Popcorn

We all stood there, watching her back as she walked away from us. She wore a black coat, her blond hair was draped down her back. And she was carrying a brown suitcase, walking toward the plane, walking away from me.

"I'm really going to miss her," Jenna said as she hugged her boyfriend, Nick.

"I know. We all are," Nick replied. He clapped me on the shoulder. "Let's go home, buddy." Nick and Jen turned around, walking in the opposite direction of Megan. I couldn't move. I just stood there and listened to the voice on the intercom, calling for the passengers of the flight she was going to be on. I turned and saw Nick kiss Jen on her forehead. I knew then that they're feelings for each other were much stronger than any reality. I wasn't sure what that meant exactly... until this moment. When I saw her walking away from me.

She had just turned the corner when I regained control of my limbs. "Catch you guys later," I muttered. Then I ran. I flat out ran after Megan. As my legs carried me, I thought about everything we had ever been through. All the times we ate popcorn while watching movies, walked on the beach and talked about what might be, the time I taught her how to surf and how many times she failed to pick up on my lessons. I thought of the time my mother passed away and I cried tears I didn't even know I had within me. And how she was there, making it better by letting me feel that I wasn't alone. It wasn't worth giving up. We only meet several people that rock us to our cores.

"Megan!" I called as loudly as I could. A few people turned to look at me but I ignored them. She turned around, surprised. "Megan. Don't go, please," I said, half breathless.

"Sam, what are you doing?" she asked.

"Do you remember the first time we went out together? That first date where we said we'd see that new blockbuster movie that was showing in the movie theater?"

"Sure. The concession stand had run out of popcorn," she said, smiling nostalgically.

"Yeah and the movie turned out to be terrible. And then we went for a walk down the street but then it started to rain. You had reminded me to bring the umbrella before we went out but I forgot."

"I was wearing that new cashmere sweater my dad sent me from God knows where. And I was so mad that it got so ruined."

"Right. It was the worst of first dates. Like in the entire history of the world. Am I right?"

"I don't see your point. Are you proving that we just don't work out? Because you don't have anything to worry about. I'll be in LA and you'll be in New York and even the time zones are different. We don't have to be together."

"You're not getting it," I said, bowing my head to catch my breath for a second. When I raised my head, I noticed a tear trail on her face. She was crying.

"What are you doing, Sam?" she repeated, this time, her voice was sad. I could see in her blue eyes that she remembered everything, that our memories were playing in her mind again and again as well. Like a song on repeat.

"What happened at the end of the date? I walked you up to your door and-"

"I asked you to come in."

"I did. Then we sat by the fireplace, eating gelato. And do you remember what you said?"

She thought for a moment as another tear fell. "I said, 'As long as there's us and gelato and a fireplace, everything else doesn't matter'."

I took a step closer to her and put my hand on her cheek. "Maybe this is just another minor setback. Maybe this is just the concession stand running out of popcorn. And tonight it won't matter anymore. Stay. Please. I know that you're afraid here and that you don't have much family here. But you have me and I don't want to spend the rest of my life looking back at this moment and regretting not finding out what we might've had."

"Sam...," she said, indecision in her eyes.

"I'm in love with you," I whispered, leaning in to kiss her.

"Never underestimate the power of words. Sometimes a simple sentence can force its way into you and play with your soul, leaving behind a gaping hole."

 "I felt the overwhelming desire to know her that way, to know all of her sides. If she was like a star, I wanted to know the explosion at the core that gave birth to her light."

A Futureless Present

I stared at myself in the long mirror mounted on the wall as I brushed my hair. Cringing, I examined my outlook. It didn't look very good. My eyes showed traces of a sleepless night. Despite my better judgement, I found myself trying to ignore the sensible side of myself. I shouldn't be doing this. I shouldn't even leave the house. I shouldn't be chasing down something that had no hope of lasting. I shouldn't be trying to undermine fate.

But I was already out the door before my rational side had finished spewing that crap load of advice.

My summer dress showed effects of the wind's passage. It was a bright, optimistic day and I was carrying nothing but my phone and my favorite book. 1984 by George Orwell. Yeah it isn't a common favorite among seventeen year old girls. It explored darker themes and unthinkable realities. I didn't rightly know why I liked it so much. Perhaps it was because it kept me grounded and grateful. I liked to think it kept me realistic. 

Dreamers have no place in today's world. 

And when that realization hit, my eyes prickled with fresh tears. Of course. I knew what I was doing today and it wasn't to mindlessly fall prey to the intoxication of undying love. I reached the sand. Another gust of wind swept through the vicinity and with it I smelled the brine of the ocean. I kicked off my flip flops and ventured to the seaside, letting the cool waves touch me. I flipped through the book as I waited for Derek. 

I felt his strong arms around me a few minutes later. He hugged me from behind, pressing his lips to my collarbone. "Hi," he murmured. At the mere sound of his voice, I wanted to forget my worries and just give in to felicity now. 

"Hey," I said, my voice sounding strained. I turned around, preparing to give him the ultimatum I was mentally preparing but his closeness once again melted my defenses. Suddenly his lips were on mine, moving gently but purposefully. I tasted the hunger we both had trouble suppressing and I thought to myself, "No. This has to be right. What could be wrong about this?"

Eventually, I pulled away. Derek pressed his forehead to mine, closing  his eyes. "You have no idea how much I've been missing you," he whispered. 

"We can't do this, Derek," I finally said. 

He opened his eyes and stroked my cheek once. "What do you mean?"

"I mean we can't. Not anymore. We have to end it. Now."

"What're you talking about?" He was serious now but his eyes held an ounce of hurt.

"You know what I'm talking about. You're leaving. You're moving across the country in a  few weeks. And I'm staying here. There's no way we can keep doing this. And your parents practically hate me. Come on..."

He sighed and took my hand. We started walking along the beach, prolonging the inevitable.  "We can. I don't know how but we'll do it."

I shook my head. "I won't hold you back."

"But..."

"But what, Derek? What can you tell me that would make more sense than what I'm saying now?"

"But I love you." And he said it so innocently and simply that it just about broke my heart. I stopped  walking  and he did  too. The waves lapped at our feet again and again, smoothing out the sand we stood on, leaving seashells  behind. 

"Going on doesn't make any sense," I said somberly. 

He leaned in, kissing me again but ever so softly. "Last I checked, love doesn't make sense." 

It was all nonsense, as they both knew it. In reality there was no escape. Even the one plan that was practicable, suicide, they had no intention of carrying out. To hang on from day to day and from week to week, spinning out a present that had no future seemed an unconquerable instinct, just as one's lungs will always draw the next breath so long as there is air available. 

- George Orwell, 1984  

White Christmas

I hate hospitals. That's all I can think as I sit on this bitterly uninviting, pale orange chair in the hospital cafeteria. I eat the sandwich though it goes down tasting like tasteless pudding but with a consistency closer to PVC glue. I shake my head and sigh. I should be used to it by now; I have spent most of this year in the hospital. Not for me but for her. Ashley. How long she has been here I have almost forgotten. But she's getting better and that's what matters... At least I hope she is.

I throw the plastic container that held the sandwich and go to the counter to get a bottle of water. Then I am out of the cafeteria, heading to Ashley's ward. I take a sip of the water then replace the cap. As I walk, I toss it from hand to hand. That's something my mom has always chastened me about. That I do actions like that when I get nervous or uncomfortable. Before I know it, I have to reign all the negativity in because I'm right in front of Ashley's ward.

I push open the door and force a smile though that doesn't really seem necessary. I walk in and put a hand on Peter's shoulder. "Get some food," I say. The exchanges between Peter and me were always short. Usually less than 5 syllables. 

"Okay," he says. 

I take his place and smile at Ashley. Her blond hair looks a little shinier today. Maybe that is the fault of my inaccurate perception. I usually tell her about my day but I think today she wants to hear about something else, something a little more interesting perhaps. 

"Do you remember how we met?" I ask. 

She doesn't answer. 

"Okay. I'll tell you then. It was how most teenagers meet in my opinion. At a party. But this wasn't an ordinary crazy teen drinking and daring type of party. This was a simple, innocent Christmas party at a mutual friend's house. Peter's actually. Yeah. I arrived there late. You know how I'm notorious for being late. By then everyone was watching a Christmas show on one of the movie channels and from the looks of things, the gifts were all unwrapped already. I gave Peter his present then went to get a drink. You were there. You were wearing this white dress and you had a Christmas hat on your head. And I swear you looked so adorable, Ash. I stuttered a hello and you were gracious enough to return one. We went back into the living room and that was it. Not a very interesting meeting, I know. But it matters. And the insignificant things we remember tend to be the most significant when enough time has passed." I pause and look outside. "It's snowing. Just how you like Christmas. It's been a year since we met." 

Peter comes back into the room then and I decide to leave. I go outside of the hospital to take a smoke. The  air is cold and soon I'm practically chilled to the bone. There's nothing too merry about this Christmas. 

I''m standing outside a hospital I visit almost everyday. The hospital with the white walls, white floors and white sheets. I'm standing here trying to deny myself the agonizing love I have been harboring for the girl upstairs who has been in a coma for months. 

"Merry Christmas, Ashley," I mutter almost inaudibly. 

Isabelle

Funerals are dreary events that mourning people subject other mourning people to. And the latter party has to go in order to show respect to the recently lifeless man, woman or child. Funerals are filled with the sounds of weeping, of half-hearted courage and unsteady breaths. Funerals are abundant with the scents of flowers and fresh clothes. Funerals consist of black and white people taking slow and steady steps as not to collapse from their own internal agony. Those men in black suits plaster on a stoic expression to temporary conceal their grief so they can console their other halves that are using up packets and packets of tissue. Funerals are saltwater pools. Each memory brought forth regarding the dead person is a small stone that is tossed lightly into the puddle and the ripples are the effects it has on the people. Funerals are unavoidable because everybody dies sometime and you're likely to know and care for a lot of people. I could come up with a million ways to describe this dismal scene, a trillion theories to explain it. And yet I knew for certain that if I opened my mouth, nothing but air would escape from it.

I felt a warm hand on mine. I looked over to see Nicole smiling ruefully. She was smiling the kind of smile that someone might wear to coax a smile out of someone else. There. Another thing funerals had. Fake smiles by real people experiencing real pain. Nicole squeezed my hand in encouragement. I eyed her for a second, forcing myself to take in her intelligent green eyes, blonde wavy hair and little black dress. I saw the pure innocence in those eyes and the sincere concern. Still, I couldn't bear it for long. I pulled my hand back and stuffed it into my pocket because I started to see what she wasn't. She didn't have endless black eyes. She didn't have brown hair.

She wasn't Isabelle.

"I'm so sorry. I know you cared about her," Nicole said quietly. I gave her a nearly imperceptible nod. I didn't bother whether she detected it or not. I felt the blood rushing up to give my face a little bit of color. It felt like it had been pale forever. Yes. I cared about Isabelle.

The minutes dragged and each passing second was harder. I tried to keep my emotions at bay but they were threatening to overflow, to pummel me, to leave me breathless and insignificant as rubble. Was this finally it?

"Spencer Chase?" A voice snapped me out of my abstraction. "Young man? Would you like to say a few words to honor Isabelle? I understand she was close to you." This was true. Everyone knew Isabelle and I were best friends. I rose unsteadily and trudged to the front. I stopped by her coffin and mustered the courage to peer inside. Most people would think that they prefer not to see their loved one still, lifeless and cold because they wouldn't want that to be their last memory of the person. But for me, I had to see her. I had to see her alabaster skin even paler; so pale it looked translucent. I had to see her eyes shut and never opening again. I had to see so I could tell myself that this was real. Because I could never imagine such an image. Having this image in my head kept me holding onto reality. I couldn't help thinking that she looked so kind and beautiful even in death.

"Spencer?" I barely heard it. The collective whispers of the crowd seemed to fade into something farther than the background as well. There was just Isabelle and me. Then there was just me and my agony.

The next thing I knew? I was running fast, pushing my lungs and limbs far beyond what they should be capable of executing. I ran several blocks without pausing to take a breather. I ran until my heart felt like it would burst through my chest and land on the pavement. I loosened the tie around my neck and undid the first button. I kept running as if I could outrun the tragedy. When I stopped I was in an alley. My inhalations were shallow and my vision, blurry. My brain was fogged, my memory numb. A different kind of pain shot through my body, originating from my heart. I pressed my back against the wall and slowly sank to the ground. Here is good, I thought. Nobody would see me break down in here. I felt the tears trickle calmly down my cheeks. There was one thing nobody there knew about Isabelle. She was my girlfriend. She loved me. I loved her.

And then there in that alley there was just my agony. Because it had swallowed every part of me.

The Human Race

Beads of perspiration descend.
I am in a forsaken race,
desperate to meet the finish line.
The earsplitting gunshot
echoed throughout the hollow caverns
and the people are off
with energy they bought.

The ground is harsh and hard,
those that fall sustain bruises and grazes,
upon the skin, upon the heart.

We all wear similar roadrunner garments
tromp upon the earth
to glorify or vilify forefathers and fathers.
The race is governed by fools.
Infuse your bloodstream with chemicals.
There are no rules.

What we all cling onto
is the childish hope
that the riches are reward enough,
a golden trophy doused with age.
But there is no first place.
And we are all running,
running to run, running to survive.
Because being abandoned
to camouflage in dust is unthinkable.

We all have to play
with our innocence dying slowly
day by day.
In the end,
with madness we all contend.

Indebted to a Postcard

I was driving around town on a Sunday. The town of Riverton to be exact. I had just moved here a few weeks ago with my uncle. I was really glad that he had picked this place. It was quaint and quirky as most small towns are. This one had an aura of sophistication mixed in with the pure innocence it emitted. I found that fascinating. I drove past a large structure at the edge of town. I immediately recognized it as the aquarium that Riverton was famous for. A few mornings ago when I was at the convenient store near the harbor, I had seen numerous post cards for visitors to take back so they could spread the word of tiny little Riverton. A lot of those post cards had the name and picture of this aquarium. I glanced at my watch and inferred that I had enough time to go in and walk around a little. Besides, I didn't have much else to do besides get home in time to cook dinner for Uncle Brady. 

I initiated a U-turn and drove back the way I came until I found the turn that would lead me into the aquarium parking lot. I found a parking spot quickly because the lot was mostly empty. Slow day, probably. I got out of my old but functional car and walked towards the entrance. I stepped through the double doors and let my eyes roam over the place and adjust to the difference in lighting. Outside, the sun was shining relentlessly but in here, it was as dark as dusk and tinged with blue. I supposed they wanted to mimic the color and feel of being underwater. I liked that. I started walking around, scanning through the little bits of information they provide below each tank and then just watching the fish. I appreciated the vivid colors of the coral put at the bottom of the tanks.

"Hey," a voice sounded behind me, making me jump.

I turned around and saw a dark haired boy in a light blue T-shirt. On the T-shirt was the name of the aquarium and a small picture of a clownfish. "Hi," I said.

"Liking the angelfish?" He asked, gesturing to the tank I had been staring at for a while now.

"Yeah, they're beautiful. You work here?"

"I volunteer," the boy answered.

"Wow! That's cool. You're likely to win best summer job at school," I said, smiling. 

He laughed. "Yeah. I like it here. It's peaceful and more rewarding then printing receipts at a convenient store. I'm Mark by the way."

"Stacy."

"Are you new in town? Or just visiting? I've never seen you around here before."

"I just moved in a couple of weeks ago actually. My uncle wanted to leave the city and get started on the whole 'small town life' thing."

"So, you liking what you see?" He asked, running a hand through his hair.

I was silent for a while.

He flushed. "I mean the town."

I laughed to dissolve the awkwardness. "I know. It's great. The people are really nice," I offered as I involuntarily fingered the side of my sundress. 

"I'm uh... about to feed them. Do you want to come with?" He asked, gesturing to the tank again.

"Is that okay?" I wondered.

"You're not going in; just watching. It's fine." 

"All right," I agreed, smiling. I followed him down couple of hallways and up a flight of stairs. He told me to stay put while he got into the gear. I saw the tops of all the tanks. From here they looked like swimming pools. Mark came back a second later, dressed in black scuba gear. The mask and flippers and everything. He took out the mask and grinned. "Like the outfit?"

"Dashing." I chuckled. I watched as he did his job. I began to notice little things about Mark. For instance, he motions were all very gentle. Not too rushed, not impulsive. He seemed like one of those rare people who actually had it all together and like never lost their temper. I was oddly envious. I was also conscious of his smile. He had a really wonderful smile, the type I would never get tired of looking at. After he finished his duties, he changed back into casual attire.

"So this is how it's done," he said, gesturing to the fish after he finished the feeding. 

"Cool."

"Am I boring you?" He fretted.

"No, no!" I said quickly. "It's really intriguing."

"Hey, you wanna grab lunch?"

I deliberated in silence for a moment.

"Come on, if you say no, I'll just be eating my lousy peanut butter sandwich I brought in a Ziploc bag. But if you say yes, I'll have an excuse to have good food," he said, laughing. 

I laughed along. "I don't know. I might have to get home."

"No...Seriously, come on. Have you been to the restaurant by the harbor? They serve the best fish sticks in the entire country. I do not kid, Stacy. I do not kid."

I looked at his pleading expression a little longer then I nodded. "Okay." 

We drove together in his car to the restaurant. The meal was great and I really had to admit to myself that I enjoyed talking to him. He was an optimistic person who had his own views on the world. His was a refreshing personality. I found myself quickly growing addicted to his laugh, his bad jokes and spoken fun facts about sea creatures.

"Did you know that the correct collective noun for jellyfish is a smack?"

"What? Really? A smack of jellyfish?"

"Yep! Weird right? So tell me something about yourself."

"What do you want to know?"

"Anything."

I'm uh... going to study psychology?"

"Cool! You can read minds, then."

"Why does everyone say that?" I responded. "You know, psychologists don't actually read minds. They study behavior and expressions and body language then they draw plausible conclusions."

"So…basically, in summary, they read minds."

I rolled my eyes and smiled. "You? Are you only filled with fun facts regarding sea creatures?"

"Hah! You wish!" He said as he picked up a fish stick. "I know about land animals too. Kangaroos use their tails for balance so if you hold a kangaroo’s tail, it can't hop."

I blinked. "Really?"

"Also, if a croc has clamped onto you, push your thumb into its eyeball. It'll let you go immediately."

I shook my head slowly. 

"Elephants undergo menopause."

"What?" I choked on the lemonade.

"It's true!" 

"No way."

"Really. I know. I'm like a fun fact dispenser."

"Wow..." I muttered. "What are you going to study? Later I mean."

"Eventually I'll make it to one of those bigger schools to study oceanography. Right now, I'm pretty content here. Also, I'm still saving up. All's good."

"Awesome."

"So, what do you think of this place? Riverton."

I thought about it. "I keep thinking it's like a dream. It's so quiet that it's almost magical."

He nodded thoughtfully. The rest of the afternoon was so harmless and hopeful. Mark was a great person and before we said goodbye, I already knew I wanted to see him again. I remember thinking to myself that it really was dreamlike. And if it was a dream, I'd be fine with not waking up. 

I despise people who deliberately make things harder for other people. Life is hard enough as it is. Wholly unnecessary judgments and destructive lashes do not better the world. To those people, why are you even here?

"What do we live for, if it is not to make life less difficult for each other?"
-George Elliot 

Someone Just Like Me

I always believed that chance and luck dictated most of our lives. The way I saw it, so much of what defines our lives is because of chance and luck. For instance, a talented man was recognized because he was lucky. He was lucky that someone had recognized his talent at an early stage. He was lucky people nurtured him and helped him grow. Well, we aren't all lucky. Some of us get our loved ones ripped away.

“Anna.” My mom's voice snapped me out of my daydreams again. No, not mom, step-mom. “I just want to remind you that we are doing this in your best interest.”
“Got it.” I mumbled in a voice that sounded dead and detached even in my own ears. I sounded empty, lifeless and aimless.

I shrugged off the self-pity and forced myself to toughen up. I knew this was coming. I wasn't surprised when my step-mom came in my room to talk to me about it a few nights ago. She explained how this was necessary due to my behavior. In layman's terms, I was basically asking for it. I didn't seriously think that all my actions would be forgiven and forgotten, but part of me still was confused at how it all led to this.
We arrived at the cold, dark and ominous place before the sunset. Boarding school. Yeah, that's what they called it. I knew that this was not an ordinary school though. It was a cross between a boarding school and a mental institution. Of course, they didn't put it like that. They made it sound all flowery so my guardian would buy into it. This would be my personal hell. I was sure of it before I even got my bags out of the car.
I was showed to my room. I assumed we would all have roommates but I didn't have one. That should be nice. I didn't enjoy having to make small talk, though I had perfected it. I thought about all the other things I had tried to perfect over the years. Seeming normal, pretending to be like everybody else. I wondered if I had really ever pulled this off. Another thing, hiding my pain. That was something I always worked on. The pain that lived inside me was something no one could ever take away. That's how it felt to me. All the therapy and counseling in the world that I was put through didn't make it go away completely. Why is it that my stepmother and Nana had put me here in this sick place? Last month, the first anniversary of my parents' death, I had attempted suicide.

I didn't want to think about it anymore. It was too agonizing to bear. Even with all that time, I still felt so wrong inside. I felt so alone. I felt that no one truly understood me. Time heals all wounds. 'What a joke!' I thought to myself as I exited my room and went to walk around the vast campus. The buildings were grey and dull but I had to admit that aside from those boring buildings, the place was actually quite beautiful. There was beautiful green grass and there were trees and flowers. The sunshine touched the grass and the leaves in the trees making the scene almost bearable for me. I glared up at the summer sky and then bundled up my long waves of hair and quickly tied a messy bun. I found the biggest tree on campus and began to climb. It was something I always did. It had become a habit of mine. I liked tall places. I had never been afraid of heights. My depression and anger pushed me higher. I was really high up in the tree when I finally decided to stop climbing. I sighed heavily and carefully found a safe spot to sit.

“Hey. Get your own tree.” A hostile voice startled me. I looked around me and spotted a boy about my age sitting on the same tree. His voice was hostile but his face was polite. I thought I saw a trace of humor somewhere in his expression.
“I'm sorry. I didn't know your name was engraved on this one.” I said sarcastically.
He chuckled at my response. “Chill. I was kidding. I like to kid once in a while.”
“Oh.” I said not knowing what else to say.
“You're new here aren't you?”
“Just enrolled.” I noted that my voice sounded somber.
“What's your name?”
“Annabelle. Call me Anna.”
“Cool. Annabelle. Pretty name.”
“Thanks. Aren't you going to tell me your name?”
“Matthew. Call me Matt.”
“Cool.” I copied his response just as he had copied mine.
“What are you doing up here?”
“I like it. What are you doing up here?”
“I always come here.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “When I'm all the way up here, and I look down, everything down there seems simpler. And I see things a little more clearly than I would if I were on the ground.” He smiled slightly but it wasn't a happy smile.
I was stunned into silence. My eyes fell on his face. I wanted to drop my gaze but I couldn't seem to for a minute.
“What?” He asked.
“That's exactly why I go up to high places.” I confessed.
“What are the odds? I found someone just like me.” His voice was lighter now. His reply somehow made me relax a little. I felt pretty weightless. I hadn't felt that way in a long time.