Unique

I'm not going to cry.

The stray hairs hanging out of my ponytail remind me angrily that I look better with fly-aways and every other girl out there looks better when their hair is perfect. I am imperfectly beautiful, stunning... Unique. Oh, how they love to use that word. Unique. It lets you deceive without lying. Oh, my darling, how very unique your face is...

I'll show him the pictures that stream from my pencil. Of course I'll show him. I always show him. It's a constant, unspoken dare. I let him look at the pictures that reflect my "inner turmoil" and I dare him to get up and leave. I dare him to stop loving me. I'm too unique for someone like him.

And I won't cry. I never cry. The tears that slide down my stunningly original face are tears of rebellion, not sorrow. Tears of rebellion. Not crying.

The lead snaps and flies across the room. I let go of the pencil and it clatters to the floor. My eyes burn and I bury my head in my arms. Go away, go away, go away—

"Baby."

My muscles spasm and tighten. The hand on my shoulder stays.

"What do you want," I mumble from my fake hiding place.

"Come out."

I raise my head, keeping my eyes stubbornly fixed on the far wall.

"Get up," he says, almost irritably. "We're going for a walk."

"I don't want to."

"I'm not going without you."

I close my eyes for a moment, imagining my perfect eyelashes resting on top of my flawless cheeks.

The air is cold outside, and I keep my arms wrapped around myself. He keeps his distance, which does nothing for my mood, but I pretend to ignore him. I need my pencil, my paper, I need to be alone.

"What's wrong?"

His voice startles me. We've stopped walking. I don't know where we are and I don't care. He'll get me home. No matter how little I want to go back. I tempt him too much, with my reckless talk of running away. Sometimes I don't even try to make it sound like I want to stay, if only for him. He knows. But I still tempt him.

I dare...

"Nothing's wrong," I snap.

"Don't lie to me."

"I'll lie when I feel like it," I reply heatedly. He's quiet. I don't mean what I say.

We're quiet again. I'm staring out at this endless stretch of street, wondering how far I could get before he caught me.

"Not far," he says, as if reading my thoughts. I narrow my eyes.

He watches me for a moment. "Assuming I was running after you."

"Would you?"

My voice is still sharp.

"Not anymore, love."

I turn away and stare at the road. My face burns. Tears of rebellion...

"Don't cry," he says, but he doesn't come nearer. "If you're going to leave, at least do it with a straight face. I don't want to feel guilty about this."

I bend my neck so my chin touches my chest. And I keep crying.

"I'm not chasing you anymore," he says behind me. "I'm not keeping you anywhere. You want to go; leave. I'll be here waiting if you decide you miss me."

The hard bitterness in his voice hurts.

"I'm not going to leave you," I say harshly.

"Stop. You want to. Go on. Your chance is now."

"I'm not going."

"I'm letting you go," he says, half angrily, half resigned. "I'm done holding on when you're ready to move on."

"I'm not ready!"

"Then stop pretending you are!"

I'm shaking; my whole body is shaking. I haven't cried so hard in months.

The moments go by; the street before me blurs and I close my eyes.

He takes me in his arms.

"I'm never going to be ready," I say, as if strangled.

"I know."

"I'm sorry, love."

"I know."

The light flickers and goes out. It's quiet again.

Unique.

Paralyzed

The cigarette in my fingers draws a beautiful line of smoke into the air. The television flashes its lights, soundless mouths moving and heads nodding. Paper piled high around my house ceases to remind me of my job, of my boss that will be angry, of everyone who depends on me to get them columns for their paper. That doesn't really seem to matter right now.

I've wiped the window down so I can see outside. Everything seems still and silenced, and I imagine that the hills are red and brown with the blood that I know has been spilled.

The match bites my finger and I throw it down.

For awhile, it is amusement enough to try to read the lips of the muted politicians on the air. Folks talk about disaster far more than they ever try to do anything about it. I think they get tired of it. They think the public wants to hear about something else.

Anger floods through my blood, the blood that I have unfairly kept inside of me, and I go outside. I need to do something. I need to stop sitting around and watching noiseless faces talk about something they haven't publicized enough. I need to get up, clear my head, stop smoking for a little bit...

The air is thick and hard to breathe. I keep my head down, refusing to look out over the fields, refusing to meet anybody's eyes. I feel as if I have failed them. Somehow I have let them down. I should be cold and lifeless on the very bottom of the heap of bodies we haven't had time to bury yet. I shouldn't be walking here. I shouldn't be getting calls, demanding me to turn in my papers. I shouldn't be alive at all.

The radio has been calling me. They want me to record another song.

I have somehow lost my cigarette when I get back to my house. I don't have any more. I sit down at my table, pull the papers closer to me. Remember when this used to hold comfort? Remember when writing was the only thing that kept me from going slowly insane?

I have avoided my papers of late. They remind me of too many things.

The phone rings. I don't answer it.

I don't want to write them a three minute song so they can help people forget about things for another three minutes. They could play my song on repeat and just my song, and everyone would get sick of it and then they would never want another one of my songs. That would be better. But they won't do it, because everything they do is controlled by the people.

This doesn't seem right.

I put my head down, but I know I won't fall asleep. The phone rings again.

"Hello?"

"Ms. Gregory Talls?"

"This is she."

I am silent and let the man on the other end of the line speak. I know what he will say. I can tell by that dead, emotionless voice. I know. I already know.

I don't cry because I don't cry anymore.

My car starts after I throw up just outside the door. The office is still dark, but everything that anyone thought was valuable has already been taken. The door broken. It reminds me of so many black things, but they tell me to put them behind and move on. They tell me to forget that I should be the faceless, decaying body at the bottom of the pile.

I pack up his things. He was a nice man. I think it would be better if I told the wife in person.

Her belly is full.

My voice is no less dead and emotionless than the man on the other end on the line. I catch her as she falls, and imagine the baby inside her shedding a tear.

I buy more cigarettes on the way home.

The phone rings, and I  answer simply out of terror.

It's my boss, and I tell him I'll come in tomorrow with all the work he needs.

The politians on the television are still talking silently to one another. I hate them more than I have ever hated anything before, and I imagine the guns blowing up and the blood that I will never be able to stop seeing on the ground. So helpless. So small. I should be that body.

I don't cry anymore, but that's just fine. There's others who will cry for me. I still have hope for them.

Twenty Rules to Survive Today

It's strange that out of all the things you know, you feel very few of them for what they are. Truth almost seems like walking in the dark, afraid of something you know isn't there. And because you know they aren't there, and you know you have no reason to be afraid, you can't tell anyone about it.

1. Don't admit to an irrational fear.

Irritation is just as irrational as most of your fears. It's strength is dependent on how much sleep you got last night, and how much stress is controlling your brain. You can't stop it when it comes, but you aren't supposed to let it show. It's like your fears. But irritation has so many excuses, so many that people begin to put them down, assuming that you don't really have any reason at all to feel the way you do.

2. Don't let irritation show.

When you're around people, you've made some sort of barrier for yourself. Certain things won't happen when you have people around you, talking to you, making you listen to conversations regardless of how interesting they are. You can't help but be grateful to them. You can't help but try to smile and look as happy as they feel.

3. Stay around people. It keeps you from crying.

Of course, you can't always be around people. They'd get tired of you. You know this, somewhere deep down inside where you think you all the truths necessary to keep you on that tightrope. You know that if you say around Miss Wonderful, then Miss Wonderful will eventually realize you aren't at all close to the Mediocre you were pretending to be. And you don't want that to happen, because then Miss Wonderful will turn into Miss Helpful, and you don't want to have to  learn how to avoid Miss Helpful.

4. Be careful of how long you hide behind your walls.

There will indeed be that time when you are not around people, and Miss Wonderful hasn't yet turned into Miss Helpful. This means you're just alone. Being alone can be a good thing. You can cry. And no one will ever know or ask if they should get Miss Helpful.

5. Take avantage of being alone.

6. If interrupted while crying, tell them your eyes are red because you swallowed something funny and had a coughing fit. Or got something in your eye. And it hurt a lot.

Hugs are a great way to tell people you're feeling better than what you can't hide from your eyes. As long as it's full of exuberance and excitement to be hugging the person, they'll reluctantly assume that you really are as fine as you say, and that must have been a heck of a something in your eye.

7. Hug people a lot.

If you hug someone after you have just finished crying, you will probably start crying again. If you have control over this, you can stop again before you look up, granted the hug is a few seconds long. If this is not possible, you are in an unwelcome situation.

8. Don't hug anyone just after you're done crying.

When people say they want to know, and that you really should talk to them when you need to, sometimes they don't mean it. Sometimes their problems are worse than yours and it's not fair to rant while they're going through something you can't even reasonably compare to. They'll never tell you that themselves, so you have to make that distinction.

9. Be careful who you really can rant to.

10. If someone needs you, never turn them down. You never matter more than they do.

Frustration is part of life. You will be told this your entire life. It's best if you start getting used to it now. Nobody likes it when you complain. Sometimes you can even turn it around and make it work for you. That's the best way to handle problems anyway. Sometimes that's not the easiest thing, and it's okay to go to your room and cry if you need to. Just don't let anyone find out, because you won't be able to explain without sounding like you're being pathetic.

11. Get over it.

Talking helps. It's also okay to talk to yourself if you need to. You know why you say things better than anyone else, and it takes other people so long to figure you out.

12. Rant even if no one will ever read it.

13. When something hurts you, it's okay. These things happen.

14. You are never the most important.

15. School is a good way to distract yourself. Work hard.

16. Care more about your teachers and the people around you than your grade. Remember, the people around you keep you from trying.

17. Go outside. Safer place to cry than indoors.

18. Write.

19. Procrastination kills.

It matters what people say about you, but you have to be careful of what you take to heart. Remember that people say they have a higher opinion of you than they really do. That's okay, because it's good to be able to see yourself in the correct light. If you look smart, it will help you feel better about yourself. But you don't have to look smart if you sound smart. Sometimes not talking makes you sound smarter than if you do.

20. It's all going to be okay.

To Remember

Part One

She is more beautiful than she has felt in weeks and weeks and weeks and a day. Her smile is more of a helpless expression of secrets than she has ever been able to put into her eyes for that one-take picture. Stretched to the limitless sky, her arms are a symbol of her emotion, an amazing sort of glory that only she can show.

"Are you ready, Kate?"

Her eyes open, and her smile drifts down, down, down to earth where we all live in shades of grey. She likes to believe she is a queen, somehow more beautiful in her mind than she is seen by the eyes of those she loves. She likes to live far, far away in the folds of her memories, safe and secure, too content to be afraid to come out.

The color of her fingers is a transparent sort of white as she reaches out. Her face stretches as she smiles, a cold sort of look, a death sort of feel. His fingers slip through hers and a little bit of life enters her eyes, like she's learned to breathe again. Tonight is not a night to worry. Tonight is a night to enjoy her presence, for her to enjoy his presence, to feel beautiful in a long dress and black lines around her eyes. That's all tonight is. Tonight is another memory to add to her mental library, a date to store and bring up when the sun goes away. But there's no need to think of it that way.

"I'm ready." Her voice is careful and light, beautiful like she's pretending she is. Her thin hair has been curled in an attempt to bring whatever sort of vibrance her expression used to hold back in.

He smiles. It's too easy to let her go, too easy to make her happy, to easy to bruise her hungry little heart. But it's okay tonight. Tonight is a memory in the making, and that's all that matters, all that will ever mean anything.

The floor spins beneath them, and the lights flash, and her eyes reflect back the colors in a mirror sort of fashion. Their gazes bounce back and forth between her mirrors and his, and that's all that will ever mean anything...

"Kate."

How many layers deep does one have to go? Which is the surface? How do you get back up? Her arms are wrapped around his neck, standing on her tiptoes, her face hidden against his neck. Everything that burns in her mind is current, a desperate camera struggling to remember every detail: the warmth of his body, the feeling of security that his arms pressing against her create, but why is it that she can never later remember what it feels like at that amazing, firework-filled moment when he kisses her?

"Why are you crying?"

This isn't the memory she wanted to make.

Everything spins, spins beneath her like the way she wants to dance, like the happiness she remembers feeling a long time ago. Everything spins, and she clings to the only constant in her equation, afraid to let go and fall down, down, down to the earth where we all live in shades of grey. And he doesn't know why, he doesn't know why she's crying, or why her little world is perfectly imperfect, or why she's holding on like she will never be able to let go... he doesn't know, but he doesn't need to know.

She kisses his cheek, but she is frantic now, afraid he is about to walk away and leave her with that feeling of emptiness that she doesn't know how to fill. She doesn't understand why she is so desperate to keep him there with her. She doesn't know why she feels like the light goes out when he's not there anymore. Her stomach tightens with something like guilt, but she's so used to it now.

It seems again that all that is necessary to make him understand is to tell him she's sorry, but she's said that so many times she wonders if he still believes her. She wonders if the writing on her hands means to him what it means to her. She wonders if the painful struggle that battles constantly beneath her ribcage is something he feels just as tightly as she does. She wonders if it's easier to run in a rull circle than a semi one, and she wonders where the other half of her circle went.

"Don't cry, Kate," he says. It's the only thing he knows for sure. "Don't cry. It's all going to be okay."

How many times has she heard those words? She closes her eyes and the colors flood back over her. It's too easy to give in, to let the dreams come back, to think that she's still wrapped up in his arms even when he's walked away to where she can no longer see his retreating shadow. It's so very easy.

And she is beautiful... more beautiful than she has felt in weeks and weeks and weeks and that day when he kissed her when the sun was shining.  Her arms around that solid statue where he used to stand, symbolizing her freedom, running forever in the fields of memories, drowing painlessly in old joys and old cautions. Maybe he's calling her back, somewhere up there in the sky, somewhere where everything isn't perfect. There's only one layer of perfection, and she doesn't want to leave anymore. She doesn't want his arms to leave her alone again, she doesn't want to cry in a corner where nobody is watching, she doesn't want to daydream about one more dance before she dies. She wants thinks to make sense. Here, here is where everything makes sense. Here she never has to admit to being selfish. Here she never has to cry, because everything is just how she wants to remember it.

She is so beautiful.

Part Two

It's been getting colder, but she doesn't care. She is desperate. She must stay here, here with her memories. She has kept them so well. Caution, precautions, everything necessary to keep everything in it's place, safe from rust and safe from age. Everything is correct. She can watch it again whenever she needs to. She can see that beautiful girl running to him again, and she can see him hold her close and she can hear her laugh. And she can watch them walk together, in that beautiful finished circle, hand in hand just like it feels like it's supposed to be. And she can see everything that has ever meant anything to her --  except for that firework-moment when he kisses her. She hasn't been able to see that. And it's getting colder.

Sometimes she thinks about waking up and feeling something real, but then she remembers that if she leaves, she won't be able to see any of this again. She'll go back to her harmful daydreams, the ones where she dies a slow death, the ones where she keeps reaching and reaching but can never quite take his hand. She'll have to go back to where she feels guilty for that strange thing they call love, and guilty for needing, and guilty for being anything less than what she calls perfect. She doesn't want to go back to feeling empty when he steps back and says goodbye. She doesn't want to feel her throat swell up and her eyes spill over with those burning bits of her soul. She doesn't want to feel cold again, and if she wakes up, she'll be cold. She'll be colder than she is now.

She tells herself that the images aren't fading. She's done so well at keeping them in good shape. When a detail was lost, she painted it back in, a romanticized version of a reality she had become afraid of. The rain from the sky must just be something she doesn't remember at the moment. The negative memories are just below the horizon, but she's kept the sun from setting.

She watches one more time. One last time. She means to stay, and watch it again, like a knife in her skin just to remind her that pain isn't in her mind. She watches that beautiful girl in his arms, and she smiles without meaning to. He looks so happy. She remembers him looking happy. The girl looks nothing like she feels like, but that's okay. Memories are never quite what really happened.

And she still doesn't see that firework-moment. She's never cried in here before, but the tears on her face refect everything she's cold without, everything that leaves the sky raining, everything as a grey shadow, everything that she thought she had built for herself.

"Kate."

She opens her eyes.

The daydream of one more dance drifts away immediately. It doesn't matter. She doesn't need it right now. She doesn't need the cold feeling of loss on her skin to remember what she has.

And he smiles.

Part Three

She is more beautiful than she has felt in weeks and weeks and weeks and a day. Her hair is down and feels free against her neck. She spins, and the world spins around her, and she lets it go. She doesn't need to hold on, there is nothing left to take her away. She doesn't go away anymore. Her memories dance in her mind, a recollection of everything that was and everything that maybe can be.

"Why are you crying, Kate?"

She spins again. She is beautiful. Beautiful...

"Kate."

Ironic, somewhat, how the only constant in her dreams was the one thing she was afraid most of losing.

"Are you ready?"

She turns, and her arms around his neck are her wordless apology, her silent smile, her request. She doesn't need to remember that firework-moment when he kisses her, because she doesn't have to stay with her functioning mind. She is no longer limited to what she can take in.

Maybe she'll remember this one.

Dreaming

Mmm.

There's me, and then there's you, and between us is an ocean of possibilities with an endless amount of endings. I liked it that way, because I was unpredictable, and you were unpredictable, and together we were a wonderful force of randomness that crushed all logic. We liked it that way.

Words create a sort of stable world that's just for you and me. We add to it as we go along, increasing the infinity of possible endings exponentially. We are going walking today, because the train to take us home is late and time to kill is the best time of all.

Your hand in mine feels right and safe, and our arms swing back and forth against the offbeat of our steps. Your voice mixes with mine, and it doesn't matter what we say because happiness limits nothing. Especially not in a perfectly imperfect world with those mountains of tears and those beautiful, beautiful valleys of smiles.

Exaggeration is never needed in the imagination; things in your mind will always be built upon and swallowed up with bigger and better ideas. My fingers through yours tighten for a moment, a casually in-casual acknowledgement of the pause our voices met. Your eyes smile before your mouth does, and because we can, it begins to rain.

It doesn't really matter how things connect. You and I, we aren't programs inside a box of forced thinking. We are spiderwebs, a weaving of any color we like, a cloud that won't keep it's shape. Our thoughts make sense in this little world. The rain grows heavier, and I stop walking.

You look at me for a moment, and I close my eyes to your expectant face.

I'm going to go to sleep with your arms around me and my head against you, like a happy dream that spins on after the dreamer has awoken. Your mouth near mine is a surprise, but a sweet one, and you kiss me with the rain downpouring on both of us — a cliche point that even I love.

The train comes to pick us up, but I fall asleep against you and even this doesn't have to end.