: A little background on Evy Thomas: Like me, she is female, seventeen years old and a high school junior. That's where our similarities end. Because unlike me, she is short, curly-haired and asexual.

Evy is currently on a quest to find the perfect asexual partner. And she is convinced that she will find that person in our disgusting cesspool of a high school.

If she finds someone, her relationship status will change. Inevitably, she and her partner will devote most of their time to each other. Which means she won't come over to my house every so often. Granted, we aren't exactly discovering new elements or making rocket science. In fact, just yesterday, Evy spent the majority of the evening singing an altered version of Anaconda.

"My anaconda don't, my anaconda don't," Evy sang in a perfect imitation of Nicki Minaj. "My anaconda don't want none 'cause I'm asexual, hun."

(Of course, she found this little gem in the virtual wormhole that is Tumblr.)

And I twerked around my messy bedroom until my spine almost snapped in half.

But can we do this if Evy has a partner? No.

Instead, she will be busy doing whatever it is that asexual couples do. (No judgment. Each one to their own.)

Back to my original point. Now, do you understand why change sucks?

I have fixed routines that could disintegrate because of too many changes. I follow them with the same determination with which K-Stew poops every day at 7:00 PM on the dot.

Which is what I'm doing right now. Following my routine, I mean. Not pooping.

I force the white bay window open. With the agility of a ninja assassin (just kidding, I'm about as graceful as a drunk sloth), I climb down the tree that stands directly in front of the window.

I jog down the street, glancing at my hands covered in scrapes from the rough tree bark. These bruises are a badge of honor, a proof of my rebellious courage. Or, at least, I'd like to think that they're more than just a sign of my recently acquired loss of sleep.

Twenty minutes later, I reach the lighthouse. It's a monster of a structure standing on a small hill. I have to remind myself to keep my hands from touching the rusty railing as I climb the stairs to the top.

Did you know that tetanus paralyzes the jaw muscles, causing its victims to starve to death? That's why the infection is called 'lockjaw'. Apparently, starvation is one of the most horrible ways to die.  

I'm not too keen to test that theory out.

This lighthouse is like a drug. I live for the circling beam of light, the breeze, the waves, the solidarity. My addiction to the old beacon leaves me with a range of symptoms when I can't visit: bloodshot eyes, dark circles, irritability, etc. To sum up, I look like a drug addict without actually being one. (Oh, the endless joys of being me.)

The salty wind whips my hair around when I reach the gallery deck. I gaze down at the water, forty feet below. The sea is pitch black under the dim moonlight. The sound of waves hitting the rocks soothes my nerves instantly.

But this calm is shattered like one of Mom's precious China plates (she probably loves her China more than she loves her child) when I see a figure leaning against the corroded railing. I can't tell who it is as his back is turned to me.

I hurry forward until I'm standing right behind him. Now that I'm up close, it takes less than a second to recognize the wavy ash-brown hair, freakishly pale skin and lanky frame.

No, it's not Edward Cullen.

It's Dylan Frost. In my lighthouse.

A scream of pure panic escapes my lips. Kim-Kardashian-losing-her-diamond-earring-in-the-ocean kind of panic.

Well, shit.