Never Forever (2 page)

“This is our building,” Olivia’s high pitched voice dances on the edge of excitement. “It’s about bloody time! If this wasn’t the building then I was going to scream,” she adds flatly.

“Thank you, Olivia. I couldn’t have done this without your help.”

“No problem,” she declares emphatically, as a glimmer of excitement shimmers in her eyes.

“It was nice meeting you, Breanna. Hopefully we’ll meet again.”

“Absolutely, now I can at least say I know one person in England,” I state matter-of-factly, as I try to hide the loneliness within me.

“Blimey, you don’t know anyone here?” Olivia’s voice deepens as a hint of surprise whirls off each word.

“No,” uneasiness coats my shaky voice as I try to hide my insecurities.

“You are braver than me. Why did you decide to come to school here in England?”

My heart immediately speeds up, sending a wave of unresolved pain and fear throughout my body. I’m not prepared to answer anyone’s questions yet. This is my hell to live and no one else’s.

Fighting back my tears, I utter softly, “I got accepted to the University.” A simple answer is better than nothing.

Her eyes soften as she stares deep into mine. She nods in a hesitant, yet compassionate way. “Alright then, you have your reasons and they are yours alone. But if you ever feel lonely you know you can find me here.”

“Thanks,” I express genuinely.

We go our separate ways, and though desolation is left swirling around me after she leaves, I have a suspicion our paths will cross again, soon.

T
ragedy

With each day that passes by I manage to slip into my classes completely unnoticed. I am able to successfully melt into the walls and the surroundings next to me. From this vantage point I can survey the class and the intricate workings of the ever present air of privilege surrounding me. The snobbish and snide remarks oozing out of the girls’ mouths are immature and disgraceful. They speak so humanly to each other’s faces, but no sooner than their backs are turned the berating comments begin, like heat-seeking missiles out for blood.

I’m effectively able to go about my routine of school, then home to my flat and well needed rest. The marathon my body is going through takes everything out of me. But this is my perfect situation, where I need to be right now. No pain, no memories, just living in the middle of life, where nothing on the outside can reach me. I have found my safe spot – until today.

Walking into my English class a word is written up on the board in large letters, TRAGEDY. A swarm of stinging bees vibrates within my stomach. A tingling sensation races through my hands and feet like fire ants consuming them. What in the hell can we be doing already? We have been studying English writers from the Romanticism period. I know the way they wrote placed a heavy influence on their imagination and emotions. But, I am not ready for this subject just yet. If only I was still feeling sick to my stomach, I could leave, but I haven’t felt sick in days and I lack the nerve to try and sneak out. A boisterous discussion reverberates all around me as to what our lecture is going to entail today.

A deep boom echoes from the front of the room, “That’s enough! Everyone, take a seat,” our professor yells as he slams one of the books down on his desk.

I have discovered over the past few weeks our professor is very matter of fact in the way he addresses his lectures. The technique he has mastered matches his appearance. His starched, pressed shirt is tucked into his crisp, clean khakis, while his trim, dark hair is slicked back impeccably. Everything is planned, even down to his flawlessly polished shoes. His middle-aged appearance marries beautifully with his speech. He enunciates every syllable with a posh, crisp British accent. Each lecture he has given has been void of emotions. Perhaps whatever he has planned will not be too bad, considering his flat approach to everything.

Slouching comfortably into my seat, I gaze around at the classmates rushing feverishly to prepare for the impending discussion. Everyone but Callum Hughes opens their bags for some sort of writing instrument and paper. Callum simply pulls out a pen and folded piece of paper from his blazer pocket. He nonchalantly places them in front of him. There is a lackadaisical attitude in his efforts towards any note-taking in class, yet he has one of the highest grades in our class, so far. It’s not fair how his grades seem to come easy to him while I have to work hard in my classes just to stay afloat. I have been observing his natural charismatic skills on everyone, charming them – including Mr. Bramble. His friends naturally gravitate to him like he’s a superstar. His appearance screams natural good looks, with his thick brown hair and tall, athletic body. Even this building is named after his father. Not to be rude, but what can Callum possibly know of tragedy?

Professor Bramble pulls a stack of old novels from his briefcase and lays them on the table. These tattered leather books have definitely come from a different era in time. The bindings have seen better days, with deep cracks revealing the mesh beneath the leather. I’m surprised the pages are still hanging in there.

“Now that I have your attention, can someone explain to me why I have brought these books to my lecture today?” Professor Bramble asks, while stroking the top of the stack of antique books.

Silence falls over the classroom, and I can almost hear the wheels in everyone’s head spinning. Someone finally raises their hand, “Is it because we are studying writings from that era?”

“No, but that was an adequate attempt Ms. Locke. Would anyone else like to try at a more developed answer?”

A pulsating sour taste rises up from my nauseous stomach. My heart pounds against my chest like a sledge-hammer trying to break through. Slowly I raise my hand, not quite sure why I am doing this. I had successfully made myself inconspicuous, but what I am about to do will destroy all of that. I can’t sit here any longer while the answer is completely obvious to me. The compulsion to answer his question is far too strong for me to fight.

Mr. Bramble’s eyes widen as he notices my hand going up. He gives a slight nod in my direction. “The fact that you have the word tragedy on the board, along with these books, makes me think of two different reasons. One is most of the stories in that time period have some type of tragedy the protagonist has gone or will go through. But my second reason is to never judge a book by its cover. No matter how much the world has destroyed it, there is still a beautiful, worthwhile story within its pages.”

The entire class instantly turns and looks at me, as if they have just realized I am in their class. Their expressions range from utter shock to complete amazement. Some of the girls exhale forcefully through their noses, giving off a sound of disgust. Their eyes begin searching over every detail of me. An unnerving wave of embarrassment sweeps over me, causing my cheeks to blush.

“Thank you Miss…” He looks down at the list of students in his class. “…Miss Hayes. That is a fairly decent answer.” A feeling of satisfaction prickles through me. Though I am happy about my answer I am also frustrated with myself. I can no longer hide. I am a visible participant now. I know it and now everyone else knows it, too.

Mr. Bramble grabs his lecture notes and tucks them neatly into his briefcase. Turning towards us he adds, “We’re going to do something a little different today. We’re going to take the first reason Ms. Hayes gave us and run with it. I’m going to break you all up into small groups of two or three. I then want each of you to share a tragic experience from your life.” A mixture of gasps and shrills of excitement reverberate through the class. “We’re all the protagonists in our lives. If you have not yet experienced the effects of tragedy, I assure you, you soon will.”

A numbing sensation spreads fervently throughout my quivering body. This is not possible. I can’t be here. I can’t do this. There’s no way in hell I am going to share with any of these people my tragedy. My only hope is that no one will want to have me as their partner.

Mr. Bramble interrupts my optimistic thought by adding, “So we get some truthful experiences I am going to segregate you into my own groups.” As he begins dividing the groups up my panic increases, causing sweat beads to form on my upper brow. My shallow breathing escalates into a state of distress. Why did I have to speak up? Now even my professor knows I exist.

“Ms. Hayes, will you please join Mr. Hughes at the back table.”

Oh shit. Why did I have to come today? Closing my eyes tightly I audibly exhale discontentedly as I head to the back table where Callum now sits patiently waiting. His immaculately polished appearance is such a sharp contrast to his relaxed and nonchalant posture. Hastily grabbing my chair I sit down, adjusting my bulky sweater. Cautiously I look up into his liquid caramel color eyes. His posture does not adjust a bit. Callum stays in his slight languid position, examining me with his intensely scrutinizing eyes. My trembling hands grab onto my sweater, adjusting and covering every part of my torso. His penetrating gaze almost seems to peer right through me. My eyes narrow, deepening the furrow between my brows as a conundrum of thoughts rally around in my head. I’m not sure if he’s disgusted he is stuck with me, or if he’s truly trying to figure me out.

Attempting to get this over with quickly, I demand, “You go first.”

A brief smile tickles the corners of his mouth, “Bloody hell, you just want to bang to it, huh. Don’t want to get to know each other first?” he asks without adjusting his reclined posture the whole time.

Disgusted by his sly and sexual reference, I answer flatly, “No. I prefer not getting to know you. Nothing personal, I just want to get this over…”

He immediately sits up, causing the once relaxed aura about him to evaporate. His eyes widen as his jaw quivers slightly, “Wait a minute. You’re telling me to not take it personal. You don’t want to get to know me before we share some deeply tragic experiences in our lives. Well, I hate to tell you, I do take it personally.”

Using my trembling nerves as fuel I add, “Like you have ever experienced something deeply tragic before.”

“A lot more than you,” he scans over me, visually taking in my appearance. “You’re a spoiled American who knows nothing about tragedy, let alone experienced any. You’re just like most of the young American girls I have met, bored with their environment so you decided to run to England in hopes of having a fairytale experience.”

My gripping fists tighten, causing my nails to cut into the palms of my hands. Heat races up my stiff spine, “You know nothing about me or why I’m here. Trust me, the reality of a fairytale for me is over,” I shout, louder than I intended to. “My reasons for coming here are mine alone. I don’t need some egotistical boy assuming something about me.” Grabbing my things I rush out the door, trying to fight back my tears.

Hastily I head down the long hallway as my tears now spill down my overheated cheeks. The months of pent up sadness mingled with anger explode forcefully from my body. This is not possible. I came here to escape my pain so I can deal with the aftermath on my own. Why am I allowing this arrogant jerk to drag this kind of pain out of me? Blindly I stare down at the floor as I run at full speed, instantly slamming into someone.

“Bloody hell, watch where you are going!”

I look up to apologize, when I catch sight of a feisty pixie face staring up at me, “Olivia.”

Olivia’s face beams with surprise as soon as she realizes it is me. Slowly her expression takes on a downward spin as she observes my plight, “Breanna, are you alright?”

“No. Can we go somewhere and talk?”

Her eyes narrow as a soft, deflated expression washes over her. A slow exhale rolls over her lips, “Absolutely. Where would you like to go?”

“I don’t care. You decide.”

We sit on a bench
at the edge of the River Cam. I watch the shimmering ripples dance on top of the water, completely unaware of the dangerous undertow lying beneath the glow. I may put on an aura that everything is okay, but I’m completely aware of my troubles lying beneath my surface. I carry the reality of what I have gone through and will still be going through on a daily basis. Quietly I watch all the punts on the river full of people enjoying their journey. A sense of resentment consumes me, causing my tears to well up in my eyes again. Warm drops fall gently from my eyes and land with forceful stings, seeping through my pants, causing the skin on my thighs to heat up.

Olivia rises up, turns towards me and asks in a soft, smooth voice void of her usual sarcasm, “Breanna, do you want to talk about it now?” Olivia’s voice is coated with concern.

“I can’t. This is my burden to bear. Besides, I don’t want to put a heavy load on you. I think I’m just feeling very lonely. And I allowed some jerk in my class to get under my skin, that’s all.” I can’t look up at Olivia for fear she’ll be able to see right through me. The core to my sadness is not something I’m sure how to explain, nor am I sure I want to reveal it, either.

A soft exhale rolls from her mouth as she gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze, “Fine, I told you once before that your reasons are yours alone, but I can do something about your loneliness.”

Tilting my head questioningly I look up at Olivia. She is now wearing a mischievous smile prickling the corners of her mouth, causing my heart to drop into the sour bile within me. “What do you mean?”

Her posture changes as she stands at attention with a wave of excitement rushing through her. Her hazel eyes, which are already large, swell with the possible thrill of what she is about to propose. “You obviously have had a bleeding day. There’s no better cure for it than to go and get
pissed.”

“Excuse me?” I ask, slightly caught off guard.

“Oh, I forgot, you’re American. I mean go and get drunk. There’re some great pubs around here and I’m supposed to meet some friends at one soon. Why don’t you come?”

“Thank you Olivia, but I can’t.” A heavy weight of desolation pushes down on my shoulders, deflating my posture.