If You Stay (Beautifully Broken, #1)(14)

“When are you at your best?” she asks hesitantly. And I can see from the determined look on her face that she is trying hard not to feel intimidated. I’m impressed. She’s like a kitten standing up to a lion.

“In bed.”

My answer is simple. And her eyes shoot sparks in response.

“You’re kind of arrogant, aren’t you?” she demands, her hands on her slender, paint-spattered hips. “A simple Thank you for saving my life would suffice. I don’t need for you to carry me off to your bed to show your gratitude.”

I pause for a minute before I try to smooth her ruffled feathers.

“Calm down,” I tell her quietly. “I’m sorry. It’s a habit. I was just joking. Sometimes I have an inappropriate sense of humor. Thank you for the other night. I’m sorry I didn’t say it before.”

She purses her lips and then sighs.

“It’s okay,” she answers. “And you did say it in the hospital. You didn’t need to come here and say it again. I have been wondering though…” and her voice trails off.

It’s her turn to stare at me now and her gaze is contemplative. I stare back unflinching.

“What?” I prompt. “What have you been wondering?”

“Why did you do it?” she asks softly. “Why would you do that? It seems like you have a wonderful life.”

I’m surprised again. This girl is very direct and doesn’t hesitate to say what she’s thinking. And she thinks that I purposely tried to kill myself. What the f*ck?

On the one hand, her direct attitude is refreshing. I have a feeling that she doesn’t play games. But on the other hand, it’s annoying as hell. Because sometimes I like to get lost in games so that I don’t have to provide any real answers.

But I have a feeling that Mila doesn’t tolerate bullshit.

“It was an accident,” I shrug. “I was being careless. It won’t happen again.”

She’s still staring at me and I fight the urge to flinch. It’s like she’s looking inside of me, trying to pick me apart and examine me. I don’t like it.

“Really?” she asks. She sounds doubtful, unsure. “I hope not. If you’re lying, I hope you get help. I might not be there next time to save you.”

She turns on her heel and heads for the back room. And just like that, Mila the artist with the wholesome smile walks out of my life.

I’m surprised by how much I don’t like the feeling.





[page]Chapter Seven


Mila



I’m dreaming again.

As I walk down the aisle of a local church with the morning sun slanting through the windows, I know that I’m dreaming. I know it because I’ve visited this place a thousand times since my parents died.

The dream is always the same.

Nothing changes.

Because of this, I know that I won’t be able to wake up until it is finished.

I sigh and glance down.

I’m wearing the same black dress that I wore to their funeral. It is fitted, yet flowing; somber, yet feminine. It is what I wear each time I have this dream, an endless reminder of that horrible day.

With one black-slippered foot in front of the other, I pad down the aisle. I have no control of my feet. They are moving on their own accord. I couldn’t stop if I wanted to. My right foot settles into the carpet, then the left. Then the right.

Propelling me forward.

Before I know it, I’m standing in front of two caskets, basking in sunlight, at the front of the church. One is white and lustrous, one is black and gleaming.

Good and evil.

When I first began having this dream, I thought this meant that one of my parents had been bad, deep down, and I’d never known about it. I put a lot of stock into dreams. I know that they mean significant things. So this thought, that one of my parents might be a troubled dark soul, weighed heavily upon me for quite a while. But then I realized that I had the meaning wrong.

Because even though this dream is set on the day of their funeral, my parents aren’t here. They were cremated. They were never in caskets at the front of a church.

This dream isn’t about them.

It’s about the doubts that were formed in me the day they died, the doubts about the value of life itself. Life seems pointless if it is all for nothing; if everything ends in a fiery car crash, leaving only sadness behind.

It is one reason I grew so adamant about being an artist. I wanted to create beauty to cancel out the ugly. Yin and Yang. Dark and light. Good and evil.

My conscious self doesn’t dwell on this stuff anymore. But my subconscious has issues. And it clearly hasn’t settled them yet, thus the recurrence of this confusing dream. And to be honest, I haven’t completely figured it out yet.

What I can see so far is that life consists of good and evil, black and white. And everything in between is a struggle for dominating the other. Life is a struggle.

And I hate that it all ends with nothingness. That one day, you simply aren’t here anymore. No more smiles, no more tears, no more anything.

Poof.

Lights out.

I sigh and run my finger along the black casket. The one housing the evil. It’s beautiful, even as it is bad. But as my arm moves, I catch sight of something different. Something that has never been here before.