Kimberly Eve Browne
I watch him as he walks in, closing the door quietly behind him, making timid movements towards the living room and I run in a hurry, giving him a big hug.
"Hey baby," I croon, laughing a little at me calling him that. But he was stiff and unmoving.
Thinking that my paranoia was having a laugh, I ignore his strange gesture and kiss him on the cheek.
"What was it that you wanted to talk about?" I ask, confused as ever. I couldn't think of anything Alex had to tell me; nothing at all came to mind.
He answers with a weary smile, before he takes a seat next to me, as I knot my eyebrows together. "Seriously, Al, what it?"
His choice to continue to not reply to my question only caused more anxiousness and worry to bubble inside me. "Al, you're worrying me," I exclaim.
"There's something I need to tell you," he speaks, and an unsettling, uncomfortable aura floods the room, and my leg automatically begins to shake.
That phase was so commonly used, so cliché. Except this wasn't the cute cliché, the cliché everyone wished they had; it was the cliché everyone avoided; yet here it was.
It was the introduction to destruction, the beginning of the end. "What is it?" I ask, although the answers that he could possibly tell me are completely endless.
"You aren't good enough for me," was the one I was betting on, as it was the only one that could possibly make sense to me, despite Alex's numerous reassurances of otherwise.
I couldn't help but feel a strong disagreement to when he said that I was good enough for him and more. Alex was the Photoshop perfection everyone strived for, but better and even more out of reach.
When he cares, he really does care; he sells his heart and soul. When he loves, he really does; I can see it, clearer than anything else, as everything else seems like a blur.
Not only was he a goal to many by personality, but within looks too. Why couldn't I find a single flaw that linked to Alex?
"Alex, if you're going to pull of a plaster, do it quickly," I smile, hoping it would slightly lift his spirits.
He buries his face in his hands and I couldn't help but panic even more. "Oh my god, Alex. Are you okay? Oh my god, I am so-"
"IT was fake, okay?" He cuts me off and my mouth is sealed as I try to take in and process the information.
I smile, and shake my head, before the smile left my face. "What? Al, what are you on about? Are you sure that you aren't tired? You must be stressed, I mean exams-"
"I mean what we had is fake, okay?" He jumps up, and I am immediately taken aback. What was happening? Did he forget to tell me something? Is he okay?
"Alex-"
"Stop, okay?" He speaks, slightly louder and mumbles something beneath his breath before inhaling deeply. "Just let me explain," He reassures, and I fold my arms, continuing to look at him with misunderstanding.
"When you were first put in my class, Sir Bloomsbury had a frank conversation with me, explaining how your mental illness was killing you, and that he thought that I could help you," He talks, before fiddling his fingers. What was going on?
"So when I saw you smoking, I-"
It was then when it all clicked, and it was my turn to interrupt. "You saw an opportunity. You used me," I whisper, shaking my head.
"I'm so-"
"Fuck off, Alex. You had your turn speaking, now listen to me," I speak, shocked at how much anger I had in my tone. "Do you know what it's fucking like, to feel parts of your self culminate together again? To feel like shit is going right, to have a hope and have it snatched out of your hands?" I speak, as the tears are at the verge of coming out, yet I do everything in my power to keep them away.
He just stands there, saying nothing and I wanted to beat myself up for feeling sorry for him. "I knew this was too good to be true, Alex. For some guy, to swoop in and tell me I'm beautiful," I express, and I automatically shake my head at myself.
"You have no fucking idea how much time I examine myself, examine why I can't be fucking good enough! Why are my thighs too big, my hips too wide, my face too round, my-" I run my hands through my hair and groan.
Alex comes close to me, and I can see the tears falling from his eyes, his cheeks becoming red. I could feel the hurt as if we were somehow connected in a circuit and it took everything in me not to just comfort him.
"Please don't," I whisper.
"All day I wonder why I am everyone's millionth choice. Why all the pretty girls are having fun, worrying about things like their hair and fighting over things like lip glosses, which may stupid, but doesn't it seem less fucking stupid than having a never ending battle with yourself?"
"You swoop in with all your beautiful words, and care, but it's all bullshit!" I laugh. "Try to fucking call me beautiful now, Alex. Try to fucking call me beautiful, now! Oh wait you can't, because all you were doing it for was yourself, to have the promotion. Con- fucking- gratulations, Alex. You've got it."
"I can't believe that I fell for your bullshit, Alex. I-" I attempt to continue but stop myself. What was there to say? What was the point of anything now? The one thing that seemed right, the one thing that seemed loyal, was gone. I can't actually believe that I was so fucking naïve. You-"
"If you want to say something, just say it," he whispers, and I shake my head at him.
"I don't know what else to say, Alex, because now, perhaps fuck off might be too kind."
He looks at me again, and I know that I was bound to lose it. This was way too much to process, and I couldn't even think about feelings right now, and yet I was thinking about how beaut-. Stop, I tell myself firmly.
"Anything else?" I ask, trying my hardest to put no emotion in my speech whatsoever. Whatever we had was done. There's nothing more to discuss, to say or to think about, so why do I still want him here?
"I am sorry. Can we-"
"I can't believe you have the fucking nerve, Mr David. Just leave," I say, and as easy as it seems to say, it was probably the hardest thing I had ever said to Alex, ever. Calling him Mr David? Asking him to leave? I hate talking to him like this.
I want him to laugh it off and say it was a big joke, and I'd push him aside and he'd kiss me on the forehead before telling me that he was so lucky to have me.
That wasn't the case, though. Everything he said wasn't a joke; it was the truth, as much as I didn't want it to be, it was. I didn't know what to do, what to feel. Perhaps the only thing worse then feeling sad was feeling nothing at all.
"The transfer papers will be on your desk when the term ends. Apparently I can't transfer the class until the term ends," I say blandly once again as he takes a final look at me.
I didn't know how he was feeling. I didn't know who he was at all. Everything he has ever told me has only been a lie, so his personality was probably one as well.
How I thought he was a perfect person was all me being stupid and naive. I thought I wasn't stupid or intelligent. Boy was I wrong. I couldn't be more stupid for beginning to believe that someone actually cared about me other than Richard and my family.
Especially a teacher! An attractive older teacher. I must have been drugged or something. Perhaps this was a good thing that what we had was bullshit. At least now I can open my fucking eyes.
He sighs and walks away, and that was a final wakeup call to myself, the time that it actually hit me that this was it. He was out the door, and just like that there was no more of what we had.
It was so much to process, my head felt like it was buzzing, buzzing so much that it was beginning to ache, and that queasy feeling of an upcoming panic attack crept onto me.
Sprinting with the low percentage of energy that I had, I went upstairs and desperately dug for my cigarettes. I was bound to smoke at least five tonight. I needed to breathe; life was collapsing on top of me.
With a pack in my hand and a lighter in my pocket, I sit on the balcony, bring the cigarette closer towards my lips with two fingers before lighting it and bringing it to my lips and took the longest drag I had taken in a while.
An aura of white smoke dripped from the end of the cigarette, clouding around me, hugging me with its aroma and strange reassurance. I was in my own bubble now, and I felt better.
It had been sometime since I had smoke by myself. Ever since Alex, we spent most of our time in 505, smoking, laughing, cuddling and kissing. It was a slap in the face; like when you're sharing a book with someone and then they turn the page though you haven't read it, and you didn't expect them to.
From experience, the somewhat strong smell of tobacco didn't affect me or cause me to cough. It was like I was someone with asthma, and I needed to breathe. The cigarette was my inhaler.
As I repeated the same action of taking a drag of my cigarette, crumbly black ash began to form on the end of it, and I tapped it against the floor, causing some of the ash to fall off, and I did this until all the crumbly ash was gone before smoking again.
A sigh leaves my lips. So it's over? Just like that? I was finding it so hard to accept, that something that felt so real, so amazing, so fucking beautiful, was gone.
Was one argument going to determine how we spoke to each other, if we even spoke at all? He was my first boyfriend, and it wasn't even real. He was my first for everything, almost.
We were dating. I could imagine every minute, second, hour, night, day, week, month that we had together, that we had shared. Every smile, laugh, kiss, hug and cuddle was something that I would never be able to forget.
Why couldn't I accept that this was over? Why was this so hard to comprehend? Sure I hadn't been involved in a romantic relationship before, but this happens all the time.
People lose interest in each other; people don't always fit. People don't actually like each other sometimes; sometimes it can only be one-sided love, or appreciation.
If I knew this, why was it still so fucking hard? I didn't want to think about this, I hated thinking about him. I used to love it, used to love how he kissed me, slowly, almost like he was putting the volume up gradually, and turned it up, yet it wasn't hurtful; it was beautiful.
I used to love the thought of his words, I loved hearing his voice over and over in my mind, it was like hearing your favourite singer just sing and sing. His voice was smooth, peaceful and a little deep at times.
I loved how he pronounced words. I loved his accent, it fits him perfectly, gosh, if I actually used my phone I would call him at five o clock in the morning just to hear his voice mail.
How he used to help me, try to boost my self-esteem, which I obviously know now was all for his own benefit, not mine, but it really felt like it did. It felt so real, almost like an accurate dream.
How could anyone just get over him? How on earth could you go from spending all the time in the world with someone and then not talk at all?
The door of my house opens and shuts before I jump and put out the fire of my sixth cigarette and ran to my room, painting myself in perfume to extinguish the odour of cigarettes.
Gulping down a glass of water, I leisurely make my way downstairs, a step at a time.
"Kimberly! Kimberly, are you home?" My dad shouts from downstairs, and I quicken my pace, becoming a little out of breath since I got tired from every little thing, and smoking sometimes gave me a buzz at times.
"Yeah, how grandma?" I ask, upon reaching the lower floor, and hugging my father. I spin my head, in search for mum. "Where's mum?" I speak.
Your relationship with Al wasn't real. My inner devil decides to remind me as I sigh and rest my head against the doorframe.
"She's gone upstairs to freshen up."
"Oh right," I nod in understanding. "So how's gran?"
He rests his coat on a beige coloured settee before running the tap to wash his hands. "She went in a coma, for a week or two, and she suffered with some glorious side effects of not being able move properly for a little while. She's better now, though."
"That's great!" I respond, trying my hardest to give him a big, jolly grin.
"What do you want to eat?" My dad asks with a smile on his face and I look at him as if he was mental. It was almost as though he had forgotten about my eating disorder.
"Dad. I can't eat, remember?" I told him and his face fell, and I felt awful, to be the fuck up. He must have been so happy by just forgetting that for a while.
"That doesn't mean you can't have a snack," He pleads, and he honestly looks like he's going to fall apart. What the hell was going on?
"Dad, how have you forgotten this? You used to spend hours on end researching this, remember? It's gotten worse, dad. I was a bit better for a while, but it's back to that point. The poin-"
"The point where you can't eat again. I know that you're scared of gaining weight, but you were beautiful even before the eating disorder, Kim, we miss you. We miss you so much."
I cross my eyebrows. "What do you mean you miss me? I've always been here, I never left."
"Really? Because it looks like you're about to fade away," he retorts, and I widen my eyes. My mum was always one to say this, she gave me her personality of constantly worrying.
My dad didn't like to talk about my mental illnesses, but he wasn't ashamed of them, he just thought that it was bound to go. That I would overcome them; I hadn't though, it had been a good few years.
I remove my head from the doorframe, before looking at him. "I am really tired, I'm going to get some sleep, good night," I speak, desperate to not talk about this any longer, and make my way upstairs before my father grabs hold of my hand.
I spin my head to look at him. "We're all skeletons underneath, Kim," he speaks with a weary smile on his face as I widen my eyes and slap his hand off mine.
"Because," he said, looking me in the eyes, as I did the same for the very first time. I started to understand what he meant by 'dull eyes'. His eyes were full of life, and filled with some sort of light.
"We're all just skeletons underneath. This skin and fat and muscle; it is all just a shell; just something that makes us different. Underneath it all, Kimberly, we're all very much the same."
"Don't you fucking say that again."