Week two. Wednesday.
As I make my way to the upper deck of the bus and to my seat, the wariness that plagues me – and has been since yesterday morning – is strangely welcome.
I mean, sure, getting dragged into this situation, this stupid feud, is not ideal. It doesn’t involve me, it doesn’t involve anyone I care about or anything I care about; I’m a pawn in this game, disposable. And yet there’s this connection, this attachment to something.
Wait, no; I’m a disposable pawn – there’s no attachment, not on their side anyways. What is it, then? A tether, to reality, maybe, I think. It’s something to be wary of. I’m a balloon; their childish, fragile, capricious hand stops me from floating, upwards and away. I don’t know where I’d go if I floated; I’m scared to find out.
Here is what I tell myself: I won’t take the easy way out. I won’t do what she did. I’m stronger than she was, I can deal with life, I can do it. I say these things like it can block out the constant feeling that I’m not sure I can, I’m not sure I am stronger, I’m not sure I have more to live for. There’s Dad, but his presence hovers around, it feels ephemeral.
This is a frail, long rope; it’ll twist around my throat in a second, it’ll burn me as I try to hold on. This, like everything else, is only temporary. But it’s something.
So when Jasper approaches me and slides easily into the adjacent seat, I say nothing. Offering a smile is more than I can manage.
He says, “Hey, Claire.”
“Hey, Jasper,” I respond. My voice sounds empty, and I frown. And then I have nothing to say. I can’t force a polite how are you or what’s up; I’m not sure I want to know. But I inexplicably crave for him to turn this into a conversation; I crave human contact. I can’t push him away, either.
“So, I guess you heard about Daisy,” he mentions casually, leaning back, draping his arm around my seat. For once, it doesn’t repel me. “I threw her away like she was disposable, and that whole mess. Tragic, isn’t it?”
I study him for a second. “I have,” I confirm. “And it is. You know, if it’s true, which I’m not sure it can be. You don’t seem like the heartbreaker type.”
A straight-up lie, obviously. Nonetheless, I used to be a practised flirt before the Trauma. I remember the basics. And then, with shock: wow, is this flirting?
Jasper cracks a smile. “Oh, yeah?” he challenges, “What is the heartbreaker type?”
“Not my type,” I dismiss. This thing feels too familiar, too soon, too much like how I was Before. "What's the deal with you and Remy, anyway?"
The corners of Jasper's mouth look like plastic this time when he smiles, look like he's pushing a smile rather than letting it tug at his lips. "Oh, we go way back," he says, but doesn't elaborate. "And anyway" – he gets to change the topic, too – "you don't get to ask questions before you answer some of mine. Can't just roll in here, full of mystery, and not expect anyone to get curious, can you? What's the deal with you, then? What're you doing here?"
My mind reels, my tongue is frozen. I don't want to talk about it with him. The Doctors said it could Take Time, they said I'd Slowly Open Up, and it'll do me a Lot of Good. I don't want a Lot of Good. I don't want to Open Up, Slowly or otherwise.
And suddenly I feel so stupid. I've danced blindly to my own music, I've let myself become a balloon, I've let myself depend on someone else – no, worse, I've depended on my emotions. Stability was my crutch; impassivity, lack of passion, callousness, whatever it takes. Pathetic.
The thing about emotions is that they're erratic, unreliable. You'd think, for example, maternal love was enough of a reason for Mom not to kill herself – I mean, right? Where was that surge of adrenalin that makes mothers lift cars off their flesh and blood when my mother needed it? You couldn't take something so fickle for granted.
I feel sick to my stomach. I fist my hand in my skirt to stop myself from clutching at my neck, which suddenly feels oddly restricted. This is it – the rope has tightened.
"Felt like a change in scenery," I choke out, forcing a façade of nonchalance. The words in my throat feel swollen, uncomfortable. I get to curtail my version of events, too. "Heard London was beautiful this time of the year."
Jasper's eyes narrow. He feels the shift, I can tell. He doesn't push it. "A tourist, then. You gotta let me take you on a tour, I'm pretty phenomenal and a Londoner born and bred." He plays along, but his frown tells me this is far from the end.
a/n hey guys, sorry for not updating for the longest time ever, gah I sent off my ucas application which is just incredibly stressful and I've been silently and slowly dying for the past like four days… so yeah. Hope you like this one.
Also, I have to make it clear before anyone angrily comments that I'm belittling suicide, these are not my personal opinions on the issue – they're Claire's, and given her experience she's obviously going to be very resentful towards it. I'd like to add that I'm fully here to support anyone who might be feeling like they don't feel life is worth living – just message me, I'll talk about anything.
SONG IS WILDEST DREAMS BY TAYLOR SWIFT BECAUSE 1989 IS FUCKING ICONIC AND I HAD A FUCKING SPIRITUAL AWAKENING EXCEPT WITH TAYLOR SWIFT AND I'M SO SO SO EXCITED ABOUT IT SO YEAH (well i just looked the song up on youtube and there isn't a link, but if you know the song just kinda pretend it's playing cos it's so perfect and like a mix between lorde and lana del rey? idk)
