"Do you want to talk about it?" Mike asks me as I walk with my head lowered. I hear the murmurs in the hallway as everyone sees the popular Mike walk alongside me, the estranged new girl.
I shuffle my books from my left arm to my right arm and scratch at the scar on my cheek and shake my head. Ever since I woke up from my nightmare all that has been floating through my head are thoughts of the baby that I had, up until now, successfully blocked out, thoughts of Tommy betraying me, and thoughts of my mental breakdown following my father's death.
All the emotions that I had hidden so well are starting to emerge and this scares me, what surprises me is that Mike can see my fear. I like to think of myself as a good actress in a world of actors, because no one ever really acts the way they are born. Everyone always has one secret or two that they can't help but hide.
"Please Jenna," he is near begging now and I hate to see him this way, but I just can't let him into the darkness that my thoughts offer. His eyebrows are furrowed into a concentrated, but desperate frown. His eyes are lined with wrinkles that make him appear at least five years older and his cheeks are rosy--the way they always get when he is frustrated. He stares at me with this expression for a minute trying to act as the Trojan horse who can be the only victor in the fight against the wall I have set up when I feel the shift of awkwardness in the air.
"Sammy," I murmur, but only Mike can hear me. I feel the coolness hitting my back as I turn swiftly from Mike to my opened locker, ignoring anything that may or may not be about to happen.
"Michael, we need to talk," I can hear the edge in her tone, from the sound of it I can imagine that she has found out about us--or at least about what we have done. "Alone." Her words are meant as daggers, but I have suffered far worse in the past year to deal with the drama of Samantha's life.
Before Mike can answer, Sammy is all ready turning around and walking towards the doors leading outside to the frigid air of winter. "We'll talk after." He says point blank to me and follows the miserable girl who will bare her soul out to him to no avail.
I close my locker and let myself slide to the cold cement floor. The bell rings loud and threatening, but I don't move. Instead I trace my fingers over the red, blue, and green tiles that create a pattern on the floor under me. These colors are so much like my life story I am inevitably drawn to them.
The red signifies my past, so cheery I would say. The death of so many important things--the death of myself. This of course is intertwined with the blue, the sadness of my present--the losses I have just remembered, the entity that rips me apart. The green, my supposed future, is a pattern of its own in the center of the congealed past and present colors, like a green gem stuck in a world of sapphires and rubies, trying to stand out.
If the baby were still here I would be coaxing It to sleep. Maybe I would not be such a distorted mess. Maybe the love Michael is showing would break through easier. There are so many maybes that I feel drowned.
I am the definition of misery as I clutch at the unreachable pattern of green dancing before my hand, reaching for something unattainable. Where have I gone? Where have I been? Why am I in this torrent of despair, isolation, and fear?
Where has my heart gone? Am I nothing but a sack of cold rocks, unfeeling and uncared for left on the side of a lake hidden in the woods? Will I ever be found again, or am I lost forever to this isle of loneliness that beckons me forward?
I break down during the interrogation that rips me apart from within my head. I stop trying to grab the unattainable green pattern and fall down on the cool, hard, unchanging floor that maps out a history to my life and cry.
I cry for my father--for our springs, our summers, our autumns, and our winters yet to be documented on pictures that would have replaced the ones I ripped up almost a year ago. I cry for my child that will never experience Its first birthday--Its first laughter, smile, words, tears, heartbreaks. I cry for Tommy, not for him, but for the idea that he had presented to me--the idea of a world that could be my sanctuary. I cry for myself--the only person cruel enough to make the world disappear, to obliterate all hope of ever loving, of ever accepting the past despite how painful it is, for never letting myself move on.
I cry for my future, because truly, do I have one?
I hear the door open and the sound echoes in the empty hallway. I ignore the sound and continue my pity party, only a sob or two allow the intruder to know that I am still alive.
"Jenna?" I hear footsteps accelerate as Michael appears in my line of vision. He falls to his knees and I let him lift me up onto his legs as he sits cross-legged. 'Please," he says, soothingly, his facade is ruined by the tears streaming down his face, "please talk to me."
I blink and feel myself take a breath for the first time in the last five minutes, "Michael," I whisper, barely inaudible, but he hears me. "Mike, I have to tell you something--something I have never told anyone. Please, don't hate me?" I ask him, fearing that he will judge me and stop loving me.
He shakes his head and wipes the tears that have all ready begun to dry on my cheeks. He pauses at my scar and rubs it softly. "Nothing can make me hate you Jenna, nothing."
I smile without happiness and unconsciously grab at my stomach. "Michael," I begin. "I love you, and I think it is time for you to know something very important about me."