Her

06

AZA

I can't stop thinking about her. I can't stop thinking about her serious green eyes, about her hands on my skin, her grip first hard, then less hard, then gentle, almost caressing. I can't stop thinking about her freckles, which aren't even visible from afar, but which are like tiny little stars when you get close to her. Stars which I would love to count, to touch. I can't stop thinking about her lips, how soft they looked, how kissable they looked. I can't stop thinking about her.

_____

PHOENIX

"But how long will you be gone?"

"I told you I don't know, Phoenix. Maybe a couple of days, maybe a week, maybe two."

"But -"

"I don't have time to discuss this; my flight is in less than two hours. Gosh, were is that bloody scarf?"

My mother walks around the room, looking for her scarf. I stay in the doorway.

"I got sent to the headmaster's office today," I say.

"Really? Again? What did you do this time?"

"Well, I -"

"There it is!" She stuffs her scarf into her suitcase. "If you need anything," she says, rolling it towards the door, "call your father."

"My father lives in America, how is he supposed to help me?"

"I don't know, Phoenix. Just don't call me."

"Thank you, mother. That is so sweet of you."

"Okay, I think I have everything with me. I'll see you in about a week."

"I can't wait."

I look at her, and she leaves, not giving me another look, not giving me another word. And I just stand there, like I'm waiting, still, waiting for her, for all of them, to come back.

Sometimes I wish I could just turn off my feelings. I wish there was some button which I could press and then my feelings would be turned off. The pain would stop, the caring would stop. But there isn't a button, so the pain never stopped, and the caring never stopped either. I think no matter how badly your parents treat you, you always care about them. You always want them to be proud of you, want them to look at you, see you, love you. I wonder if it's the same for parents, if no matter how much of a disappointment and fuckup your kid is, you care about them and love them. I don't know, and I don't think I'll ever find out.

It wasn't always the way it is now. There was a time when both my parents did these things. They were proud of me, they looked at me, they saw me, they loved me. The first time I had to go to the headmaster's office was when I was seven years old and had a stutter. Back then, cool kids played with Barbie dolls and action figures, not phones. There was a group of girls who had the coolest Barbies you could have, and I wanted to be part of that group. The problem was, that group didn't want me to be part of it. They laughed at my dolls, they laughed at my stutter, and they laughed at me.

I'm one of the most short-tempered, most competitive people you will ever meet. Don't text me back for a day? I won't text you back for two. Let me wait for five minutes? I will stay mad for five hours. Don't let me be part of the cool kids with cool Barbies? I will take all the cool Barbies and cut all their heads off with scissors. Some might say I'm childish - but then, I literally was a seven year old child back then, so what do you expect? Now that I'm seventeen, I'm not sure what my excuse for being childish is. I know cutting the Barbies' heads off was a mean thing to do and very wrong, but at that time it felt very right. Getting ahold of the Barbies was almost too easy. Getting away with basically murdering them, on the other hand - well, not so much.