It's Me Again

This story is about a friend who's having some relationship issues but I'm not very good at giving advice. These are letters that I think express what she's going through, some of which I've gone through myself. These are not true stories, however, and should not be taken literally. They're interpretations of what might be happening with her and what happened with me.

Comments and constructive criticism are always appreciated! I'm more than happy to keep writing if you want me to.

Chapter 2

September 29

by: Marfabu
It’s me again,

I fell in love today, and it wasn’t with Zeke.

I fell in love with the way that people smiled at me on my walk to school and the color of changing leaves that rake in a new season. I fell in love with the sound of a stranger’s voice that rings louder than any music I could have ever played through my cheap gas-station headphones. I fell in love with the smell of a morning fire in a living room with an open window. I fell in love with the sound of children playing games as I passed back an elementary school that hadn’t started their daily classes yet.

I fell in love today with the idea of being alive at the same time as someone who I am so utterly infatuated with. It’s as though no wrong could come to me when he exists, and without him I am nothing more than a repeated name and the shell of a destroyed person missing something that they’ve never had.

School used to be so boring until I met him. He comes into the lunch room and I see him among the crowd of hungry teenagers and it’s as though the battle rushing through my head pauses for only a moment. The storm in my heart calms to catch his gaze and restart with a different purpose.

I am no longer set on destroying myself. For the past week I have not even entertained the thought of killing myself. I no longer reach for the emergency bottle of pills under my pillow when the storm in my heart passes through me to meet the one in my head. He has changed me for the better and it’s terrifying to admit that.

How is it that this single human being is able to take all of the maddening chaos from my internal war and turn it into something that I can’t even remember feeling in the first place? He is the calm within my storm and I cannot imagine living a day without him.

That thought will never cease to amaze and terrify me.

He sat with me at lunch today and we talked about the good in the world. He took my hand under the table and gave it a little squeeze and my entire arm transformed into an electric flame.

“I stopped at the gas station down the road on my way to school,” Zeke told me, “and I watched a woman buy a kid her Skittles when the little girl’s mother told her that she couldn’t afford them.”

He paused for a moment and smiled at the memory and I watched him carefully. He had a look on his face that spoke of the words he was unable to fathom into sentences. After a puzzling moment of silence, he continued.

“And when I stepped out of the convenience store with my Mountain Dew and day-old donut, I heard the unmistakable sound of the mother of the little girl slapping her across the face. I heard the scolding and the choked back sob of the girl and I didn’t do anything to stop her as I passed them by on my way to school.”

There was a metaphor in there somewhere that I didn’t quite catch, I’m sure of it. Zeke would have stepped in for the little girl’s sake because he knows as well as anyone else that silence is a silent way of egging someone on. Interference was the only way that he could have solved that conflict, and he could not be the type of person that would ignore such blatant signs of abuse right before his eyes.

Before I could ask him what the metaphor of this grotesque story was, the bell rang that signified the end of our lunch period together. He let go of my hand and I knew that on our walk together back to our lockers that I was not to bring the story back up again. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t find time in the class that we share together to bring the story back up.

I have a good grasp of English literature and I know what a metaphor is. I know how to identify it in a story. My new fear is that the story he told today might not be a metaphor at all.

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