14 comments/ 3984 views/ 11 favorites The Greatest Force: Follow Up By: holdmeclose DAY 1: I can hear emptiness around me. A tinny, electric hum waltzing through my ears. "Don't be afraid." I mumble out loud. My eyes flit hesitantly before they shut under the beam of moonlight that streaks across my face. I can feel the air above me pressing down onto my body, weighting me to the bed. Suddenly, I'm focusing too much, and my breath grows harsher. My eyebrows twitch lightly. My fingertips bounce reactively. "Don't be afraid." I use the self-consoling tactic I taught myself as a child. Behind closed eyes, I see the soft golden river of light make its way around my body, caressing me in its glow as if I am an infant. It has no defining characteristics, but somehow I know the light is a woman, and somehow this comforts me more. It has been 4 days since Alec unstitched me from his warm world, and 4 days since I fished out the college acceptance letter from the dumpster outside my house. The universe's cue for me to leave. I feel childish and naïve for letting myself become so emotionally invested in a person in the span of just over half a year, and I can vaguely remember how good it felt to not feel anything at all. To never share thoughts or feelings. How safe and muted it was. How unappreciated a lifestyle. It's 4 AM, but the air is heavy with warmth. The back of my neck is dewy, and when I open my eyes, I feel moisture on my eyelids. I swallow, and the small noise is almost deafening. I reach for the boarding pass that has been crumpled up in my front pocket all day, and lower myself onto the ground. I grab my bag and glide down the stairs, stopping in the living room where my mom is passed out on the couch with a half-full bottle of beer in her hand. I stare for what feels like a lifetime. I kiss her forehead, and I'm gone. DAY 2: "Is someone bringing up your bags?" I stop in my tracks and fidget with my apartment key, turning to look at the kid who is leaning through the doorway down the sundeck. He's eyeing my backpack which I have now slung off my shoulder, along with my satchel that is now brimming with supplies. "No, this is it." I manage to say, sounding more confident than anticipated. I immediately turn back around and slip into my new home, locking the door behind me. I finish unpacking my things and into soft clothes when Alec's photograph slips out of my jeans pocket. At first, I don't want to acknowledge it's there, but I find myself staring. I pick it up and take it to the kitchen, letting it hover above the stove for a few seconds before I turn on the gas and watch it burn to a wax and wither to ashes. DAY 7: I've spent most of my time sitting motionless behind my computer, reading the hundred or so emails I haven't sorted through. I try to reply to them all - even the ones that say I'm disgusting and deserve everything that came to me. There is one negative email or every five positive ones and I often have to turn the laptop off because I've become so jittery and embarrassed. I'm not going to lie and say they don't hurt, because they do. I realize that I have such a hard time reading them because I know they're true. I've given people enough insight and detail to draw their own conclusions, and none of them are wrong. Sometimes while reading them, I find myself covering my hand over my face as if to hide from the person sending the message. I can't get through more than a couple of lines of each one without crying. The hateful ones shame me, but the sweet ones confuse me beyond belief. I can't ascertain what I've done to deserve the forgiveness of strangers, but I take them as humbly as I can. They cure me for a short period of time, but my fate demands that I slip back to black almost immediately. Hours later, I'm walking down the street in search of a shop to get a couple of duplicate keys made. I've always had the unfortunate talent of losing keys or forgetting them, so I need extras to hide outside my apartment. I find the one I'm looking for and slide in, letting a hidden bell jingle as I open the wooden door. There is a woman standing behind the counter directly down the center of the shop, shuffling around, looking for something in her display case. I set my key down on the glass and begin to tell her what I need, when I instantly feel my chest tighten and my head feels like it is sinking. I frown, grabbing the counter with clammy palms. After a couple of seconds of studying my behavior, she puts a hand to her chest and leans in towards me. "Hey, are you okay?" the woman briskly touches my fingers, and I jerk away. The anxiety attacks began when I was nine or ten, but recently began to return on completely random occasions. "Duplicates." I mumble before stumbling out of the door and sprinting the mile to my apartment, gasping for fresh air that I can't seem to get no matter how hard I breathe. I bound up the stairs, holding my chest, sweating from the anxiety, panicking to get inside. My blood feels like it's slowly turning into cotton. I paw at my pockets, feeling for my key. I freeze, staring at the doorknob with my hands outstretched. "FUCK!!" I kick the wall so hard that a shock runs up my ankle, but I don't feel it for long because all at once I'm leaning over the railing, vomiting the apple I ate for lunch that day. Soon, I find myself back at the locksmith, where 3 keys are waiting for me in a tiny zippy bag on the counter. "Welcome back. I took a guess and assumed you wanted two made." I wipe my mouth as I approach the register, glancing up with drained eyes. I reach into my back pocket for my wallet, but the woman stops me. "Consider it a favor." She smiles sympathetically. The sympathy is the only thing that keeps my face straight and makes me whack the five dollar bill onto the glass before trudging out of the shop. I see the same blue psychotherapy flyer posted on every wall on every block on the way home, and I spit on every single one. DAY 14: I'm counting down the days until school begins. I need a distraction. My appetite has diminished. Anything I eat gets thrown up no matter how hard I try to keep it down. On a really good day, I can stomach a sandwich. My face has sunken and grown weary since I arrived. My body has begun to emaciate. I wake up feeling sick to my stomach. Every. Single. Day. Sometimes I sit in the shower and don't get out for hours. My anxiety attacks have become more frequent and so have my thoughts about everyone I left behind without any goodbyes. I scold myself for leaving my mother behind. I dream of a life with her, sitting beside her in the grass at a park, smiling up at the sun. I maniacally plan out pristine scenarios of how to go about killing myself. My desk is flooded with crisp, thick papers with detailed plans and diagrams of how each situation would unfold. One morning before sunrise, I look at myself in the bathroom mirror and decide to finally shave the scruff that's been growing on my face. I take my time, being as precise as possible, but sometimes pushing harder than usual or slanting the blade in hopes of cutting my jaw. I finish shaving and there are no cuts or scrapes anywhere on my face, which angers me. After I clean up, I study the razor closely, brushing the ridges against my palm. I calmly break the blade out of the plastic razor and pinch it between my fingertips, watching closely as my skin turns paper white under pressure. I let go before the edge can pierce my skin and examine the rest of my body for a sound spot to begin. I run a hand down my chest and turn my arms over and around, feeling for certain spots on my body that would seem ideal. My first choice is the inside of my bicep, but then I come to the conclusion that wearing short sleeves in public would become an issue. So I choose my inner thigh and feel no hesitation before I slide the blade horizontally across my skin. Again. And again. And again. Globes of blood erupt from the multiple incisions, and I smear them together, dropping the stained metal. I feel nothing. There is no release. My body is suffocated by hatred for myself and sadness from everything else, and it's not until I repeatedly hit myself in the face that I finally begin to cry. Every night, I fall face first onto my bed with exhaustion. Every midnight, I wake up in a cold sweat, either desperately shaking my head or helplessly kicking my feet. I have nightmares of Alec getting rid of me in different ways, and I have nightmares of my dad touching me. DAY 23: My mind is beginning to clear after letting myself indulge in the presence of a red headed wonder – a warm, rosy light. The suicide plans are gone now that she's come, and the anxiety attacks are much less frequent. I have nightmares a couple nights a week, otherwise I don't dream at all. But I still meet blade to skin from time to time, and I don't tell her this. It's become a strange necessity. Like it's something I should be doing. I feel guilty for not telling her but I'm too afraid to admit it. I feel ashamed when I don't do it and still feel ashamed when I do. There's no winning for me, and I accept it. My guiding light feels so distant, yet so incredibly close. She's a sister to me, and I love her. She's so tolerant of my inexhaustible mood swings. She helps me see that I can begin again now. I decide that I've spent enough time dwelling over the past. DAY 25: "You're not from here, are you?" A heavy hand plods onto my table, swerving to the side as its body takes a seat in front of me. I blink profusely. I feel the corner of my lip twitch when I quickly remind myself that I can be anyone here. This person doesn't know me. I start the voice recorder on my phone and slip it into my pocket like I always do, so I don't forget words or details later. Somehow, I already know this interaction is going to be significant. "I am." "Really?" I immediately become transfixed on a pair of glowing brown eyes. A surge of terrifying comfort rushes over me in an instant, and I can't seem to look anywhere besides directly into this person's pupils. I feel warmth. Life. Kindness. I see short, soft, curly brown hair. I can see that both of his bottom canine teeth are tilted slightly, and new stubble evenly coats the bottom portion of his face. There's a light pink flush of color that streaks horizontally across his cheeks and over the bridge of his nose that makes him appear innocent, an interesting contrast with the subtle strength of his jaw, which creates a squarish frame for his face. He twiddles his fingers on the table, shrugging. "Where'd you grow up?" I squint, carefully choosing an answer. I haven't been around New York enough to know street names or popular locations, so I lie to the best of my ability. "Just a couple blocks down, actually, in the mezzanine apartments. The red building." He eyes me curiously, smiling. "Nice save. What are you drinking?" "Just black coffee." "You look like the kind of guy that would drink black," he leans back in his chair as he waits for his order to be ready. "What's that supposed to mean?" He shrugs again. "It's not a bad thing. You're one of the only Californian guys I've seen drinking black coffee, though. I mean...by will." I raise an eyebrow. "How did you know I was-" "How many times are you gonna take me for a fool?" He smiles at me. At first, I'm at a loss for words simply because I am in awe at the sharp, daring words coming out of this stranger's mouth. Then I find myself at a loss for words simply because his appearance is breathtaking on its own. "Name's Jason," he reaches out a hand for me to shake, and his grip is alarmingly strong. "Jett," I nod. He walks over to the lady who has made his drink and tips his imaginary hat to her, not sitting down when he comes back. "You have a very distinct Southern California accent. Not surfer-snowboarder type, but Californian nonetheless. So, how long you been here?" "About a month now." "Meet any chicks?" "Nah." "You're at the uni and you haven't met any chicks? You ARE at the uni, aren't you?" I nod, tossing my empty cup into the trash bin. "Well, damn." Jason scratches his chin. After a moment of contemplation he says, "Let's go grab some food. Are you hungry? You busy? I'm starving." I'm both intrigued and disturbed by Jason's friendliness. Before I know it, we're walking down the street and Jason has already ordered two hotdogs from a vendor on the sidewalk. He throws his empty drink in the trash and rubs his palms on his jeans. "You're kinda far from school. You come out here often?" He hands me a hotdog and holds his between his teeth while he dishes out some dollars and change from his pocket. "Yeah," I lie again. "Figured I'd might as well explore while I had the chance, you know?" My mouth salivates excessively as I bite into the hotdog. "Fuck." I use my index finger to wipe ketchup that has collected in the corners of my mouth. "This is so good." I devour the whole thing before Jason has time to take a second bite of his own. When I look up, Jason is laughing and already ordering another hotdog. "Liar. You've never been down here. You should have told me you were hungry!" I eat the second one slower so that we don't get stuck standing in front of the vendor, but really, I just want to swallow the thing whole. My previous loss of appetite instantly seems like an insulting joke to my starving body. We make our way towards the subway with filthy relish hands, still enjoying our meal, talking with our mouths full and frequently wiping mustard or ketchup off of our arms and chins. Half an hour has passed, and I've learned more about him than I had expected. He's a junior in college studying aerospace engineering. Again, I'm surprised by the contrast of his brain and his body. "What about you? What's your major?" He asks. "Or do you hate when people ask that? I get writer vibes from you. But I also feel like you'd be in the secret service...or a stuntman or something. Maybe even a 'chemist by day, rock star by night' type of thing." I laugh through a frown, somewhat flattered. "I'm not a writer. But you're right about the chemist-rock star part. Our on-stage effects are sick as hell. My chemistry talents just...really take the Au." "HA! Really take the gold. Nice one." "That was the worst joke I've ever made." "Thank God you're not trying to get into stand up, right?" I shake my head. "I came in as a music major, but thinking of switching to biology." "Ah, so I kind of guessed! You want the fame and fortune? You a classical player? Don't tell me you're in a heavy metal band, I will lose my shit." "That's the problem. I don't want fame and fortune. I just wanna make good music and have it put out there. But yeah, I play piano and guitar. If you ever see me playing heavy metal, call an exorcist." "Will do. So a doctor-guitarist. Still cool, still cool. Do you sing?" "I couldn't tell you." "You can sing. I can tell by your voice. Really thought you'd be a writer." Jason side eyes me in a silly way. "I don't write." A couple more minutes pass as we make our way down the streets. "So anyway," Jason sighs as he crumples up his napkin. "You haven't met any girls, but what about the people in the dorms? You meet anyone yet?" "I'm gay. And I live in the apartments, not the dorms." Jason coughs abruptly, pinching his throat and frowning. "Wait, what? You're not straight?" I throw a sideways glance at him with a small grin. "WHAT? You?!" Jason's mouth hangs open. "You're straight as hell!" I laugh heartily, not faking this time. "I'm not. I thought I wasn't supposed to take you as a fool." He runs a hand through his hair and a lock of shiny curls falls onto his forehead. "Can you tell with me?" He crosses his arms and leans on one leg, playfully upset. "What am I?" "You like men." I shrug, brushing invisible crumbs off my shirt. "How can you tell? Is it obvious?" "No, I wouldn't have known. But you were checking me out." Jason releases his arms and his jaw drops again, this time laced with a huge grin. "No I wasn't!" "Oh, sorry. So you just like the button on my jeans, I guess? Do you collect buttons? Are you a button collector?" Jason tries to keep a straight face, but his laugh ripples out of his mouth uncontrollably. "Fine! Jesus. But you're still wrong." "You're not a button collector?" I joke. "I'm bisexual. Why settle for one when I can have both?" "Wow, that didn't sound vain in the slightest." "Oh," he chuckles, realizing his wording, "I didn't mean it like that – I just mean – well – why not enjoy all of what life has to offer, you know? There's beauty everywhere and I don't want to confine myself to just one type of beauty. I find pleasure in the company of both sexes, are you gonna hang me for it?" I grin. "Maybe I will." He smiles back at me. "I don't know you well enough to know if you're joking or not." "I'm just playing. I never understood that, though. How people realize that they're bisexual." "Well, how did you know you were gay?" "I was attracted to men." I shrug uncomfortably. "Nothing complex." "Exactly. And bisexuals are simply attracted to both." "But how do you know you're actually attracted to either of them if you're attracted to both? Where do you draw the line between being unsure and being totally sure? Isn't there a sense of mediocrity in the love you feel, then? Neither of them receive a superior love. Do you not feel more for one than the other?" "What are you talking about? Love is love, regardless of the body protecting the soul that provides it." "How poetic." "You don't agree?" "I don't know. I guess it's more of a vibe thing. A woman's energy is a lot different. To me, I mean." "In what way?" "I dunno." I shrug, thinking about it for the first time. "It's more...comforting, I guess. Kinder." "Wait what? So you date men because they're not nice?" "Of course not. I know a lot of kind men and plenty of bitchy women. For example, you're very kind and my fourth grade teacher was the devil." Jason holds his chest when he laughs. We walk on rows of raised red bricks like trapeze artists, struggling to keep balance with our arms stretched out like open wings, trying not to stumble into the soil on the other side. We arrive at the train station and awkwardly look at the entrance from afar. "You make me feel nostalgic." He taps his nose. "But I don't know why. There's something about you that I just can't put my finger on." "Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" "It's fucking awesome." "I hope we're not related or something and had our memories erased by aliens when we were kids." "No no, not that kind of nostalgia. It's more like a 'vibe'" he makes air quotes, mocking me, "...like the feeling of a memory I can't remember." I look away briefly, hiding my small smile. "Thanks for the lunch. Next time it's on me." I lightly punch the pillar we're leaning on and head towards the stairs. "Next time?" Jason shouts after me. I look over my shoulder with the smallest grin, reassuring him. "Meet me at the coffee shop tomorrow! Same time!" He shouts louder as I get further away from him. I walk backwards, giving him two thumbs up and a subtle smile. I can almost feel the vibration of his laughter hit me when I see his face light up. His hands dip into his pockets as he turns away, and I smile all the way back home. DAY 32: Jason and I have met up at the coffee shop every day since we met. Even though it's been about a week, I feel like I've known him for months. He has more friends than I can count on 10 hands and they all seem to love him beyond measure. I can tell that in order to meet up with me every day, he is sacrificing some social event or rain-checking with a friend he's known for longer than he has known me, and that makes me feel guilty.