Chapter 4: Bridges Needn't Be Burned

The gross feeling of his hands sat heavy in my stomach, clawing at the walls and reaching out my oesophagus, pleading to be let out; to see the light. The disgust played on my face blatantly, but he ignored it, continuing to touch and taste and take.

Men.

Taking as they please.

Never asking or letting up.

I would've preferred social rejection; I will gladly take the hatred of my family and friends to this.

But a fight raved on inside me, this disgusting reality paradise compared to anything they'd make life into. Even when I had the choice, to run away with a lover, there was never an option, so how would that option ever be bestowed upon me now? Now more than ever, I am weak; there is not enough strength in my soul anymore.

The sickness in my stomach didn't leave as he did, his body grotesque to my eye. Why had I expected him to look better without clothes than with clothes; look better vulnerable than protected? Here we are, months into our relationship, the same routine repeating day after day, and still, disappointment consumes me. People have told me that I'll get used to it - my Mum in particular - but nothing has changed yet.

There's solace in the time we spend alone, away from one another, the option to finally be myself without a careful eye judging my every motion feeling like a weight off my shoulders. Those days were few and far between, his constant encouragement for us to be together as often as we could leaving me with few options for freedom. Some days the urge to leave him bubbles higher than usual, threatening to pour over, but the name I would get in the community would leave me in a worse state.

"Are you still talking to that French girl?" Andrew inquired from the other room, returning in clothes – thankfully. He walked around the side of his double bed, pressing an uncomfortably sloppy kiss to my cheek. My head shook, Anastasia's sweet face drifting across my memory. Any opportunity to talk to her was swiftly cut off all Spring, either my family or my 'boyfriend' beckoning my attention away. Her face would cross my mind, a sorrow finding its way into her eyes whenever our paths crossed.

She was broken, shattered by the world; her hazel eyes swirling with the sunkeness of someone long lost to a void. Her mother, a woman long forgiving of my cultural ignorance, stared with a fire of disappointment and rage. Her eyes, matching that of her daughters, sent daggers to my heart, the attack striking home as she guided her daughter towards theirs.

Guilt weighed heavy in my heart during that moment.

They had both been crying, it was plastered plainly across each of their faces. Redness creased their eyes and pink splotches coated their cheeks. Neither of them were happy, that was obvious to anyone.

They were in pain. There was no other word for the look in their eyes other than pain.

And I knew – I knew – with every string and muscle and cell in my heart that I was the reason.

Andrew wandered around his room ignorantly, my presence nothing other than a fun time to him. Hatred boiled under my skin, deep within the muscles of my being; this was his fault. He was the one who left me dirty. He left me alone. He stole me from her and aided me in alienating her. He destroyed me.

I hate him for what he's done.

Muscles pulled and cracked, strung in a tight rope and holding me down against the bed. Still, I struggled and sat up, shuffling out of the warm sheets and into my dress, slipping any underclothes under my long skirt, and making my way out the door. Waiting at the door were my purse and coat, shoes neatly left beside the umbrella rack. They each shaped my body, the coat to my shoulders and the shoes to my feet, familiarity seeping into my skin.

Despite his rule of 'nothing explicit until marriage' he would make me lay on the bed, for him to look at, for him to touch and bite and lick. He enjoyed it in his own way, but the whole experience left me dirty. Each time he would mention something about my weight or veins or freckles, how he preferred women with dark hair, all these things about my appearance, like he didn't disgust me with his own.

My hips swayed down the driveway, the gravel seeming to go on and on the more I wanted to escape. Once the end met me, Robert pulled forward from his spot on the road. The passenger door swung open, and he beckoned me in for the drive home. The ride was silent, but I had Robert had been in my life. He drove my Mum and Dad to and from the hospital for me, and forever after that. So it was second nature for him to decode me so easily, his frog face clueing me in to his every thought.

"Why do you keep going back, Evvie…?" A sigh pulled the air out of me, exhaustion setting in further at such a loaded question. Tears welled in my eyes as my hands tightened around my purse, the purple leather and gold reminding me of my lost lover.

My head threw backward, eyes squeezing and tears sliding down my cheeks like children down slippery slides. The car remained silent for a moment, the words bubbling in my throat but refusing to come out.

"Because…" Everything caught in my throat like a chicken bone. "I don't have many other options… I don't want to date him, but it's either him or loneliness, and I can't stand being lonely." Rob stayed silent, the air in the car tense. It always was when we had these conversations; every time he picked me up he surveyed me, and every time it got harder and harder to give him a reason because I don't have one.

And he keeps reminding me of that.

He should've learnt by now that I have no other options. He can be worried for me, but that's never solved anyone's problems before and it most certainly won't solve them now.

"Well… Anastasia is still visiting. And, from what her driver has said, she may be staying longer this year to revisit a friendship she has neglected the last few years due to unavailability. Only a couple of days, but surely you'd be willing to put aside your troubles and make up with her, hm?" Hope glowed in his eyes, hope for my happiness, but neither of us were stupid enough to ignore the repercussions of our relationships reignition – no matter how much my body yearned for it.

And, as Robert scanned my face expectantly, the hope slowly died away, replaced with a perpetual disappointment that had become far too familiar. It sat inside me most days, swirling with the guilt in my stomach and regret in my heart.

The rest of the ride was silent, my heart heavier and nausea stronger than usual. The second the car had stopped in the driveway I was up and out of the car, heart hammering and breath inclining as my body raced to the security of my room. No one else was in the house - other than Jillian and her governess, but they were locked away in Jillie's room doing work. Technically, I was supposed to be doing my homework, but there is no way any of my work would actually be answers.

There is something far more productive for me to do; write another love song about Anastasia that no one will ever hear.

I spend my nights writing out note after note, the chords singing together a symphony of my pain that will never be understood by another; not properly.

There are about five on the piano so far, three on the flute, six on the saxophone, one on the harp, and two more on the guitar. My plan is ten per instrument, ballads of love with lyrics of emotions that few people will feel. Maybe, if Lady Luck grants me her favor, I'll be allowed to record them in the future. But for now, they sit in a pile in a box underneath my desk, waiting for the world to experience the despair and longing of their melody.

Today a harp song will be nice.

I'm a little out of practice with my harp, in all honesty. The rust crept onto my skill after the instrument remained neglected in a corner. It's difficult to regularly practise each instrument with the same three songs for each. So, now may be the time to find some practice – this time with my own music since it's somewhat interesting in comparison to the others they require me to do.

My stool was already set up in the corner of my room, the harp resting next to it, beckoning me towards its gentle strings. The habits in my muscles set in as I prepared to play, paper and ink at the ready on the desk to my left, awaiting the notes that were to dot across the page.

But, before my pinky could pluck the first string, a knock resounded through the house, the bell of the front door following moments later. I huffed my way out of the chair, muttering for a moment about the lack of time for myself anymore before my eye caught on the person behind the glass window. She stood tall and confident - despite her shorter stature - hair and dress as perfect as a designer's wife should be. Her chestnut curls were short, resting at her chin and accentuating her sharp cheekbones.

I waited for a moment, breathing slowly before opening the door with a fake smile. "Mrs Arquette, how lovely to see you," She had no interest in my phony smile, reading my expression swiftly. She wasn't here for pleasantries.

"Lovely to see you, too, young Evangeline. Very nice. However, I do have a matter I must urgently discuss with you. May I come in?" Her accent muddled everything occasionally, making it harder to understand her rushed words. However, she left me no choice in her entrance, pushing past me aggressively and storming towards the lounge. She sat down, legs crossed, glasses removed to reveal her hazel eyes, full of spite and determination.

"Now, I do not have much time to talk but I must say this; ma fille has become very lazy since your little mishap. Her sadness overflows and I do not have time to deal with it with my André's new line revealing in just three weeks. Do you understand the pressure of that on our family? I cannot deal with it, so you must resolve this issue now. She will not move, her work remains unfinished and her spark remains damp, and I cannot have this. Thank you," She rose, her long spiel ending as she slipped on her glasses and fixed her purse. Before she left, one more thing fell from her lips, finalising the conversation.

"Brise-cœur."

Hatred leaked off her words like honey from a knife. I may not speak her language, but her tone alone told me she shot that bullet intending to destroy me.

Heels clacked along the wood floors as she strutted out of the house, slamming the door behind her and leaving me wondering what in the shit was that supposed to mean???

My conciousness glitched its way out of the room, body stiff and movements robotic the whole way up the stairs and through my door. Voices echoed through my mind as I started to pluck away at strings on my harp, the music seeming to dance with the words, waltzing through the chamber of my mind with a precision assumed to have been lost. Every last bit of my previous ability came seeping back into my fingers, muscle memory continuing to play through a melody and harmony that had not yet existed. It came to me like words to a poet or love to a lover, my heart roaring with fire at each gentle pluck or soft string.

'Brise-cœur'.

'She will not move, her work remains unfinished and her spark remains damp'…

'I cannot have this'.

What happened to her?

Did I break Anastasia? Robert said she was continuing to have friendships and relationships with others, was he wrong?

What have I done?

Before I could stop them, lyrics of a broken heart snuck from my mouth, the subtle tune spinning itself together from the ache in my heart and – most probably – her's. A dagger struck my heart hearing about Anastasia's state; images of her drowning in sadness, poems sitting unfinished and motivation gone, leaving her long body splayed across her bed; tears and snot make themselves home to her pillowcase and blankets; pristine hair growing dishevelled beyond recognition; papers pile on her desk haphazardly and light leaks from her room, leaving her in the darkness of her depression.

And, with each deeply regrettable action – each comment, each vacant stare, each determined avoidance of her, everything I did and didn't say and did and didn't do – all of it seems to just worsen this gut feeling of wrongness. Grief soaked into every crevice of my body, bleeding from my heart, broken by the image of a woman I adored being destroyed by my decision. The vision of her drowning in a depression, so lost to her mind, the water ripping her of any desire or happiness or love she may have left; a singular tear burned my cheek as it slid down the skin. Finally, as it fell from my chin, a final note plucked from the harp, echoing around the room.

My body fell backward, breaths ragged and shaking. Each finger vibrated with exhaustion, blotches appearing across my arms and legs as my breaths accelerated. Rough beats shook my chest, heart racing as my legs wobbled away from the chair and towards the bed.

"What's wrong with me…" It was a whisper, barely audible amongst the swarming thoughts of my mind. My chin wobbled, shivering in the sudden chill that I had discovered in my bones. Each breath seemed to grow shallower than the last, hands clenched into fists and toes curling in agony. The gentle fabric brushed my skin with an understanding and sympathy no person had shown me before Anastasia.

We had shown sympathy for one another, an understanding that became the bridge of our relationship, the fresh stone adorned with the flowers of love and admiration that had grown from our care and kindness.

Odette's words continued to echo through my mind, the ripples cracking the bricks of our bridge, our safety and happiness threatened by each and every syllable. Whether it be the paranoia or true fear, I needed to at least see Anastasia. Flowers wilted and died as images swirled around me, solidifying the death of our love with a gentle breeze, the gust carrying away whatever remnants of the bridge were left until there was nothing at all.

At this point, any contact would be enough for me. I needed to look into her eyes and hear from her directly that something was wrong. She will always be a book well read by me, and any word she tells will be cherished in my heart, no matter how they break it.

Buzzing shook through me, sobs falling from my chest and tears flowing from my eyes.

She may be drowning in a depression, but I'm burning in the bonfire of expectations. Both of us are destroyed by an element so close to us that it fractures our souls.

She'd love poetry like that, I'm sure.

"Evvie…?" My body threw itself forward, my spine crackling as I turned abruptly towards the door, only to find Jillie's small frame. Her fingers were twiddling with her dress – as they did when she was nervous – head hung low and shoulders curled inward. She glanced upwards for a moment, voice still small as she mumbled, "Are you okay, Evvie?" The thumping of my heart slowed, tears holding for a moment and my chest soaking with relief. Just Jillie. Fear filled her eyes, the poor child frightened by my red eyes and face, the tears still trailing along my cheeks.

"Yes, Jillie?" My voice sounded broken, worn, and scratchy – everything you usually avoid when talking to a scared child. She stepped forward a little, her eyes glazed with worry. Both hands reached for her, calling out to her for comfort. Usually, she'd sprint her way over, jumping into my arms and squeezing like the snakes and other animals she loved to learn about. But now she only stepped forward tentatively, shuffling her way towards me with a fear she'd never directed my way.

"Oh dear, please," She strode towards me with the fear of a child witnessing the unknown, a situation which much fit Jillian; not once had she seen me cry, never openly and never to this extent. She likely feels the way I did upon seeing Mum cry for the first time. The way she broke down in the bathroom, tears coating her cheeks and screams tearing through her throat, the blood along the bathroom floor a symbol of her pain. At the time I had yet to learn what she was going through, but, even so, seeing her feeling so destroyed was enough for the worry to bubble in my stomach and tears to bubble in my eyes; just as was happening with Jillie now.

No child should have to see anyone anywhere near as broken as she was seeing me now; or seeing Mum then. No child, in no country, in no state, in no way should have to experience the reality of the world in such a way.

But Jillie is a smart girl, so hopefully she takes this much better than I took Mum's miscarriage.

She crawled into my arms, eyes wide and muscles stiff. Guilt held me over her emotions, but she'd never resent me for something I had no control over. Because Jillie is a smart girl, and she can handle her own emotions much better than any adult in our lives.

"I'm so sorry, Jillie. You shouldn't have to see me like this," It was muffled by her hair, but she understood me just fine, nodding along. Her nose rubbed into the chest of my day dress, the pale yellow colour deepening from her ever-so-slightly snotty nose. Then, slowly, her gemstone eyes look back up at me, the childish innocence glistening in them still, although smothered by her tears. "It's just issues with a friend of mine, I promise everything will be alright, yeah? How was school?" She let go of my torso for a second to wipe her eyes and nose clean, her tiny hands returning a mere minute later, head resting on my chest like it did on her pillow.

"Ms Lillidale taught me all about Panda bears and China and lots of stuff about all the animals there. Did you know Bamboo is one of the tallest-growing grasses in the world? And it's one of the main areas of a Panda's diet, they can't get enough of it. Which I think is like Dad with cheese sometimes, and like you with books, and like Mum with those special drinks I'm not allowed to have at the club, which is funny, don't you think?" A chuckle puffed out of me at her rambling, the regular Jillian returning to the surface. She beamed at my shift in mood, snuggling further into my chest and breathing slowly.

"I like it when you tell me what you've learnt; you sound so smart." Her smile grew wider, the shine of her teeth glinting like the light off fresh leaves – so soft and warm you felt your heart lift.

We sat there, giggling about everything Jillie shared – even when they weren't funny – completely forgetting about everything earlier. Jillie is my distraction from the destruction of our world.

"So… why have you been so sad recently?" Jillie mumbled out, looking up at me with innocence that could never find my life again. Her soft eyes remind me of my own, the green that of the warm spring days that Anastasia and I would spend dancing and laughing carefree. The warmth of her personality lit her eyes in a way that will never reflect in my own, the same warm glow in her cheeks and smile and way of life.

"Because…" The words caught in my throat. How do you explain to a child that you are sad because someone who wanted to be more than friends with you – who you also want to be much more than friends with – is sad, and that makes you feel bad, because you chose not to be more than friends because of your social insecurities? Considering how difficult that is to understand as someone who is going through it herself, it's easy to reason that she may not understand it either.

"Because sometimes it's difficult to find a way to love someone without feeling like others will judge or shun you for it. And sometimes that just feels too overwhelming to smile through." Jillie seemed to hum in thought, head turning back into my chest as she contemplated what I told her. Her fingers tapped the way they always did when she was deep in her mind, thrumming against my collarbones and reverberating through my skeletal system.

We each waited in silence, the birds singing softly and the wind rustling through the leaves of each tree that lined our garden, adding whimsical music to Jillian's contemplation. She always loves listening to the sweet harmony of nature, it's why she always sits outside and waits under the apple trees when I'm making my way home from school. It helps her think, and with the way she started to shuffle up to sit cross-legged in the bed, it was obvious she had reached her final decision.

"Umm…" Her head tilted in a contemplative way, fingers twiddling idly. "But I thought you had a boyfriend… Isn't that a friend that's more than a friend?" Her brows furrowed in confusion, plump skin squishing against my shoulder as she held my arm. Her childish glimmer was gone, replaced with the semi-mature solemn look of a near teenager.

I nodded slowly, sitting up and hanging my left leg off the bed. Comparably, I was considerably more childish than her right now, my scrunched hair and crinkled clothes homeless compared to her perfect braids and freshly ironed dress.

"But… I didn't really wanna be more than friends with him. I had to, so that I wouldn't think about the other friend that I wanted to be with more." Jillie's hands were soft and small – as only young people could achieve – when they sat inside my own, watching her eyes and looking for a response. "Because sometimes… People don't think you should like who you like. And some people, like me, are scared of what people think. So, then you end up like me, dating someone you don't like just because other people wouldn't like you otherwise."

She seemed to ponder such an idea, thinking about how it could work in a society like today. And all at once, it clicked for her.

"He was black?" Admittedly, it clicked all, completely, in every thinkable way, wrong, but it did click. I shook my head, absolutely exasperated with such an idea. A look of confusion seemed to wash over her face yet again, but this time she didn't seem to want an answer in particular but just seemed to accept the advice about society.

"I understand. How about instead of thinking about it and feeling sad we go play chess! You always laugh when I make bad chess jokes." Her attempt to lift the mood sent a giggle through my system, before my body shuffled off the bed and began towards the door with a rushed 'bet I could beat you down there!'. Jillian's footsteps rushed behind me, her belly laughing following me like a bloodhound down the stairs.

These were the memories of childhood I wished to relive always. Giggles and joy, jokes and races, useless nonsense that fills our day with warmth and wonder greater than anything else in the world. Love blossoms through our bodies like hydrangeas; bundles and bundles of little flowers glowing with an aura of care and kindness.

The same way I feel with Anastasia.

The same warmth, the same giggles, the same love weaving and growing through the soft tissue of my heart.

And that same pain pierced my heart through the smiles and the laughs.