1
David
Emily is my kindred spirit. She is more like family to me than those who share my blood. My addictive personality, anger, and the way I connect with women are carried within my veins from my father. My self-loathing, inability to survive without attention, and recklessness trace back to my mother. I detest the blood within me, which has undoubtedly paved the path for who I have become. I replaced the traits from my mother until I see only my father when I look in the mirror. Why can't I ever see my own reflection?
Emily believes my mother died in a tragic car accident—one of the few secrets I have kept from her. In reality, my mother killed herself after years of attention seeking threats and “attempts”. She was happiest when we coddled her in the wake of her breakdowns. When we started living our own lives again, the cycle would repeat. Her attempts were unbelievably calculated and macabre.
I saw my mother near death at her own hands countless times before I reached my early teens. It got to where I couldn’t differentiate between reality and the fictional world she lived and died in. She was the star character in her series, and she loved it that way. After seeing the same show so many times with only slight variances in the scenes, we all stopped taking her seriously.
On the morning of my fourteenth birthday, I found her overdosed in the bathroom. No one will ever know if it was intentional or if one of her many ploys went just a little too far. She was cold when I discovered her. I shook her as I laughed, cried, and then laughed again. I stood and backed away from her body, calling for help as I had done so many times before.
She was pronounced deceased, curled up on the vomit-stained tile. I blamed myself for years. If I had taken her threat the night before seriously, maybe she would still be alive. Or maybe it wouldn't have made a difference at all. She was sick. But a mere fourteen-year-old boy did not kill her. In the end, her sickness consumed the life from her body.
Later that day, I celebrated my birthday alone at home. I sang Happy Birthday to myself while eating a cupcake I stole from a local bakery.
My father wasn't even home the day his wife passed away. Maybe not even since the night prior. He preferred the companionship of alcohol and heroin, a dangerous threesome. My father constantly teetered on the line between life and death. One day soon, I’m sure I’ll receive a call about his poisoned and lifeless body, found with a needle in his arm.
Despite rarely being home to begin with, Dad decided he couldn’t tolerate living in a house with so many “reminders” of my mother. We packed up what little we had and moved from Tennessee to Upstate New York.
* * *
Emily
I meetDavid in tenth grade. He walks into my class on a Monday morning, three weeks into the school year. He enters the room with a buzzing confidence that radiates from him. Wearing jeans and cowboy boots, he stands out inelegantly among an ocean of name brand clothing. The tide begs to suck him under. His hair is medium in length, slightly tousled, and rich brown in color. His slate-gray eyes are almost hypnotic if I stare at them for too long. His skin is tanned, having been kissed by the sun of the South. He has a strong southern accent that other kids mock him for, but it piques my curiosity.
He takes a seat beside mine, smiles, and kicks his leg out into the aisle.
When the bell goes off at the end of homeroom, I gather my books and stand. David fumbles with a wrinkled piece of paper. I walk over to him.
“Do you need help?” I ask.
“Yeah. I can’t figure out my next class on this stupid schedule they gave me.”
“Let me look.” I reach over and grasp the crumpled paper. I scan my finger down the left column and drag it towards the right of the page. “That’s because you have study hall next block. It doesn’t actually have a room number. It’s just in the cafeteria.”
“Oh, I see.”
He gives me a blank stare and slowly takes the schedule out of my hand.
“Do you want me to take you to the cafeteria? I have to go by there anyway.”
He nods. We head into the nearly empty hallway, having missed the initial wave of students. It’s peaceful, with just a few other stragglers like us. I turn to David.
“I’m Emily Maylor by the way.”
“David Norstar. Nice to meet you.”
He reaches a golden-toned hand out to me, and I hesitate before putting my hand in his. I swear there is electricity between us.
“Where are you from?”
“Tennessee. We moved here about two weeks ago.”
* * *