Unknown (17 page)

She does not reply, doesn't as much as blink her lids as her eyes begin to fill.

"You won't talk to me, but I have to understand. I have to
know
Beth, so that I can stand with you, be your strength, be
our
strength and be with you the way you deserve.”

She looks at me then, and I experience a new kind of pain, a different kind of fear. She looks at me, and I see something in her eyes I've never seen before. Something that I cannot fight, something that turns my blood cold. Because in that moment when she looks at me, I know she hates me.

“Yeah, be my strength, because I’m helpless. Stand for me, because I’m spineless. You want me to spill my guts to you, and you think you’ll be better off knowing it? Aunt Clare and Kate were vomiting and sobbing the night out after
one hour
of therapy. What do you think it’ll be like, revisiting
five
years
of the same? What makes you believe I want you to be a part of this therapy? Want you to stand for me? This is why you came here, to plan a sneak attack on me. No, thank you Nick, but I’ve been standing on my own for quite some time now, and I like it that way.”

Having said that, she turns away slowly pushing her body aside, away from mine, her face as blank as a plain new canvas, before rising and walking out of the door, leaving behind the echoing creaks of a swaying door and the silent cries of a broken heart.

And I really don't have anything else to say.

Two hours later,

"May I come in?" Beth asks after two soft knocks on the door. I open the door and usher her in, noting at once the pallor of her skin and the redness around her eyes. Remorse fills me, and I hate myself for pushing her. Whatever there was or wasn't between us, whatever she chose to do to us, I never wanted to see her in pain, never wanted to see her cry. Yet I had done just that. The thought is as painful as it is sobering.

"Beth", I begin, to apologize, to explain, just to hear the sound of her name on my lips? But she interrupts me by pushing an ancient looking diary towards me.

"I'm sorry for earlier. I'm sorry", she apologizes, clutching the diary with both hands, even as she begins to place it in my numb hands.

"No, Beth___" I try to explain that I don't want it anymore. I don't want anything that could tear us apart like this. Don't want to see her crying over something that wasn't worth it, that nothing was worth coming in between us. But she just shakes her head and reaches for my numb hands before placing it on them.

"Take it, just take it. I didn't want you to read it. God's truth, even as I wrote it I had hoped you'd never get to read it. But I couldn't not write. It was the only way I could tell you, the only way I could reach out to you in my thoughts. So I wrote you letters and I pinned them on the pages of my diary, because I couldn't not write them, and I couldn't post them".

"But you have to promise me one thing", she asks fiercely, and I'm surprised to see the sudden burst of ferocity leap into her eyes.

"Anything", I promise, stroking her cheeks, "anything".

"You have to promise me you wouldn't let them break you. You're allowed to cry, you're allowed to mourn, but you'll pull yourself together at the end of it. And you will move on".

"I promise", I whisper, having no idea what I'd just agreed to.

20
^th
March
2010

Nicholas

I was 5 and you were 8 when we first met. Some say childhood is a time when minds are delicate and memories are fragile, easily made and broken. But I remember everything about you, your wavy brown hair, your forest green eyes that could see into my soul, your thoughtful glances and beautiful smiles full of kindness and warmth. Everything, right down to the mole on the bridge of your nose to the black and white polka dots on your pajamas. You were more beautiful than any boy I'd met, but it was your compassionate heart I finally fell in love with. I'd seen many places, met many people. Some people dream of living that kind of life. It only increased my longing for everything that was home. We never told you, dad and I, that we’d come to Cider valley once when I was about 11, during summer vacations when we discovered you'd gone for a family vacation. It was then I realized what was home. It wasn't the lavish building we called our house, or the empty walls that closed around me, or even the beautiful gardens which looked lifeless in all their colorful glory. Home was you. You, Kate, Uncle Josh and Aunt Claire. And your absence made me so cranky, a room full of Hersheys and Lindt couldn't ease the dullness, the yearning. Over the years, I saw you on and off. And the longing never stopped. I cherished every moment spent with your family, my family, and pined for all the lost times when I couldn't. And though I met many people, made friends, met boys, I couldn't muster a fraction of what I felt for you. I loved you, Nicolas, ever since we were kids. But the heart beating in my chest, a woman's heart, first skipped a beat when you took my hand in yours, and walked me to the grocery story to buy the makings of a chocolate cake for mother's day, somehow knowing it was what I wanted to do for a long time. Ever since then, every look, every whisper of a breath, every accidental touch of your fingers, every slow and quick smile, every shared secret and whispered sighs and mingled laughters became significant. I stored them all, as memories to hold on to, for when I wasn't with you. And looked forward to making many more when I was. You asked me If I'd forgotten everything? Our first meet, our first smile, our first laugh, our first touch, our first kiss? How could you ask me such a question, Nick? As if I could forget any of it. It made me cry tears of pain and misery. A girl is capable of harboring a myriad of emotions for the boy she loves. And I experienced each one of them for you. Even before I

could fully appreciate them for what they were, I had them for you. Most 16-year-olds dreamt of adventures, of excitement, of dating a horde of boys, of going to prom. I had similar dreams, but they were all built around you. Don't get me wrong, I hadn't designed my wedding dress or named our kids, yet. But I did hope for a future. Maybe because every day with you and Kate was a new adventure, a source of everlasting excitement, something to preserve, something to look forward to. Or maybe because I wouldn't know what to do with a herd of boys. That being said, I want you to know, those dreams I'll always hold dear. Even if they are no longer possible.

This diary is the property of Elizabeth Whitfield

28
^th
March 2010

I can't come back to you. I'm not the same Nick. I'm like a broken shell, never to live, never to be repaired. I don't want you to pine for me, even when the selfish me rejoices every time you write me a letter. Stop doing this to yourself. How many times can one break one's heart and break her own in the process? I love you, but I can't be with you. I cannot Nick. Yesterday when papa came to wake me up, I fell from the bed and hit the side table. Shreds and bits of glass pieces hit the floor, my skin with it. I got 4 stitches. It wasn't painful. Whatever little I did feel, I welcomed it. It made me feel less numb. But that's not the first time. Do you remember my fondness for sleeping? Hahaha. I was an early to bed, early to rise kind of a girl. I can't even recount the number of times I've slept and drooled on your shoulders. I can't sleep now, Nick. It makes Papa weary. But no sleep means no nightmares, and I chose insomnia. At least papa sleeps better, without the horrible noises I make when I dream. He's lost weight, you see. He worries so. He tries to talk to me, to sit with me, but I can't bear it Nick. Every time he moves or shifts his weight, I flinch. It breaks his heart. He gets up and hurries to his own room where he cries. Soft broken sobs, loud angry ones, quiet ones too. And then he wipes his face and calls me for dinner, or lunch, or breakfast. We share all the meals together. I wanted that for such a long time, do you remember? I try to eat as much as I can, to make him happy. And then when all is quiet and I'm sure he's sleeping, I vomit it all out. I swear it's involuntary. My stomach rejects food.

This diary is the property of Elizabeth Whitfield

1
^st
April 2010

I love you, Nick. I love you. I Love you. I am so desperately in love with you. It's painful how much I love you and not be able to say it back every time you write those words to me. I sleep with them under my pillow and wake to read them first thing in the morning. I hate my tears, they've blurred my sight and made so many blotches on the paper, I now hard pinch my arms to distract myself. It's a relief to write them out in the open, even if my own eyes are my only witnesses. I love you, Nick.

This diary is the property of Elizabeth Whitfield

20
^th
April 2010

I know you think I broke your heart. I know you believe I deceived you, left you behind for lap of luxury. It breaks my heart. It’ll never be
the same
, and if I start to pick up the pieces tomorrow, try to patch them together, my hands would grow old, my empty body would wither and die, and I’d never finish piecing them together. I’d never finish. But I had to convince you. I had to let you move on. Because at least one of us deserves a chance to live those dreams, even if I’d no longer be a part of them.

This diary is the property of Elizabeth Whitfield

25
^th
May 2010

Today I went to see a therapist. She was a nice lady. She had a gentle voice. But I couldn't hear her. I couldn't hear past the ringing in my head, the screams piercing in my ears. And then I realized they are my own. She's trying to make me remember. Just like the doctor. The shrink. They want me to let it out. They think it'll help. What do they know Nick? What do they know? They want to help me, they say. I just close my eyes and block them out. I block everything out. Don't want to remember. The session expires and I go off to sleep.

This diary is the property of Elizabeth Whitfield

8
^th
June 2010

I miss you, that’s all I wanted to stay.

This diary is the property of Elizabeth Whitfield

16
^th
July 2010

Hey, Nick. Hey. I miss you. I turned 17 today. Papa wished me and made me cut a huge chocolate cake. It made me miss you, chocolate was your favorite too. He gave me a heart-shaped pendant for a gift. It was beautiful. It reminded me of mama, I don't know why. You know what I really wanted, though? What I really wanted was a letter, a delightfully long letter from the only guy I'm in love with. But you stopped writing 4 months ago. You stopped calling, stop emailing. I finally convinced you to move on. It makes me sad for me, but happy for you. I hope you miss me though, at least today. I'm not that selfless. Papa asks me where I want to go for dinner. I shake my head at him. So we have a quiet dinner at home, which Grandma Nettie cooks. She lives with us now. Papa doesn’t hug me and Grandma Nettie doesn’t kiss me. They just sit and eat with tears flowing down their eyes like rain. How's dinner? she asks me, blotting her nose with her napkin, a sad smile on her face. I just look at her, which makes her cry even more. I did want to thank her Nick. I did. I just don’t know how. I haven’t spoken for 7 months now. Not a word. Did I mention that?

This diary is the property of Elizabeth Whitfield

12
^th
August 2010

Happy Birthday Kate :) Hugs and kisses :*

This diary is the property of Elizabeth Whitfield

1
^9th
October 2010

Dr. Hayden is a bad doctor. He makes me revisit the locked up memories, he makes me remember. He thinks it helps. He wants me to vent out my feelings. I don't know why, cause nothing helps. Not talking about it, not crying, and not screaming. I did plenty of screaming in a room full of walls, because that is all I remember. Walls. And echoes. And a horrible horrible clicking of boots as someone approaches. I don't know that someone. And yet I do. Yet I do. My eyes are covered but I break out in sweat and my insides turn to jelly. I try to scream, but no sound emerges. I pray for death as the boots click nearer and nearer. And then I do scream. I scream a lot. I scream louder than yesterday. Crying and begging and pleading for mercy. It just makes him laugh harder. He holds me by my hair and drags me someplace close, then pushes my head on a cold object, lifts something then pushes my head down, sinking into what I now know are piano keys. He trails my head along its entire length then stops and throws me on the floor and joins me. I continue screaming and don't stop even when he stops. Cause it never really stop. I can feel myself bleed, my flesh smarting from the invasion. My nose bleeds too. He smacks me hard then gets up and walks away laughing. And my screams are left echoing through the walls.