#mequel

You flinch when you're scared. You don't want to admit it, cause it was just a tennis ball, and you knew he wasn't going to throw it, but you flinch anyway. You can't help it. It's been hard-coded into your DNA for millions of years. You're a predator and prey. It's the reason four walls help you sleep. It's the reason cold weather makes you seek a mate.

Wait. Did I lose you again? I fucking did it again, didn't I? Sorry, where was I?

Dustin, drugs, voles, blah blah, Christine. Right. Forget I said all that. Well, don't forget it, just I guess hang onto I guess?

I said that, right?

Anyway, flinching. Something comes at your eyes fast enough, you're gonna flinch. Cause you need your eyes more than most of your body. You don't see somebody flinch when they get punched in the arm do you? It's not a pain thing. You just wanna keep your eyes. Your pretty blue eyes that just mean a lack of melanin. Those pretty blue windows to your soul.

Flinch.

"Are you coming?" I heard in the dark, trying my best to hang my keys up and slip into my bed.

"Ahhh... there's no good way for me to answer this, is there?" And she starts lecturing me in that voice I can still hear the smile in sometimes.

"You're lucky I'm in a good mood," she says, and I can hear the smile get bigger.

"Shhh shh shh sh sh. Go to sleep, crazy lady. Next you're gonna say I smell like coke."

I can almost hear her eyes roll, and she suddenly seems concerned and just reaches over and scratches the back of my head. "You're not feeling good are you? You sound exhausted."

"Well..."

"Well, what?"

"I'm not feeling well."

Flinch.

It's 4:36 a.m. and a blind panic is twisting me right in that place that keeps you from dreaming in anything but nightmares and flashbacks. In and out of sleep, I've been sweating through these sheets for what seems like days. I know exactly what's wrong, and I'm telling myself over and over I'm just tired. Telling myself it's just grief or really anything at all. Telling myself that in a few hours I'll crawl out of this hole and I'll feel fine again. My heart is beating hard - painfully hard and I'm just praying that the tick tick tick will go away soon, but I know it won't. My teeth have been biting down so hard my jaw has cramped closed and gone numb. I can feel the beginning of a crack in the back of my molars where it's hard to brush. My tongue keeps making this creaking, cracking sound in my mouth, and my eyelids keep slamming open and I keep trying to shut them, but every time I do it just keeps flashing back and flashing back and I just feel how heavy my arms are again. Hoping that no one saw the look on my face and the tears in my eyes. Hoping they were watching you. Hoping I can deny it or brush it off or something so I don't have to own up to it.

I'm just hoping nobody saw me

Flinch.

"Why do you keep apologizing for doing things that everyone does?" "Because everyone else does them. I'd like to be better than that." "And worse?" "Well, I'm gonna die one day." "You keep saying that. Why is that so important to you?" "Because it's the only thing I know is true." "At least explain what the champagne's for? What are we celebrating on a Tuesday?" "Being alive." "You gonna celebrate that every day?" "Until I'm not."

She turns her head so her forehead is pressed against the center of my chest. I wonder if she can feel how fast my heart is beating. Too fast. Too much. I love her too much.

            “I would do anything in the world for you,” I whisper. “Anything. I just want you to be happy.”

            She looks up at me and her eyes are glassy, the water threatening to spill over. “Kiss me, then.”

            I promised myself I wouldn’t for her sake. I wanted her to get less attached. But that’s not happening. It’s just upsetting her more. And maybe it is too soon, and maybe I shouldn’t kiss her because of everything that’s happened in her life, and maybe she doesn’t need it.

            But I do it anyway.

            Just a quick peck on her lips.

            She lets go of my hand and my shirt and shakes her head as she steps back. “Why won’t you treat me like you used to? I hate this.”

            “Juliet –”

            The water further builds in her eyes, pooling at her lower lids. “You were all I had before. You were it. And now you’re treating me like I’ll shatter. I am not glass.”

            “I know that,” I try. But she is fragile.

            “Then kiss me like you used to kiss me,” she says firmly, crossing her arms over her chest. Her voice is strained, but the tears haven’t fallen. They’re still there, making her eyes glisten sadly.

            “Jules, what –”

            “I feel empty, Asher. Empty. There’s nothing here,” she interrupts quietly, her fingers pressing against her chest. “Please, make that go away. Please, I just can’t live with –”

            I’m going to hell for this. I step forward and close the space between us, and I kiss her. I kiss her like I used to – maybe with more longing. Maybe with more passion. My fingers tangle in her hair and I hold her face against mine with my other hand, and she grips onto my sides like I’m her only lifeline. And as she kisses me back, I feel a tear drip down her cheek and fall against my hand.

            My older sister, Zoey, is sleeping on the couch.  Nearly a perfect mirror of Ria’s sleeping upstairs, minus the unicorn. 

            “What the hell are you doing here, Zoey?”  I ask loudly to wake her up.

            She groans and opens one eye to glare at me. 

            “I was sleeping.” 

            “I gathered that.  Why are you sleeping here?”  I really don’t have time for her shit today. 

            “I’m not welcome in my own home?” Zoey grumbles as she sits up, the small throw blanket falling off of her shoulders as she does.  Her brown roots are clearer against the bleach-blonde-dyed hair now that her head isn’t shoved against a pillow. 

            “You don’t live here anymore.” I refute.

            “Technicality.” 

            “Get off of my couch!” I snap. 

            “It’s not your couch, it’s Mom’s couch,” she replies childishly, sticking her tongue out at me. 

Raquel: *writing, writing, writing*

Raquel: *stops*

Raquel: Left or right?

Megan: Left.

Raquel: Sweet, thanks.

I would petition to fix that if we had more than 7 followers. 

So, Megan's been in London for over a month.  We Skyped for the first time since she left on Monday.  It's not like we did a whole ton of video chatting and such when she was in THIS country, but I miss her in a completely different way. 

Because this is a relatively empty blog, especially regarding Megan and myself for the most part, let me just put it out there that Megan pretty much kicks my ass into writing on a regular basis.  With her gone, and me so busy with water polo, work, classes, and water polo, I'm kind of in a rut. 

And it sucks. 

And Megan's working on her Capstone novel when she's not dealing with classes or adventuring in Europe. 

            “We should probably call Zac and Remi,” I offered. She was holding onto my hand tightly and swaying with the breeze.

            “Remi! I want to call Remi!”

            I grinned and I handed her my cell phone. “Go for it”

            She seemed to be incapable of dialing Remi’s number, or finding it in my contacts, so I had to call for her. I put the phone on speaker and waited for Remi to answer. And when she did, she didn’t sound happy.

            “Tristan? What the hell? Where are you guys?” She screamed. I held the phone out to Natalie, who took it and spun around.

            “Remi!” Nat yelled ecstatically. “Remi! I’m on a bridge! We’re on a bridge!”

            “What?” Remi asked exasperatedly.

            “Tristan’s here! We’re dancing! It’s like we’re dancing!” She spun around more, and I had to catch her when she started to stumble. “Tristan, say hi!”

            “Hi, Remi,” I said, laughingly. I guess I felt a little better than decent. I had enough to drink to feel good. I felt good.

            “Tristan, what the hell is going on? Is she drunk? Where are you?” Remi shouted into the phone. I could hear the party in the background.

            “We’re on a bridge,” I reiterated Natalie’s words.