Every Shattered Thing (Come Alive)

Every Shattered Thing

by Elora Ramirez

To Russ—thank you for being my light in a dark place.

Prologue

Sunrises make me feel alive. I’m usually up far before the sun makes an appearance, so when the first light of the day creeps its way across the sky I smile. Sunsets are relaxing—the colors slowly collapsing into a starlit night. But sunrises? Sunrises take my breath away. I think it’s the colors. The fluorescent oranges and purples and reds scream the start of a new day—remind me to take a breath, embrace a fresh beginning.

It was three months ago, during a gorgeous sunrise filled with glowing iridescent clouds and trees that looked on fire, when I met her. We both arrived at school early, before the janitors came and lights in the classrooms made a dance of electricity. We sat next to each other on the curb in front of the bus loop, other students passing us in complete silence, latched on to their energy drinks, their backpacks, their significant others.

I fingered my journal, watching the sunrise and waiting for that one image to capture me, to take hold and move me to sketch and write. Words help me escape. I use images sometimes, when the words won’t come, and I rely on the bent and gessoed pages to take me to another place. It’s simple, really. My journal holds what I cannot. My world—harsh, violent, selfish—there aren’t many words to describe it.

But I can paint it. I can scratch through the paper when I’d rather scratch through my skin and remember the way it feels to break through, the relief of razor or pen. And with the sketches and paint come words, spilling out onto the lined pages.

I wouldn’t be ruined. I promised myself I would make it out alive. I glanced down at my journal, brushing my finger across the cover. So many thoughts, so many hopes and dreams in there just waiting to be realized. I took a deep breath, focusing again on the colors in the sky forming a symphony of beauty.

When the reds found their way across the sky, I smiled. This was my favorite part—the splashing of color across the night sky.

And then I heard it. She was crying. I remember the dread. Her sniffs to keep her tears at bay interrupted her coughs to cover her muffled sobs; I was stuck. I furrowed my eyebrows in exasperation. I hated coming into contact with people who cried, especially those who made a habit of it. I always felt obligated to
do
something—and there was nothing more awkward than wondering how to comfort a stranger. I struggled with comforting
myself
, so how could I find the words to make it better for someone else? Maybe it was selfish, but I chose to ignore the tears. I tucked my hair behind my ear and pretended to be focused on the light blue taking over the deep violet of the sky.

“I never should have gone home yesterday.”

Was this girl seriously trying to make conversation? I studied my fingers as if suddenly my nail beds were absolutely fascinating…hoping her monologue would end there. I didn’t need any more drama in my life. I wrinkled my nose at the discovered dirt underneath my fingernails and made a mental note to clean them when I got home.

“I never should have believed him when he said he’d change.”

Her words were stilted, interrupted by hiccuped sobs.

She wasn’t going to stop talking. I could feel the words brushing up against my ribs—the
I’m
really not who you should be talking to about this
and
this is making me uncomfortable
—but the phrases stopped in my throat, where they usually landed. Right up there with all of the other
no
and
please don’t
and
not this time, I mean it
that always fell on deaf ears.

I sighed and glanced at my forgotten journal—the empty pages aching to be filled with thoughts and questions and descriptions—but there wasn’t anything I could do but listen, so I did. I turned my face halfway toward hers.

Apparently, that’s all she needed. I never even had to say a word.

“I mean, it’s not like he’s my dad or anything, but he’s sleeping...” Her words halted as she lifted her eyes toward mine. “He’s married to my mom. You think he’d try something else other than crawling in the same bed as me.”

She had my attention then. Was she…
was she serious
? Somewhere in the recesses of my social understanding I found my voice as I tried to ignore the funny feeling creeping inside my stomach.

“Is this some kind of sick joke?”

“I had to wait a little longer than normal to get out of the house this time,” she shuddered. “He, uh…he fell asleep…” She couldn’t finish—the tears continued, streaming down her face.

“Listen, you don’t have to tell me this.”

She shrugged and looked at toward the sky. “Do you ever look at the sunrise and feel hope? It’s a new day. What’s left behind in yesterday has passed and there is nothing you can do to bring it back. It’s reliable. The promise of a morning sky supersedes anything I’ve ever known. It’s beautiful. All of the colors, mixing together to create a new shade…”

Her voice dropped to just above a whisper. “Without the sunrise I wouldn’t feel alive. The sunrise reminds me there’s always another day coming.”

I was speechless. Who was this girl? I didn’t recognize her. I noted the oversized hoodie, sock sleeves and greasy hair but nothing came to me other than the fact that she knew the words for what I struggled to convey.

Somewhere in the distance, birds began to sing, a three note song of hope and promise; glancing at the sky I gasped, the light blue began to mix with the red to create a rainbow of radiating light standing in stark contrast to the few stars remaining behind.

I turned to hear more of her story; despite my best introversion, I was held captive by the intricate connection I felt in such a short amount of time. Forgotten were the feelings of disdain at the beginning of our meeting; I wanted to know more. I wanted a chance to ask questions. I needed to know I really wasn’t alone. But I was keenly disappointed to see that she was gone.

Her words echoed in my brain. How had she known to say what she did? How could someone

have the same story? I looked around one more time, to make sure I hadn’t missed her hiding in a corner of bushes or shrinking back undetected, but she was no where to be found. Gathering my bags, I made my way to the front door—glancing the entire time at the faces around me.
Where did she go?
I wondered,
How could she have just...disappeared?

The first bell sounded, signaling the custodians to unlock the doors so we wouldn’t have to wait in the cold anymore. The crowd forming outside dissipated as students rushed in the doors to get away from the brisk morning air. I sat for a while, dumbfounded. Should I wait? Should I let someone know what I heard? I thought of my own story, of the nights I would rather forget and the memories left behind the caged doors of my mind, and knew I’d never tell a soul. Turning around, I walked through the doors of my school, my thoughts on everything but the homework I still had to complete for my first period class.

That was when I met her, though. That was when I met the girl who changed my life with a single conversation. I never saw her again, even though I constantly look for her in the crowded hallways of the school. Every once in a while, I hear the conversation with stunning clarity in my memory. This stranger, in one simple phrase, threw my world incredibly off-kilter. And regardless of whether I ever see her again or whether she was a figment of my often times active imagination, I don’t care. Her words give me a reason to believe. Her words help me realize the power of
hope.

Chapter One

His name is Kevin Matouse. At six feet, he’s easily a head above most in our class. But he’s so cute and every time he gets close my knees start to wobble and my hands start sweating and I start to stutter. A shaky girl with leaky hands and a speech impediment doesn’t help the whole, “I’m trying to impress you” vibe I give off, but whatever.

We met at a local coffee shop. I’d seen him around but never imagined he’d stop to talk to me. I still remember the way I freaked when he walked up to my table and asked if I was in Mrs. Peabody’s AP

Literature class. I stared at him for at least five seconds before realizing he was talking to me.

“Um. Yeah. How’d you know?”

He smiled and pointed at the copy of
East of Eden
on the table.

“That’s easily one of my top five pieces of literature. Do you love it? What do you think of Cathy?”

My heart did a double take and I begged her to slow down just a bit, uneasy at the attention. I kept looking around wondering when the rest of the football team would come running out of the corner hollering and laughing at what a good joke it all was, him talking to
me.
But he did talk to me and eventually, I found the words to invite him to sit with me and it was amazing and beautiful and scary as hell because it was a
boy.
A boy talking to
me.

He started laughing and repeated the question.

“Hello? Are you okay?”

I laughed under my breath and looked at him. “Yeah! Yeah. Sorry. Here, do you want to sit? And I hate Cathy. She’s the only character in literature I’m legitimately scared of...”

He nodded.

“Seriously. She’s batshit crazy.” And then he sat down in the booth across from me, bumping my knee on his way. I swallowed and tried to play it cool but ended up choking. I’m nothing if not consistently uncouth.

That first conversation always brings a rush of blood to my cheeks —it was as if he knew me. We talked for hours, forgetting about homework and families and those around us. We sat there until closing

— when the baristas had to quietly clear their throats to get our attention. I blushed then, and I blush now just thinking about it. Never before had I encountered someone who could completely make the world disappear.

We’ve been together for about a month, and I always promise myself I will stop acting like a complete schoolgirl when I am around him, but it never happens. He looks at me and my heart starts beating against my ribcage and the butterflies shake violently in the pit of my stomach. I just can’t help it.

Chalk it up to my teenage hormones.

We’re not the most likely of pairs. I’m the weird quiet girl who carries around an art journal to capture ideas and phrases and quotes to escape from the blindingly boring lectures my teachers share on a daily basis. Kevin? He’s a football player. And he plays guitar and his family loves each other and well, he’s basically my opposite. Except not—and that’s the thing. He’s not my opposite. Whenever we’re together it seems as though our brains are connected. We
get
each other. Our backgrounds couldn’t be any different, but when he looks at me, I know I’m the only one he wants to be around—and this scares the shit out of me because what if it is all a lie?

What if I wake up one morning and the whole thing has been a dream, a desperate attempt to build a different life?

Here’s the thing: I’ve heard he’s not the best guy and he’s not good for me, but these people don’t know him like I do—they don’t even know me that well. Despite the rumors, despite the whispers when we walk down the hall, there’s just something about him. Perhaps it’s those baby blues; a girl can get lost in some baby blues, especially when they’re paired with shining white teeth and muscles I didn’t even know existed. Whatever it is, I can’t let him go. Even if he’s my biggest mistake.

I can live through a mistake. My heart knows a thing or two about walking into a trap.

I can hear my mom and dad arguing. I think for a second about packing up my books and walking to the coffee shop—from the sound of the words flying in the living room, there won’t be any quiet here for some time. I roll my eyes and place my hands over my ears, turning my music up just a little bit—just enough to drown out the biting remarks right outside my door. For as long as I can remember, they’ve spoken through anger instead of love. My mom isn’t brave enough to leave him and my dad can’t imagine life without someone there to push around. It’s their own vicious cycle mixed with their infidelity. A nightmare, if you ask me. You would think that after twenty years of marriage, they would have figured out how to get along. I think about Kevin again and smile. We get along. We get along just fine.

Forgetting my homework and the lengthening fight outside my room, I close my eyes and dream about being Mrs. Kevin Matouse with knees that don’t shake and hands that don’t sweat and words that don’t skip.

I’m startled out of my reverie by a loud knock on the door.

“What the hell, Stephanie?! I told ya not to lock this door.”

I roll my eyes and lean over to switch the lock right as he bursts into the room, almost pushing me over. The stench of alcohol sweeps over me and I try my hardest not to gag. Last time I gagged it bought me thirty minutes of face slapping and a lecture about respect. I stumble out of my chair and walk toward the corner of my room knowing this probably won’t end well. I search his face, looking for signs of what the fight could be about—what could have upset him to the point of explosion?