Catch Me
Copyright © 2013 by Claire Contreras
Cover design: Mae I Design
Photograph: Tomasz Zienkiewicz
Internal Design/Formatting:
Fictional Formats
Bee Logo: Mae I Design
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems-except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews-without permission in writing from its publisher, Claire Contreras.
“Ready” by Paige Chaplin
© 2013 Paige Chaplin
“Reminders” by Paige Chaplin
© 2012 Paige Chaplin
“Connect” by Drake
Written by Birchard Ross Matthew and Aubry Drake Graham
© 2013 WARP MUSIC LIMITED
All rights reserved.
For the broken ones—
Don’t give up.
Giving up is easy.
The fight will be worth it.
For you, depression—
Thank you for making me somewhat of a decent writer. And also, fuck you.
My eyes burn from tears that mask my eyes but refuse to fall as I stare out into the ocean. Focusing on the waves crashing the rocks below, my eyes trail along the water. A body of blue so big and wondrous that I can’t decide where it begins and where it ends, because it doesn’t—the ocean doesn’t have a beginning and an ending, it just is. Much like me, it just is. Except I do have an end, and that ocean is it for me. I clutch the red bars before me when sobs threaten to overtake me, thoughts of the hell I’ve been living seeping through my memories. Closing my eyes, I see his strawberry hair and the light freckles that paint over his beautiful smile, and the pain stabs me harder.
The reality of what I did spreads through me as the sobs consume me. I killed him.
I killed him
. The only person who was ever there for me, the one that showed me what love was supposed to be, and I killed him. Tears stain my face and my dyed blonde hair, wild from the turbulent wind, sticks to it. I try to swallow back my broken cries as I look around, my eyes squinting at the sign beside me that reads: Hope. My shoulders shake as new tears rise and my throat opens up with cries that refuse to be held back.
Then I see him, or he sees me. I close my eyes to the wind once more, relishing the feel of its caress against my skin before opening them and looking into the pools in his eyes.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
I mirror his question, unable to find my own thoughts.
“Looking for you,” he mutters, rendering me speechless.
I open my mouth to speak again but uncontrollable shivers invade my body making it impossible for me to form words. My eyes roll back shakily and panic floods through me because I can’t see him anymore. I can’t see the boy that found me.
I can only see the one I failed.
The one no longer here.
He’s gone … and so am I.
When I was six years old, my father held both my arms and shook me so that I would look into his eyes.
“Who do you want to stay with, Brooklyn?” he seethed. “Who do you choose? Me or your mom?”
I looked between both him and my mother. She was standing there with tears running down her face, her hands covering her mouth, and her eyes screaming what her mouth wouldn’t. I didn’t want to choose between them. Truthfully, they were both a terrible option, even in my six-year-old mind I knew that. They were always arguing, always fighting, always screaming—my mother always throwing items at my father. But they were my parents and I loved them both. They were all I knew.
In the end, I never had to end up choosing because they chose each other. They always did. One thing I learned from seeing my parents is that some people would rather stay in a toxic relationship than experience the fear of the unknown. I understand that now. They chose that life and I have made an effort to choose to
not
become that with anybody. As much as I have to love them because they’re my parents, I never want to marry someone like my father, and I sure as hell never want to become my mother. I’ve tried so hard to distance myself from them and their exuberant lives, yet here I am, waiting to speak to my father. Waiting to see what favor he’s going to ask of me, because there’s always a favor to ask. That’s the thing about my parents: I love them because they gave me life but in return love me under conditions—always theirs. And they don’t leave room for interpretation when I don’t agree to their favors. They threaten me with taking away things like my education. My mother is the queen of threats, amongst other things, and she uses that to her advantage. Boyfriends, cars, concerts, school, clothing, friends … you name it, she has taken it away from me.