A Small Piece of One Heart: New Beginnings

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic
A short story of a girl's first love.
Warning: contains same sex romance. Please don't read this if you're just going to bash on the same sex aspect.
Thank you :]

Submitted: January 02, 2009

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Submitted: January 02, 2009

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I’m sick of this, I’m sick of constantly being hurt. I live in the dark, fearing what light holds, and my heart continuously aches and burns for something unattainable to someone of my status.
 I only live for love and music. It’s all I want. But I can never attain… well, either, to be honest.
 I want a music career, but I have no talent and no money, nor any proper equipment. Therefore, that idea instantly goes down the drain, along with any notions of playing alongside my friend Kinley’s band, Something Phantom, or any other semi-decent band. Music may be half my life, but there’s no point to it being of such importance.
 Second is love, love, love. Ah, what a beautiful, marvelous, wretched, heartbreaking word. As Ewan McGregor’s character in Moulin Rouge states, “Life’s only lesson is to learn to love and be loved in return.”
 …well, something like that, anyway. I got the point across with my shitty paraphrasing, which is all that matters.
 So, that’s life’s only lesson, eh? What if you happen to be a person who can’t be loved? Doesn’t deserve it, is incapable of receiving love? What if that person constantly fights for the affections of being after being, falling in love a few times along the way, but can never be loved in return? What if that person’s soul, heart, body, mind is tainted, and is no longer able to be loved? What if, sad and harsh as it may be, that person cannot trust? To make matters worse, what if the few times that person opens up finally, whoever they happen to open up to, runs, frightened, from the truth that the person had finally told someone? How is someone supposed to live if they love, and love, and still love more, but they are never loved in return? How on Earth is someone supposed to just cope with the fact that, hey, they might never properly be loved, regardless of tries?
 I’ve been in love twice in my life, and believed I was in love a third. I know, I know—I’m only fifteen, and barely fifteen at that—what the fuck do I know about love? But, believe me; I know what I’m talking about. Love is a powerful emotion, and it’s hard to mistake. I’ve felt it, and I’ve had my heart shattered, crushed, destroyed, exploded—whatever the fuck you’d like to call it.
 
 The first time I was ever in love was a long labor, taking about two years of my life, roughly. Two years of precious time that could have been spent smiling, happy times, that were instead wretched, hurtful, painful years that I have a hard time remembering—not because I’m literally incapable of remembering, but because those years took a hell of a lot out of me.
 She was my life for two whole godforsaken years. I couldn’t see anything but her; I tried my hardest everyday to make her smile, and felt my heart ache when she cried. I fell asleep thinking about her night after night, and she made my home life bearable, knowing I would see her again as the next day came.
 Over and over again, I attempted to explain my feelings for her—notes, e-mails, myspace messages, talking to her in person—but she refused to believe I was serious. Somehow it had gotten into her head that I was joking about something so serious, and she refused to believe any different. She sometimes seemed to believe it, on the occasion, and would almost taunt me with it, leading me on, ever so slightly forward, then take the floor out from under my feet, and I would hit the ground, hurt and defeated. And yet I’d always claw my way up, get back on my feet, and return to her. It was a stupid game of cat and mouse that I played.
 It wasn’t until almost a full two years later that my efforts finally paid off. It was about two weeks until school ended, and my sister and I were moving to Arizona the next morning. My other best friend, Asia, whom I had been living with for about a month, was the one throwing the party. I was amazed at how it had turned out—the theme was a rave, so there were blacklights and heavy techno music, and glow sticks all around. Over thirty people were crowding the small house, people that I was unaware even knew my name were crying, wishing my sister and I luck in our endeavors to the state of Living Hell, also known to human beings as Arizona. During the course of the party, people approached Lola and I, hugging us, crying, saying goodbye. Two girls were different, pulling us out to say their goodbyes to us in the backyard—much more personal. One of them happened to be the girl I had been in love with for the past two years straight.
 She took me into the backyard, and we stood on the patio outside of the kitchen, away from the pulsating beat of the techno music. From there, we talked, almost as if strangers on a delayed train ride to separate part of the country in a chance meeting. Many things we discussed, most with little or no consequence, silly things, everything that had happened in the past two years of knowing each other. Then, abruptly, the conversation just… stopped. An awkward silence fell upon us and we wouldn’t look at each other. Finally, I ended the silence. I figured, what the hell, I have nothing left to lose anymore. So I spoke, softly and clearly, weighing each word on my tongue before letting it slip out of my lips. Carefully, the words burst from me, words I had memorized, and yet, they felt so new to me.
 I spoke her name and she turned to look at me. I still couldn’t face her, but I needed to get through to her. It was my last chance, my only chance, to show her how much I did truly love her. I took a deep breath, and let the words slip out, one by one, still carefully weighed before spoken. I had performed in front of crowds, parents, teachers, people who could actually get me somewhere in the theatre or music industry, and still I had never been as frightened and nervous as I was with the speech I gave that girl.
 “I… I know you have always thought that this was a joke, that I was just playing around, when I’ve said this before. But, you need to understand this. I love you. I can never say it enough for it to mean the way I feel about you. I love you, I love you, it still doesn’t even scratch the surface of the way I feel for you! It will never be enough. I just want you, and I know I can’t, but… I really do love you. I really, really do.”
 With those words, I fell silent, waiting for her response. Tension crackled in the air like thunder and my heart was audible above the pulsing techno. Finally, she touched my arm softly, and I turned to look at her. Her soft blue eyes were full of tears. Oh, god, her eyes were magnificent… But I digress.
 “Alex,” she said, and my heart actually jumped when she said my name. I could feel the blush creeping up my neck.
 “I’ve always admired you… The way you’re openly Bi, openly Wiccan, and you don’t let anyone dare talk shit about you, or any of your friends… I admire the fact that you stand up for me, when I can’t even stand up for myself. But tonight is the night I come out. I’m Bi too. And… Alex, I love you too…”
 It seemed like the world came to a complete and utter standstill. My heart, my breath, everything stopped. I stopped thinking. Everything in the world disappeared and I felt weightless.
 A few moments later, our friend Danny slammed his damn Asian gay face against the glass door, mouthing, “Kiss! Kiss!” That, of course, ruined the moment, and we returned inside shortly after, rejoining the amazing party thrown for me and my sister.
 Later that night, the party slowed down. The landlord had gotten angry at the noise, and so we had to shut down. We all went outside to wait for parents and such. She had gotten there with one of my dearest friends, Z, and when Z’s mother arrived, she quickly pulled me behind a car. She began to cry again, and I hugged her softly.
 “So I guess this is goodbye…” I murmured, stroking her hair. She shook her head.
 “No, this is the beginning. Good luck in Arizona…” She trailed off, and hesitantly leaned in, kissing me softly. I returned it with desperation, oh, God, I had waited two years for that kiss, and I knew I would never receive another one. After a moment, she pulled away slowly.
 “I have to go, Allie…” She whispered, tears leaking out of the corners of her eyes, smearing her makeup even further down her face. She hugged me one last time, and we finally departed to Z’s car.
 She climbed into the car and we hugged through the window, and then I gave Z a hug through the window as well in the passenger seat. In the backseat, she reached her hand through the window and grabbed mine. Her eyes were full of tears and her face was fearful and hurt. I felt as if my heart had been pierced with hundreds of needles. Z’s mother began to drive off, and I ran alongside the car down the street, still desperately clinging to her hand. It was only until they merged onto the freeway that I finally, crying, let go over her hand. I watched them drive down the freeway and slowly walked back to Asia’s house, trying to clear up my tears.
 That was the last time I ever saw her. It’s been almost two full years—it’ll be over two years by the next time I visit California, and I still sadly doubt I’ll see her. We still talk on the occasion, and I’m over her, but a very small part of me still aches from the damage that was done. I’ve only felt that aching hole close up when I’ve been in love.


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