What I Couldn't Tell Him

39 - Let her go

JAIMIE PERRON

I woke up early, despite my late night. The birds hummed and whined in the trees and the sounds drilled into my skull. All night, more dreams of plumes of black smoke, bruised forearms, cars spinning out of control and hospital beds... always hospital beds. 

I realised that I am still in my clothes and my hair is knotted in a birds nest on top of my head. I try not to make any sound. Jenni is still knocked out, but I lean over to check her breathing. She's okay, but still a little cold. I tuck the blanket over her.

I don't know what made me decide to make my mum breakfast. It was probably a childish need for attention. I had tried being bad, so maybe I could get her to react if I was good. Or I was bored.

I pulled on a baggy jumper over my creased clothes, not bothering to depress myself with a glance in the mirror. I rubbed my eyes and crept downstairs, trying not to wake my mum yet. I heard a rumbled snore and knew that I hadn't.

I sigh when I open the fridge. The edges are covered in creeping frost and the food that was in there was wilting or out of date. I sigh and take a pen and piece of paper out.

Good morning, I have gone to the shops xx

I change my mind, uncomfortable with that. I cross out the kisses and leave it. I write another one for Jenni, kisses included, and leave it by my bed with a painkiller and some water. I grab a coat and slip out of the door.

The world is still a quiet, dark colour and the bitter morning wind whips my hair around my eyes. It doesn't stop me noticing the figure stepping out onto the porch of next door, tousled hair and muscular frame silhouetted in the yellow street light.

I take a moment to think how ridiculous it is that he looks so good, a perfect silhouette like a classical painting, before remembering last night and the choking smell that clung to his clothes. I have no right to feel sad or disappointed but I do. I thought he had changed. It's so embarrassing and narcissistic to think it, but I thought he had changed for me. I thought I was saving his life. I thought that meant my selfish need for friends had had a good outcome.

I was wrong. It is not up to me to determine how he is or how he thinks. I just had so much hope that he'd started to care about himself. It sends an awful coldness through my veins to think that, subconsciously, he never wanted to stop. That he doesn't care what it's doing to him. 

I get in the car and drive away, swallowing the lump in my throat that formed at the memory. I see his face in my mind, following me everywhere. The sadness in his eyes, how I broke his gaze. I am a coward.

I buy the shopping and my sudden kindness withers when I get home and find a plate from last night on the floor outside her bedroom door, and the low noise of a tv in her room. I unpack the shopping like a robot, going to my room and sitting silently on my bed, curtains drawn despite the morning light dribbling in. Jen still looks peaceful, and the water and pill are undisturbed.

I creep downstairs, taking mum's dinner plate and washing up.

ALDEN WOLFF

I saw her leave the house early. I saw her flawless face and hair and beauty despite having no makeup, and the same skirt as yesterday. An image bubbles up like bile: the dull, empty gaze she gave me through the mirror in her car, brown eyes blazing golden in the street light.

The twins are staying at my auntie's house again. She loves them but can't stand the sight of me. Apparently I am a disgusting, vulgar, awful role model. She is probably not far wrong.

I can't believe that I had a cigarette after everything. When my craving starts, I kick my dresser. A little hunger reminding me of what I have done. I do not give in again. I won't do this to myself. I promised her. I let her down.

I wanted her to shout, to shove me. I wanted her yell at me. To tell me it mattered to her, that she's furious.
She didn't do that.

It doesn't matter that she's right. She was never entitled to tell me what to do and how to treat myself. I redirect my frustration. It's good that she stopped telling me what to do. I don't want her to care.

I don't love her.

It doesn't hurt that she's given up on me. No, it doesn't. I don't give a fuck.

I should distance myself. I will avoid her, and if I have to. I don't care about what she thinks of me. I don't need any complications in my life and it will be easier this way.

Despite what I tell myself, my thoughts drift back to her laugh, smile and the way she used to look at me. Nobody has ever looked at me like that; like she actually just wanted to listen to me, to be around me.

Though sometimes, when she did look at me when she thought I didn't see, it wasn't just objectifying lust. It was the way that I look at her.

I don't just want to touch her like that. Its her hands and her shoulders and the soft angle of her jaw. The vibration of her laughter, the steadiness of her breathing when she's sleepy. Her scowl when she's thinking and the little red mark on her thigh when she's been sat with her legs crossed over. I didn't think I would ever feel like this about someone.

I have to stop caring. I'm not letting her down anymore. And I will.

I take a breath and when I exhale I let her go. She is not mine and that is my choice. I don't need her. I dont.

Right?