Eternity Will Never Be Enough - Chapter Four

Delaney:

It’s almost immediately after I get to my new home that I stop sleeping. I’ve always been an insomniac, prying my eyes open long after they deserve to be shut, but anymore I don’t feel tired. I don’t feel the slowing thoughts or the way  my body used to get heavy. Instead, I’ll slip out of Will’s arms long after he’s fallen asleep and pad out into our new living room. The first time seeing it was like the first time seeing my life on display - the good parts, anyways. There are pictures, tons of pictures, of me and him, ranging from when we were five to those few, perfect months he spent entirely as mine. Sitting on a bookshelf, there are a series of pictures in different frames that I took at maybe five in the morning. The first is of him, smiling up at me, with his hair spread out around him, my knees by his shoulders. The next is a little off focus, he’d pulled me down to kiss him, moving the camera seconds before I took the picture. All you can see in it is our chins and my neck, and the bottom of our lips pressed together. And the last is undoubtedly my favorite, because it’s clearly of both of us. I had the camera raised above us, and he had his arm around my shoulder, his lips on mine perfectly. I smile and touch the picture. I wonder how many night are going to be spent like this again.

I look around our new living room, fully taking it in for the first time. In nearly the same position as they were in the last apartment, there is a couch, a bookcase, a desk, a TV and a coffee table. The only difference is the splashes of color he threw in. While the carpets are still white, as are the walls, he has exchanged the rich, black wood of his coffee table for a dark, warm mahogany. The couch is maroon with matching throw pillows, and it’s soft when I sit on it. There’s a colorful quilt on the back of it, and I recognize it as the one Will’s grandma knit him for Christmas when we were seven. I slide my fingers onto it, feeling the fabric between my fingers. It’s familiar and I smile, because I like that he didn’t get rid of everything. I turn my attention back towards the living room, looking at the curtains. They’re deep green and probably velvet, and pulled closed. I know that during the day, they’ll be thrown open to reveal the view of the parking lot and across the street. One thing I liked about his old apartment was that it wasn’t in the front of the building. It faced the back, and thus, the spread out foliage and the little stream that flowed through his backyard. This’ll be different, but I’m open for change.

I stand up, looking around again before moving on to explore the rest of the house. I move onto the kitchen, looking around. It’s remarkably similar to his old one, the same marble countertops and stainless steel that I’ll scrub with polish every day to keep shining. The differences are, again, subtle. Splashes of color around the room, and it’s then that I realize he purposely decorated it in all of my favorite colors. I grin and slide my fingertips across the countertop, only stopping when I reach the silver refrigerator. I pull one side open, and look it over. It’s stocked up with frozen food and my favorite ice creams, where last time there’d maybe have been a frozen pizza thrown lazily at the bottom. I open the other side and smile. There are fruits, vegetables, dips and cheeses and bagels, where last time there would have been a spread of half-empty condiments that nobody would ever eat as there would be nothing to put them on. I contemplate for a minute pulling out the bag of ripe, purple grapes he’d bought and then promptly decide against it, deciding instead to wait until morning to see what he’ll make for me. I’m already getting used to this, to him being mine and me being his. I’ve never felt happier than I do right now, and I move to sit at the table, the light wood in contrast but so perfect for the room. I drum my fingers against it, looking down at my bandages.

I haven’t thought about them yet. But now that my focus is on them, I realize that my arms are itching and so is my stomach and my legs. I bite my bottom lip, looking over my shoulder to make sure Will isn’t coming, before slowly untying the bandages. I unravel it carefully, keeping it around my knuckles incase I need to wrap my arms back up. But it doesn’t look like I’ll need to. The deep cuts have begun to scab and even though they’re a sickening yellow-ish color around the edges, I still think they’re utterly beautiful. I guess I should know by now, that if I think they’re beautiful, that I’m not getting better, but that doesn’t bother me one bit. My fingers are tracing over the rough bumps of try blood, breathing in sharply when I hit a piece of tender skin that hasn’t quite healed yet. I train my fingers back up my arm, stopping at my wrists and staring at them, and that’s when I feel it. I feel the sinking sensation, the way this reality is beginning to fade. I feel myself slump a bit, my mind running through a series of memories before stopping on one. The worst memory I have, in all honesty, besides maybe my suicide attempt.

I’m sitting in a hotel room, staring at my wrists. I’m on a would-be comfy bed with my legs crossed, and there are bandages in my lap. I’m breathing shakily, my eyes pulling away from my blood-stained wrist and then looking up at the other person in the room with me. It’s him, Grant, and he’s watching me with interest. The kind of sick interest, almost satisfaction, of a hunter watching it’s prey. But I smile, slipping off of the bed and padding over to him, sliding into his lap and nuzzling my nose into his neck. He smells good, not like Will, but good enough. It’s spicy and sharp and over-whelming, but I can’t get enough. I bury my face further into his skin, taking deep breaths and curling into him. I bring my hand up to my mouth, my mouth enclosing around the little diamond on the golden band around my pointer finger. In a few months time now, I’ll be his. His wife and his lover. We haven’t told anybody, not finding a need to yet, but every time I think about it a jolt of excitement courses through me.

“Who bandaged those for you?” Grant asks me softly and I look up at him, my eyes wide. I know he doesn’t like it when I turn to Will and not him, but I wish he’d realize I only do it because of habit. I don’t want to, you know, I’d rather turn to him instead, and have him hold me in his arms while he pries the razorblade from my hands and wrap the medical tape and gauze around my arms. I nuzzle my nose into his neck, ever reluctant to tell him, and shrug. I feel him shift underneath me so he can hold me tightly to his body, almost too tightly but not quite enough to hurt me. When he holds me like this, it’s when I know that he’ll never, ever let me go. “You can tell me, baby.” He whispers soothingly into my hair.

“W…Will.” I say after a couple of minutes of nervous hesitation. And I was right to hesitate, as it turns out. His arms tighten even further around me and I whimper, because his strong arms are beginning to hurt and I’m so breakable, and he should know that. His fingers dig into my hips and I open my mouth, a pained gasp leaving my lips shakily. “G-Grant!” I whisper frantically, trying to wiggle out of his arms, but it’s not working and he’s tightening his arms around me, and I’m sure he’s going to leave bruises on me. I try desperately to make myself, to curl against his chest in a way that’ll make it stop hurting. “G-Grant, that h…”

“I don’t want you seeing him anymore.” His voice is harsh and I stare up at him in shock. Because Will is my best friend. I’ve known him since I was five years old, and the thought of just not seeing him anymore makes panic swirl through my chest. I’m shaking my head slowly. Because I’m not going to choose between him, and Will. I know who I’ll choose, if the it really, honestly comes down to it, and it won’t make Grant happy. I love him, there is no denying the fact that I am hopelessly in love with Grant. But then there’s Will, boyish, smiling Will with the gentle hands who cradles me in his lap when I’m scared and smiles and jokes with me and reminds me that life isn’t all about the pain we feel inside. I breathe in and out in quick, shallow little breaths, and I’m beginning to get dizzy. All I can really feel is Grant’s tight hands on my hips and the way I’m shaking my head so quickly. I’m going to see him. I’m going to see Will. I need Will, more than I’ve ever needed anybody. He’s my best friend. He’s always going to be there.

“Delaney.” Grant snaps and I feel my mouth opening in a shrill scream. I’m not sure if I managed to get the frantic, ‘LET ME GO’, into it, but if I did he isn’t listening. He yanks me to my feet, one of his large hands twisting in my hair. I’m so dizzy and I can’t help it, I go limp, and the pain of him dragging me by my hair is enough to make me pass out entirely. And then I’m in a dream inside of a dream, and in that dream I’m clawing and kicking and screaming, desperately telling him, ‘No! No,’ over and over again. I’m telling him that he’s not going to stop me from seeing Will. I’m begging for him to let me go, I’m taking of his ring and throwing it at him. I wish that, in real life, I would have the courage to tell him these things. But, little, quiet Delaney would never say those things and I almost start to hate myself for not breaking out of my shell when Will told me to. Because if I had, maybe I’d have the courage to stand up for myself, to fight back and when I wake up, to tell him to kiss my ass and leave.

But when I wake up, I realize that there is absolutely no chance of that happening at all. It’s cold and I can feel goose-bumps littering my skin, and as I look down I realize in horrification that I’m naked and that I’ve been tied with my arms above my head to a rotting, wooden post. It’s so cold, it’s one of those rare, snowy days, one of the last ones, in the middle of April. I look around shakily, opening my mouth and screaming again because I simply can’t think of anything else to do. I try to pull my hands down, to cover myself, and I cross my legs in an attempt to preserve my modesty but it’s not much help because I’m still utterly exposed. I blush and I hear a familiar, low laugh to my right and I struggle to turn that way. There he sits, with one leg crossed over the other, a view camera placed on his knee. I red light that signifies that he’s recording is on.

“If I can’t have you,” He says. “Nobody can.” And all I can really do is shiver.

“Delaney!” I’m snapped out of it by hands grabbing my arms and Will’s frantic voice. I look up at him, this reality slowly coming back into focus and I stare at him, my jaw dropped and my eyes wide. I raise one hand up to my cheek, not surprised at all that it’s wet, and as I bring them down I look at my wrist. At our surroundings. I somehow had made my way back to Will’s room, and I’m sitting on the floor with an unbroken razor poised at my wrist. I drop it quickly, staring at it in fear and curl into Will’s arms. He presses his lips against my forehead.

“Baby, you were screaming.” He murmurs and kisses my forehead. “It’s okay, honey, I’m here, I’m going to protect you.” But it doesn’t help the remnants of the aching, persistent fear I felt reliving that. It’s still beating against my chest in a way that makes me want to squirm and curl into myself.

“It’s not okay,” I tell him softly, and I realize I’m shaking and sobbing. He pulls my close to him, one of his arms hooking under the bend of my knees, and the other around my back. He lifts me in an effortless sort of way, carrying me easily back to our bed. “Its not okay.” I tell him again, more persistently this time and I shake my head quickly.

“I didn’t want to, Will, I didn’t.” But it’s like he’s not listening because he’s settling into bed next to me, his hands sliding onto my wrists instead to make sure that there aren’t any little cuts that he didn’t catch. I know this routine because we’ve done it a million times. He pulls us both back into a laying position, his lips touching my cheek softly. He tells me, again, that it’s going to be okay, his voice vibrating against my skin. But it’s not. It’s not. Because I can’t control myself. I can’t control what I’m doing or what I’m saying and it’s beginning to terrify me. But I can’t tell him why. How it happens every time, how I slip back into memories where he’s not mine. He’ll worry and I don’t want him to worry about me, I want our life to be perfect and happy and flawless. I just wish that, a life with me, suicidal and aching and so imperfect could ever be flawless.

“It’s okay, Delaney, shh…” He says again and rubs my hip in a soothing sort of way. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to smother the panic blossoming in my chest and making my whole entire body shake. Because it’s him, here, with me, that is my anti-depressant. It’s the way he holds me that makes me know everything is going to be okay, and it’s the way he smells so clean and amazing that lulls me into a sense of security. He presses his hands against the small of my back, holding me to him in a way that mean I can’t get away this time. I wouldn’t want to, honestly, even if I could because being away from him is when I begin to fall the most. When the past reality becomes more clear and more achingly loud to me, so loud that I can’t help but let myself drift away into it. I raise my hands up to hold his shoulders, hanging on to him with everything that I’ve got inside of me. I’m going to beat this, I tell myself stubbornly. I’m going to beat this and he’ll never have to know.

Will tilts my chin up, his lips coming to land against mine. I feel a wave of nervous butterflies sink through my body but I don’t pull away because it’s the good kind of nervous that makes every nerve ending in my body tingle. I press my lips harder against his, pulling myself closer to him and sliding my hands into his hair. I don’t want sex, I just want his lips against mine and his arms around my waist letting me know that I am utterly perfect and beautiful to him. That’s all I’ve always needed, really, just him. And that’s when I know that yeah, I’m stronger than this and yeah, I can beat it.