Sitting in the Office

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The walls are lavender, but the smell is of coconut, vanilla and death. You can't tell, but I am slowly, sickeningly dying. I dream of him, but he is not here. I want him to be here, and hold my hand, and tell me that it's going to be okay. But I don't believe that it will be. I feel that everything I have, and everything I am, will disappear on me. Cast a light on me, because I cannot find my way anymore. Save me, help me, I am crying out for help. When someone comes, I am afraid, I am concerned. I am cornered, but no one plans to do anything other than sit around and watch me stare at the walls. The walls are bright, but the sight is of stillness and loss.

He said, "Don't worry, it's okay; I won't tell anyone. Just follow me." So I went with him, and I can never forgive him for what happened. I walked down the hall, hand in hand with his, and the pictures on the walls warned me: "Stop," "Turn around," or "Go back to your own room," but as you can see, I was rather foolish. He stopped me. Turned around, and asked me, "Do you trust me?" I stared and stared. My heart beating, my stomach turning, doing somersalts, I said, "Why?" He grinned a bit too slyly, and pulled me along to the end of the hall. The room key was in his pocket. The necklace was around his copper neck. I was in the palm of his hand. The door opened and now, I do not remember a thing.

The boy in the chair sitting across from me is staring. He looks and looks and looks. I do not look up; I see him out of the corner of my eye. His intense look makes my skin tingle, and I do not understand. My eyes water, and I thought they were from allergies, but it may be because his eyes are the piercing blue of sadness. But why are they so bright if they mean something bad? I listen to happy songs on my iPod, but it does not do anything to lift this nostalgia from the air. My eyes droop to the floor, away from the boy with the beautiful and stunning eyes. A man just walked in, and his stare is scary. His breathing is heavy, and I feel as if I were to pass him on the street, he would try to pull me into an alley and do unmentionable things. His stench is of whiskey and stale cigarettes. Octane? Gasoline? Maybe if i lit a match and dropped it at his feet he would choke up into flames. I am afraid of the world. I think that maybe the boy can sense it. His head nods slightly to his left, and to me, it is his right. His eyes squint just the tiniest bit, but then he looks over and away. He senses that I know he knows that I know he is watching me. If you could understand; Praise. I listen to music that represents dreams, nothing that the new radio stations play. Nothing dirty, but sweet like peppermint, sour like when you eat something really late at night, and then you can taste it when you get up in the morning. It makes me nauseous. You know what else makes me nervous and nauseous and shake with fear? The boy sitting in the chair across from me with the electric, strong, scary, sexy, hidden, broken blue eyes. I want to reach out to him.

I imagine owls flying into the black and orange sky, with white stars enveloping their fear. There go my eyes watering again. Maybe because it is cold. I cry when I am sad. I cry when I see my friends or people that I love cry. I am a very sensitive person. You tell me a sob story, and that is exactly what I will do. I need time to realize how wrong I am sometimes. I wish the one I love with all my heart would fall in love with me, too. But maybe it's better of being the way it is. Very close, but with many things that I cannot disclose to others; even him. Every now and then, we share an electric look, touch legs, touch arms, and there goes that rush of heat again. But as soon as it is there, it has passed and I can say, "I have no idea what you're talking about." I am so clever with pretending to not know anything. I wish some days, it were easier to forget. Maybe tonight, I will dream about the boy with the blue eyes. Maybe he will save me from harm; a dragon, an enemy, a burning building. He and I will have beautiful white angel wings. Except that one of my wings will be pitch black. Day and night. Sol y Luna. Polar opposites, but locked together nonetheless. Maybe the whiskey-smelling man will be there, too. He will be the Evil King of Darkness, and the boy's eyes will change from blue to violet and he grows stronger. His brown hair will wave as if he were standing in front of a fan. Then, he will pull out a sword from its sheath and slay the Evil King, just as if he were a piece of meat. He will save me from harm, but then of course, as all good dreams go, I will wake up just as he is about to say something meaningful. I go back to imagining that maybe if I thought about you, you in return, would think about me.

The boy does not know a thing, after all. He just sits, pretending to check his cell phone when we both know that it is dead. He occassionally looks over and sometimes, I sense, or even see, a slight little smirk cross his beautiful marble features. Have I fallen already? Usually I take my time, but sometimes you just know these things. I remember the last time I was afraid of saying what I felt. I wound up turning blunt and spurting out words like a fountain. Total word vomit. It was not pleasant. People always tell me I have such a good imagination, and I do believe them. How else could I escape my hardships during my everyday life? I could take it, or I could leave and learn to make a replica that takes the damage for me. A... decoy. Uh-oh... I think the whiskey man is coming back again. Here he is, descending the stairs, staring coldly and condescendingly right at me. I will not lower myself and look back at him. I look out the window instead, pretending that I care about what is on the outside. Will I ever be let out of this hellhole? Nothing to do. Neither the boy with the blue eyes nor I are able to breathe. Not with Whiskey Man practically breathing down our necks. A little boy just sat down next to me. He plays with his hands, looking at the books and Legos placed out for the small children, waiting. He picks up a book in his little brown hands, turning it over and over. I doubt he knows what it means. He looks and me, and I just turned my head and saw him. His innocent dark brown eyes, glittering as if just seeing life for the first time. I turned my head away, excuse me while I wipe away some tears. One of the most beautiful things I have ever had the experience to see. Or even be part of. I can finally see the reason why love should be treasured forever. I looked at the boy with the blue eyes, and he knows why I have smiled for the first time since I got here. Everything that I do here, after I am done, I try with all my might not be sucked back into his eyes. I want to know what is hidden behind them. It is a strange feeling, but I want to mend whatever is broken inside of him. I have a sixth sense to know when something is amiss. He screams sadness, pain, fear, hiding, sorrow, guilt, and regret for something that I will never fully understand. I could lie and tell you I have not fallen in love, but that would be just a little bit on the B.S. side.

It is now 4:30. I looked at the clock, but silly, foolish, naive me. There is a clock right here on my computer. I averted my gaze from the lingering one of Blue Eyes. He is stunning, pretending he thinks he's not. He wears a black peacoat, purple shirt underneath, blue, strained, bleached jeans and Nike's; black and blue. White, too. The little boy is impatient and paces back and forth from the front desk back to the couch next to me. He sits, gets up, walks to the counter, turns around and sits back down on the couch. He sometimes looks at me, and I sometimes look back. What a little cutie, I think. He smells like oranges, and when I look at him a fourth time, he is holding one in his hand. It is like sitting in the dentist's office, watching the patrons shuffle in and out. Sitting with random strangers in chairs and on couches. Not knowing one another, but sharing a goal all the same. The little kids trying to escape, pulling on their parent or legal guardian's sleeve. The adults brush them off and tell them, "Go play." I remember being a little kid, feeling scared at the doctor's office. I was never afraid of needles. I still am not. I sometimes wonder, what would it be like if I was a heroin addict? I could do it all I wanted, because needles do nothing to intimidate me. It is now 4:36.

The boy with the amazing blue eyes is looking at me. Now, I do not think he knows I know that he is staring at me. I would like to ask for his name, but shyness gets the best of me, so I will stay tucked into my seat on the couch. He is very intimidating, and I think that that is a turn-on. Well, hey, intimidation is not for everyone. When will they call Mom and I to do something else other than sit on the couch and fill out paperwork? What if the boy makes it out before I do? I will never get the chance to know his name, or his story, or why his blue eyes are blue like they are...





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