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Youtopia, Ch. 6 |
| Written by Sneh =] | |
| Tuesday, 15 April 2008 | |
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Share it:      “He’s so gorg, Morgue. Those piercings look so hot on him...and besides, you guys make such a cute couple. Seriously. So, so cute. Why didn’t you hook up with him sooner, instead of staying with that loser Rob? He was a total loser, you know. And not anywhere near as sexy as Shane. Not even remotely. Jesus, I wish Foss was half as hot.” She winks quickly at me before I can fully take offense. “Anyway,” I say with a roll of my eyes, “Not that I’m trying to say anything about your dating choices or whatever, but I don’t really like this guy. He just seems...weird.” Morgue’s eyebrows furrow. “Well, yeah, he’s not a prep or whatever, but there’s nothing wrong with him. He’s nice and...” He looks down, then pushes back a blue bang so we can see both his pupils. I’m not sure why, but I swear there’s a flare of defiance in his hazel-brown eyes. “And I think I love him.” Em gasps and emits this high-pitched squeal, reaching across the booth awkwardly to half-hug Morgue. “That’s fab! Do you think he loves you back?” “Yeah...that’s when he asked me out. After saying that he loved me.” Morgue’s smiling so sweetly that it feels like I should restrain myself from ruining his happiness– but there’s no way in hell I’m really going to let him get involved with that freak. “Morgue. Listen to yourself,” I urge him. “You’ve only known Shane for what, a few days..a few weeks, tops? How can you say you’ve already fallen in love with him?” “It’s not like it can’t happen! People fall in love with each other at first sight all the time. Haven’t you ever heard of Romeo and Juliet?” “Yeah, well, that only took place over a week– and by the end of the book they’re both dead! What ******* kind of love is that?” I’m beginning to rise from my chair, and Morgue’s already standing in the aisle. Em’s hands keep spazzing, as if she’s not sure what to do, but eventually she falls back into the role of the innocent bystander and lets us take care of things ourselves. “What do you even know about love anyway?!” Morgue shouts, and it’s obvious he’s pissed enough to have smoke coming out of his ears, but so am I and so I continue to egg him on. “Well I know more than you would,” I spit at him. “Why?” He grins unhumorously. “Because I’m gay?” “No, because you’re a ******* ****. You wouldn’t know love if you were ******* blowing it!” This is again one of those moments where I say before I think, but this time I’m not so regretful because Morgue looks absolutely floored and I’m really starting to enjoy myself. “You–?!” He’s lost for words, and the draining of color from his already pale face pretty clearly shows he’s lost the argument as well. “You think I’m a *****?” “I’m not thinking it, I know it, and so does probably everyone else in this ******* restaurant.” I turn to the shocked patrons of Friendly’s and address them. “How many people here have ever dated and/or slept with Morgan Berkeley?” I’m doing this just to prolong that look of undistilled disbelief on Morgue’s face, but some males in goth garb look sheepishly at the tiled floor and actually raise their hands. Slowly, almost all the teenage boys on our side of the restaurant join in, most simultaneously sending Morgue apologetic glances. Who ever said teens never tell the truth? “I...you...” There’s this wounded look beginning to develop on Morgue’s face, one that drives a cold metal spear through my chest and every fragile chamber of my heart. It’s literally hurting, and the throbbing pain aids me in coming to the quick conclusion that I’m an *******. My eyes wander around the room in search of support; even Em looks completely ashamed of me, her gray hoodie pulled over her bangs so she can pretend, at least to herself, that we’re strangers. My lips part, because I have to utter something, anything, to fix this, but no words come out because there’s nothing I can say. I’m still convincing myself that I can patch this up when Morgue finally turns away from me, his head tilted towards the ground and his bangs covering his reddened face, and walks slowly in shame towards the front door. He’s a broken man, his chest just a latex bag holding the sharp little pieces of his shattered heart, and all the blame blatantly belongs to me but I don’t want to believe it. The door swings shut, and he’s gone, and everyone in the store is shooting dirty looks at me like I haven’t already realized what an ******* I am. I attempt to sit back in the booth and erase the memory of the past five minutes with the ice-cream equivalent of a couple of beers, but Em’s blocking the path, and her anger-fueled heat vision’s drilling holes through my skin. “What...what the fuck did you do that for?!?” She’s enraged almost to the point of speechlessness but not quite, and the volume of her voice is making the ears bleed of anyone within a five-mile radius. Angry Em is scaring me, but I guess I deserve it. “I’m sorry,” I mumble into my t-shirt, donning my award-winning puppy-dog face to soften her raw outrage. It doesn’t seem to work much, especially when Em turns up the notch from anger to disgust. There’s really nothing I can do that would make it easier to face those accusing eyes and that intense frown, and I’m almost relieved when Em finally follows Morgue’s example and makes a silent yet dramatic exit, leaving me alone in a crowd of people who want to painfully extract my organs so they could run over each one separately with a Hummer. The pressure of their combined hatred of me is unbearable, and so I follow suit behind Em. Outside, the sun attempts to cheer me up by caressing my skin with its warmth but it’s no use– neither of my (potentially former) best friends are anywhere to be seen, and Em’s taken her car to boot, so now I’ll have to walk the two miles back to my house in the blistering June heat. I sigh and take a seat right on the sidewalk because it’s not like I’ve anything better to do. There’s no point in even heading home– all that’s there is my drunken hobo of a brother and a pile of homework for French that I was supposed to do today with Morgue but I’m highly doubting that’s going to happen now after my beautiful display of dumbassery back there. My hand brushes against my khaki shorts and I remember I have my cell phone, which means that I could call Morgue and try to work things out. I could, but will that solve anything? No, because if it was the other way around I’d probably never talk to Morgue around, and so I can’t expect anything more of him. “This is just ******* great,” I say out loud to myself, because I guess I can’t stop at just attaining the title of *******, I’ve got to add a bit of psychosis in there, too. I’m really beginning to think something’s wrong with me– why the hell did I start claiming Morgue was a ****? Okay, sure, so he sleeps around...a lot...but so do a lot of people. That doesn’t make it right, but just saying. My hand’s around my forehead and I’m sighing into my knees because I’m stumped. I don’t know why I just decided to **** things up. Actually, that’s a lie. I do know why, but it’s a stupid, selfish reason, so it doesn’t count. I did it because I’m really distrusting that Shane guy. Morgue may think he’s nice but I don’t, and I was just trying to prove my point before. I went a little far, alright, I’ll give you that, but I did get the message across, didn’t I? Didn’t I? That Shane’s not the right kind of guy for him, especially when you factor in that he’s at least three years older? I did say that at some point during my little meltdown, didn’t I? I’m getting tired of arguing with myself, so I cradle my head in my palms and exhale, hoping that somehow, along with the carbon dioxide, my problems will disappear through my nostrils and enter the atmosphere to be forgotten about until it returns to my life much later as something beneficial, like Red Hot Chili Peppers tickets or a $20 bill that I’ll chance upon on the sidewalk. But this wishful thinking isn’t going to solve anything, so against my better judgement, I stand up, brush myself off, and begin the long journey home with a guilty conscience but a clear mind. It’s going to take time, but I’ll right this wrong soon enough. Copyright 2008 Sneh =] |
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| Last Updated ( Wednesday, 16 April 2008 ) |
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