"In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends."
Martin Luther King.
The absence of sound hangs over our small home and the guilt of being the cause for all chaos, eats me up inside. Coldness creeps in through the windows, pale-blue curtains shift as the wind passes. Stars glow magnificently, a midnight-blue sky stretches in all its glory. Time races ahead of me, sadness dominating everything in sight. My breathing seems to be the only audible sound, even though the clock on the wall ticks frequently, reminding me that I'm wasting my existence.
Suddenly, my hands tremble in anxiety and sobs fall from my lips. Tearing at my dress, tugging at my loose curls and smudging my makeup, I howl louder. I scream, I shout, I permit larger tears to fall from my eyes as a sign of my disgrace. Wanting to stop, I attempt to hold my arms down. However, I fail terribly when my hands rise in order to hurt myself.
"It's okay," I think. "Keep going. Mother and father went out anyway. Hurt yourself. Take it out on yourself. It's your fault anyway."
Taking my boots off, I throw them across the room and they collide against the wall with a thump, echoing inside my mind as I continue to hurl other, various objects. Yelling at myself, I place my glasses on the desk, breathing heavily whilst calming down.
Again, this decision ended up being in vain because I proceed to rip the spare pages of my sketch book. I make the choice of cutting every single family photo I own. I fumble with my hands, mumble curse words to myself, before finally laying face down on my bed.
Do I feel better?
Yes.
Is it a sort of temporary tranquility?
Yes.
Looking around the room, I reluctantly pick up the possessions I discarded. Soon, I come to a piece of paper. Wyatt's piece of paper to be exact. Studying it, I am confused by the series of numbers he's written. It seems my outburst has effected my common sense because I soon come to the conclusion that this is his number.
Chuckling at my stupidity, I put his number into my contacts and take the initiative to text him.
"Hey," I text.
"Hey," he types back.
Sugar, now what do I say?!
"Thanks 4 texting me. Ik it must be hard 2 talk after what happened at dinner x."
I smile, immediately feeling that I owe him a reply.
"Np," I answer. "I'm sorry I'm such a push over."
"I don't like it when you do that," he writes.
I raise my eyebrows in a questionable manner.
"Do what?" I ask.
"Lower your self-esteem. Apologise 4 things that aren't ur fault," Wyatt responds.
Giggling and rolling my eyes, I type:
"U rlly care about me, don't u?"
Instantly, I get a text stating:
"I care about u so much, that I think its better if u don't do what ur mum says."
Frowning I retort with:
"That is NONE of ur business!"
"Well it is, bc ur mum asked me 2 be ur personal trainer," Wyatt says.
"It still doesn't give u the right to interfere with MY decision!" I exclaim over text.
"Val, I'm not doing this bc I like drama. I'm doing this bc I can clearly see that u don't want 2 do this whole exercise regime thing," he explains.
Analysing the situation in more depth, I text:
"I want u 2 be my personal trainer."
"R u serious?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Bc I want 2 prove my mother wrong," I state.
"Val, I think this is a bad idea."
"No," I disagree. "It's not."
Waiting in anticipation, I bite my nails, hoping his reply is the one that I'm looking for. When he agrees, I literally jump up in joy.
"Thank u," I say. "I appreciate it!"
"It fine. Next week's a one week break anyway, so we'll use that time in order to exercise."
"Great!"
I laugh, adoring Wyatt's comprehension.
"And Val."
"Yh?"
"Look out ur window."
Slightly scared, I hop off my bed and make my way to my bedroom window.
And what do I see?
The perfect boy, smiling and waving back at me through his bedroom window as well.