Wordmongers' Masque
Two Steps Away.
The snow was falling thick. The only thing protecting me from the chill was a tight sweater. As I walk up to his doorstep the sad realization that he had helped pick out this sweater crosses my mind. With unsteady fingers, my hands manage to ring the doorbell. I don't know entirely why I was doing this. Anyone could have given him his things. But... I needed to feel like it was over.
He opened the door and it took him a brief moment to register that it was me. I looked into his eyes and tried to find the boy I'd fallen in love with. The sweet boy who stole a kiss away. He'd said my lips were begging her to take it away, so it could hardly be a crime. For some reason, that made sense. I suppose love is like that. Where it twists and turns nonsense into sense.
Every time I try to see that sweet boy I keep picturing her. His lips on hers. Her body against his. Her skin rubbing his. I'm holding back tears. Barely. I'm not sure if he has noticed yet. That's proof enough that something has changed. When you're in love every glance carries giant weights of emotion. He used to ask me what was wrong before I even knew I needed him. Now, he can't tell that I'm almost broken.
"You don't know what happened," he whispers softly.
"And I never will." I sound calm. I feel anything but. My heart is on fire. I think I'm shaking, but I'm trying too hard not to cry to focus on anything else.
And suddenly, as if I hadn't been watching him, his hand runs up my arm and rests just above my chest.
"Can you forgive me?" He barely manages to get the words out. With his eyes shimmering from being wet he almost looks hopeful. Or maybe that is genuine hope. I suppose he's not the only one who changed. There was a time when those eyes held no mysteries for me. Perhaps I just don't care.
His fingers caress my neck and for a moment, I let myself pretend he was someone else. That he wasn’t the asshole who went behind my back and fucked some other girl. No, not some other girl. His fucking ex. As much as I wanted to keep him out of my life forever, I let myself pretend. Letting go is worse than being ripped apart.
But it didn’t last for more than a few seconds.
“Scott, get the fuck away from me,” and at the same time as I'm uttering those words, I'm slapping him across the face, “You don't get to touch me. Ever.”
He jumps back, not even trying to hide the anger plastered in his expression. Since when did he have the right to be angry? Since when did he dare get angry at me? He’s the one who cheated on me. He made his bed and he should fucking lay in it.
Resisting the urge to just let out all my anger at him, instead I direct my attention to the floor. Where his box of things sits. A shirt hides everything, but I know exactly what's in there. It hurts too much to think about and my eyes look back at his. And there he is. Just standing there, mouth opening and closing as if he’s trying to say something.
Before he got the chance, I turn around and walk away. Finally, he managed to work up the courage. Or the nerve. Or something. He clears his throat. Before he has the chance to say anything, I cut him off.
“I got over you, Scott. Time for you to do the same.”
A mask of gold hides all deformities.
Thomas Dekker