He winces at the hostility in my gaze, tiny arrows of hate directed at him. Then he closes his eyes when he says, "I'm not that powerful. And it was too late, they'd already moved on. But you, you lingered. And I thought that meant you wanted to live."
I lean against my car, closing my eyes, gasping for breath, thinking: So it really is my fault.
Because I procrastinated, lingered, wandered through that stupid field, distracted by those pulsating trees and flowers that shivered. While they moved on, crossed over, and I fell for his bait…
He looks at me briefly, then averts his gaze.
And wouldn't you know it, the one time I'm so angry I could actually kill someone, my anger's directed at the one person who claims to be, well, un-killable.
"Go away!" I finally say, ripping the crystal-encrusted horseshoe bracelet from my wrist and throwing it at him. Wanting to forget about that, about him, about everything. Having seen and heard more than I can take. "Just-go away. I never want to see you again."
"Ever, please don't say that if you don't really mean it," he says, his voice pleading, sorrowful, weak.
I place my head in my hands, too weary to cry, too shattered to speak. And knowing he can hear the thoughts in my head, I shut my eyes and think: You say you'd never harm me, but look what you've done! You've ruined everything, wrecked my whole life, and for what? So I could be alone? So I could live the rest of my life as a freak? I hate you-I hate you for what you've done to me-I hate you for what you've made me, I hate you for being so selfish! And I never, ever want to see you again!
I stay like that, head in my hands, rocking back and forth against the wheel of my car, allowing the words to flow through me, over and over again.
Just let me be normal, please just let me be normal again. Just go away, leave me alone.
Because I hate you-I hate you-I hate you-I hate you-
When I finally look up, I'm surrounded by tulips-hundreds of thousands of tulips, all of them red. Those soft waxy petals glinting in the bright morning sun, filling up the parking lot and covering all the cars. And as I struggle to my feet and brush myself off, I know without looking: their sender is gone.
Twenty-Seven
It's weird in English, not having Damen beside me, holding my hand, whispering in my ear, and acting as my off switch. I guess I'd grown so used to having him around I'd forgotten just how mean Stacia and Honor could be. But watching them smirk, as they text each other with messages like-Stupid freak, no wonder he left-I know I'm back to relying on my hoodie, sunglasses, and iPod again.
Though it's not like I don't see the irony. It's not like I don't get the joke. Because for someone who sobbed in a parking lot, begging her immortal boyfriend to disappear so that she could feel normal again, well, obviously, the punch line is me.
Because now; in my new life without Damen, all of the random thoughts, the profusion of colors and sounds, are so overwhelming, so tremendously crushing, my ears constantly ring, my eyes continuously water, and the migraines appear so quickly, invading my head, hijacking my body, and rendering me so nauseous and dizzy I can just barely function.
Though it is funny how I was so worried about mentioning our breakup to Miles and Haven that a full week passed by before his name was even mentioned. And even then, I'm the one who brought it up. I guess they'd gotten so used to his erratic attendance they didn't see anything unusual about his latest extended absence.
So one day, during lunch, I cleared my throat, glanced between them, and said, "Just so you know; Damen and I broke up." And when their mouths dropped open and they both started to speak, I held up my hand and said, "And, he's gone."
"Gone?" they said, four eyes bugging, two jaws dropping, both of them reluctant to believe it.
And even though I knew they were concerned, even though I knew I owed them a good explanation, I just shook my head, pressed my lips together, and refused to say anything further.
Though Machado wasn't so easy. A few days after Damen left, she walked right up to my easel, did her best to avoid direct eye contact with my Van Gogh disaster, and said, "I know you and Damen were close, and I know how hard this must be for you, so I thought you should have this. I think you'll find it extraordinary.»
She pushed a canvas toward me, but I just leaned it against the leg of my easel and kept painting. I had no doubt about its being extraordinary; everything Damen did was extraordinary.
But then again, when you've roamed the earth for hundreds of years, you've plenty of time to master a few skills.
"Aren't you going to look at it?" she asked, confused by my lack of interest in Damen's masterpiece replica of a masterpiece.
But I just turned to her, forcing my face into a smile when I said, "No. But thank you for giving it to me."