Young Writers Society

This definately took me way too long. In Australia, I just finished the equivalent of my Junior year, and I was in an epic struggle to flunk out the entire last semester. Yeahhhh. Unsuccessful. =/ So this took me forever but I hope you like it. It's a little short, but it sort of introduces you to the next section of the story so it's pretty crucial.

Enjoy. =)

I can feel the muscles of his stomach beneath my hands, his breath hot on my ear and both of our hearts beating against skin and bone as if they might escape. What little air there is between us is warm but not stifling – the open window lets in a gentle breeze and the sounds of the druken and impatient commuters alike.

He murmurs something in my ear, and my breathing hitches because it sounds desperately like “I love you”, but by the time my lips open to reply, the scene has evaporated into thin air.

This is the third time I have woken like this; my body covered in the same thin sheen of sweat and my pulse jumping and leaping in my ears.

I want to cry until I’ve expelled every last drop of liquid in my body.

Instead, I cross to the open window and slam it shut. The commuters are silenced.

The next morning, my mind is hidden under a thick haze; the haze of too many hours spent awake. I believe the expression my mother would use is ‘slap happy’.

“Morning, Emily.”

“Morning, Dr. Schuler.”

She eyes me speculatively. “And how have you been, Emily? How was Europe?”

How hypocritical - no matter how much she tells me to speak my mind, she's still hiding what she really wants to ask. Her true meaning is simple: David. How is David? Gone? Or still present?

I consider last night’s dream; the way I woke aching to be back there, with him.

Apparently, though I had conciously accepted that David didn’t exist, my subconcious was a little clingy.

“Europe was nice. I’m fine.”

“And did you miss your friends?”

“There wasn’t really anyone to miss.” My tone is dark and her eyebrows raise the smallest fraction. For the first time, I note that one is slightly thicker than the other, though why I noticed I couldn’t say.

Dr. Schuler pounces. “Would you say that you’re lonely, Emily?”

No, I just invented an imaginary friend because I needed someone to water my flowers. “I would say so, yes.”

“Do you crave affection?”

“I would say so.”

“Did you ever have a pet, Emily?”

“No. My mother was allergic to most animal furs.”

She nods once, the shrew, and notates something on her ever-present clipboard. “I think you should get a dog.”

“A dog?”

“Yes. You need something you can control.”

The rest of our forty-five minute session passes in little more than a boring, mind-numbing phase, in which the good doctor asks me all about my feelings and I grunt monosyllabic replies as I count down the minutes.

A dog? Me?

I hated children, hated animals, and generally hated company… Well, company that I didn’t actually invent myself. There was no way in hell I would be purchasing something soft and fluffy to pee on my carpet, chew up my furniture, and wreak havoc on my life.

The next morning, my body and brain are both running on empty. It’s a hot summer day and I have consumed no water, no food, and had no sleep. It’s a sure-fire recipe for disaster and I stumble from lecture to lecture with limbs that feel uncooperative; maybe even disconnected.

When you sleep, you dream, I remind myself, and when you dream, you cave. Sleep is for the weak, and you are no longer weak. You no longer require someone to sweep you off of your feet… Not that David really could sweep you off of your feet, because technically, he doesn’t even have arms…

Three Red Bull’s and a blueberry muffin later, I realise that what I’m feeling isn’t heat exhaustion, or even just-plain exhaustion; I’m just being a Debby Downer.

“Emily!”

On some level, I register that I should reply – at the very least, I should nod in acknowledgement – but I simply stand, grabbing my worn-out messenger bag and watching my equally-as-worn-out tennis shoes as I plod away from the student quad.

“Emily!” The voice calls once more, this time a little closer. I know the face the voice belongs to.

“Hi, Matt,” I murmur.

“You, uh, dropped your notebook,” he says nervously, rubbing the back of his neck in what must be a nervous habit. His hair is scruffy in that typical university-boy way – I wonder if he’s too cheap to cut it, or if he wants to look like he doesn’t care. His hair is straight and of a non-descript colour, whereas David’s dark, floppy curls contrasted with his pale, pearlescent skin.

He’s not a perfect physical specimen like David was, either. In fact, he’s just another boy of average height and average looks wearing jeans he’s probably had since high school and a shirt he probably bought at a surf/skate store with his mum; the kind he would have picked out quickly and without much thought lest his friends or footy mates walk in and spot him picking out matching ensembles with his mother.

His voice isn’t husky; it’s not barbed wire coated with velvet or the sting of a fire ant soothed with honey. I can’t really think of a metaphor for it… It’s just a voice. He stutters though, which David would never do.

But David doesn’t exist either, so I suppose the comparison is unfair.

“Thanks.” I take the book from his hands, and he seems so utterly relieved that I’ve broken the drawn-out silence between us.

“It’s no problem… Guess I’m your knight in shining armour now, though.”

“I guess.” I grin momentarily, thinking of what I would say to David. I would simper and giggle with glee that he was still hanging around; still talking to a girl like me. “I guess I’m just eternally indebted to you, good sir.”

Matt pauses, and then his grin widens. I concede that he has really even, nice teeth – they remind me of Tic-Tacs and letters on a keyboard. “Really? Awesome! How… Would like to, maybe, repay some of that debt?”

As opposed to explicit fantasies about my own creation, you mean? “Love to. Meet you at Gilligan’s tomorrow? Seven?”

“Sounds great!”

I smile curtly and turn on my heel, preparing for the long walk from the campus on Smith to the pier at Eagle where I’ll catch the ferry home. When I pass a pet shop I pause to look at the dogs in the window.

Chihuahua’s – not really what I’m after.

I keep walking, head held high. I don’t need a dog. The companionship of dogs is like sleep – reserved purely for the weak.