On And On

In which we pick up where we left off

The floor was like a heated haven as I rose from slumber the next morning, the sun beating down on my fatigued, sweaty face. The Earth was encouraging me to embrace positivity, or an inner sense of happiness. So I shall. There are spiritual guides embracing me with their presence, all I had to do was take a moment, look up and see them drifting so effervescently through the air.

My presence had cluttered what was originally an immaculate wasteland, courtesy of John Laurens. Crinkled clothes were strewn on the floor and the desk was brought ablaze with asymmetrical stationery, notebooks and such. Tiptoeing through the mess, I straightened the clothes I picked to wear, being a grey shirt, some shorts and black sneakers, realising at once that it was manic Monday, not sabotaged Sunday. For once, I had nothing to occupy myself. Escaping was plausible, but with all the previous mishap, I couldn't risk it.

I plonked myself in the corner after freshening up and switching outfits in the bathroom, watching John in silence. It was still early in the morning, and as much as it seems stalkerish and creepy, nothing could halt the temptation. His scattered, lightly dusted freckles. The now closed, but nonetheless endearing green eyes. The bobbing locks of hair. Now shifting away from his appearance, I dabbled on his traits. His relentless caring. The calming instruction, which in past instances, I have regretted not taking, guilt churning inside. Just... everything...

"What now?" He snorted out of nowhere, rolling onto his side. "I've told you so many times!" It appears that he was sleep talking in some way shape or form. Now it became creepy, but I couldn't disturb him either way.

"John! Wake up!" I whispered from my current position, going to nudge him, but pulling back in self-restraint.

"What do you mean, disown me...?" Oh, God. That doesn't sound good at all. He breathed as if he was facing his biggest fear, which might as well be based on his comments.

"Good morning." I murmured, squeezing his hand.

"Gah!" he squealed, eyes jerking as he turned to face me, "Alex..." he sighed.

"Just me. You sounded a little off. Care to share?"

"I'm sorry!" he huffed, jumping up in a start, "There is no time or place for that! Now, where's that jumper..." He surveyed the room in an awkward, almost sleep deprived manner, wiggling his fingers rhythmically.

"It's Monday." I reminded him.

"Gosh darn it!" He stomped the ground and razzled his perfect hair. Now it was lopsided, and I couldn't tell whether that made it better or worse.

"Your hair's nice..." I blurted out. It had to come eventually.

He exhaled in what seemed like a mixture of frustration and overall stress, "Not helping me. Not this time, at least." He half-smiled, straightened his hair and wandered over to the bathroom.

"Could you just tell me what's wrong?!" I called out, door closed and water splashing. No response. I guess I'll just leave him be, and as it's evident, I'm not exactly the empathetic type. I'm more of a logical thinker, with a tad bit of bitterness, anger and resentment. A human espresso, so to speak. Often stronger than not.

To my overt surprise, he wasn't laden in tears, rather, he was coated in water. Plain old water. "Are you sure there's nothing up?" And he was left both conflicted and on the verge to concede. He wiped it off clean with a towel.

"I needed freshening up. A clean slate, per se. The John Laurens you have seen is now slowly erasing itself from existence..."

"WHAT?! No!" I strangled him in my arms, "Whaddya mean?!" I was desperate to go and give him what seemed like a mental breakdown of a goodbye, but instead, he released me and took a step back.

Now he bursted in hysteria.

"Just messing with ya. Now let's get moving!" His grin stretched from ear to ear as he ruffled my already unkempt hair, but a piece of him was still quivering in hidden sadness. A part of me was, too. It was more like, "How could you fall for that?!" combined with, "Why is he hiding?" stringing along a, "Damn, I fell for that..."

All of a sudden I was smirking uncontrollably, both physically and mentally, and there was nothing I could do to stop.

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Now imagine you're sitting in school, in History class. You fancy the subject but are a brat at heart, working part diligently, part stubborn on your own. The next minute, some distressed teachers enter. Your world crashes around you, as whispers manoeuvre their way through the space, saying, "What should we say? What should we do? Bring them out of class?" And, boy, it isn't discreet, as the mutters are magnified into chatter, then uproars. "Oh, right! It's all about this!" Students say, and you're left in confusion because you find yourself mentioned. Then your insides start churning and your mind begins to break. "What has it come to? Am I expelled? Put me out of my misery!" That's what you receive in a nutshell. Misery. I'll be more specific, because misery is rather broad. You receive the news of a loved one's death. I can't say I haven't experienced that one before, but this time it wasn't my pain.

It was Jefferson's.

I really didn't mean to internally shame him, but his crying was textbook ugly crying. It was like, I've-been-beaten-up-at-military-camp-and-everything-effing-hurts crying. He blabbered his way out of the classroom, and the shock inside was almost unbearable. No one had seen his vulnerability. Ever. Except maybe Angelica... With that in mind, I shuddered.

"Is it who I think it is?" He susurrated to the counsellor, who, thank God, was not Miss Finnigan.

"I don't know what you're thinking, but we'll find out together."

And that was that. The world keeps turning. The sun continues to shine. My love for John will always be there. Death looms ever closer.

We might not live till Christmas...

I write at the bottom of my notebook, the timid girl April next to me winking. She understands, aka, some college stranger, understands. Her out of all people realises and knows. I made a Beetlejuice reference, at the appropriate time, in the appropriate place. I mutter his name three times under my breath and quietly hope that he will wreck Thomas into further oblivion.