Young Writers Society

What is the true definition of immortality? Where can we live forever? You find solace in the warmth between her legs or in the steaming mug of tea that wakes you up at 5 am. That is your immortality. When time slows and you find that you’re living the same second over and over again, encased in the arms of your lover and the threadbare sweater you stole from your best friend in eighth grade. As the clock begins to tick backwards and this moment echoes for years and years, you realize that this is not what you want anymore. And it begins again. You feel it in the cold winter air and the thick wool coat that you wear when you walk to the library to check out your favorite book for the third time this month. You had hoped that by now the man at the front desk would recognize you, but you change your hair so often that he forgets what you look like every few weeks. You can’t blame him though, when was the last time you recognized yourself? You stop for another cup of tea in the coffee shop by your apartment and you avoid looking at the girl at the register when she takes your order because your heart breaks just a little at the sight of her green eyes. They remind you of something. Or is it someone? And she calls your name in a voice that sounds like ground pepper and honey and you hurry out of the cafe before you hear her compliment your hair. She does it every time you change it but you never hear because you’re afraid of being broken by another pair of eyes. Your hands shake as you press your key into the lock of your door. It’s got cherries on it, a present that your dad gave you when you bought your first apartment. He’s gone now, but you can feel him in the soft furniture that he left for you and in the burn of whiskey in the back of your throat when you drink from his favorite glass. You’ve stopped remembering him as perfect. It was wrong, to see him as a god, he would’ve hated it. It hurts when you think of what he did wrong. The pain that he caused you. There’s so much pain, isn’t there?

You’ve stopped thinking that you’ll stop hurting, you know better now, but you’ve also stopped fearing heartbreak. Except for the girl in the cafe with her green eyes. You’ve never spoken to her, but on your first day in the cafe she complimented your pins. You thanked your mother, something you don’t do often, for the gift of a darker complexion to hide the blush that rises to your cheeks. You hear her correct her coworker when she misgenders you. “They’re not a girl,” she tells them, “Show them some respect.” You spill that cup of tea when you get home, your hands are shaking so badly that the lid slips off and the cup falls. You hadn’t cried that hard in months. Sitting there, leaning against your front door in your tea soaked pants. You swayed back and forth, a habit you’ve never gotten rid of no matter how many people told you to stop squirming. And you realize that you’re not hurt. You’re not in pain. The tears don’t sting. And time begins to slow. Rain begins to patter on your window and your clock starts to run backwards and you stand with a sigh. Warm water covers you from the spot you sit in on your shower floor as you stare at the rainbow colored hairs that clog your drain. And you smile. When you dry your hair you realize that it’s soft again, not dry and cracked like it is everytime you dye it something new. It feels like how it used to, when you still wore dresses and hid scraped knees behind hello kitty band-aids. And you smile. For the first time that week you take down the jar of coconut oil from your bathroom cabinet and you spread some on your scars. On your chest and your thighs and your ribs and your hips and you relish the feeling of moisture being soaked into your skin. And you smile. Thunder crashes and you shake your head, clearing your thoughts. The clock is back to normal and time begins to tick forward. You stopped using pillows awhile ago, choosing instead to bury your head in your lavender sheets and the soft plush of your blue blanket.

You finished the book again. Your hair is a new color. You like this new color; you like them all. The man at the front desk of your library smiles at you like he does every time someone walks in. You smile back. Your second favorite book is waiting for you where it always is. The name winks at you, promising tranquility in its sweet-smelling pages. Your name is the only one on the list of borrowers. Your old name stares up at you, but you stare back. You know who that is, and you're glad that’s not you anymore. That was never you. The cafe is still open as you walk back home. The girl’s soft brown hair is tied into two braids today, showing off the tattoo on the back of her neck. You don’t know what it means, you’ve never asked, but you like it. You think it’s pretty. While you wait for your tea you daydream about her. She has more tattoos, you think. Would she want to see yours? You have a lot. You daydream about her hair in your hands, her lips on yours, her thighs tangled between yours on your worn couch. Your head clears when you hear your name in her honey-sweet voice. Tea in hand you're about to walk away when she touches your wrist. She doesn’t grab it, just taps it lightly and your skin sings at the rough calluses that decorate her fingertips. She says she likes your hair. You say you like her tattoo. She asks you for your number. You don’t see her smile at the messy scrawl of your handwriting on the back of an old receipt. All you see is her eyes. They do remind you of something. They remind you of home.

Your pulse jumps when you hear a knock on your door. She’s there on the other side, the green of her dress a striking contrast to her dark skin. It matches her eyes. You tell her so and she kisses you on the cheek. You don’t flinch this time. When was the last time you didn’t flinch? You bought some ice cream. You’ve been texting her for days and when you finally asked her to come over, she asked if you had ice cream. You haven’t smiled at a screen in ages. You type quickly, text riddled with errors and ask her what her favorite flavor is. She says vanilla. You didn’t have any ice cream, but now you have two tubs sitting in your freezer. She sits next to you on your father’s old couch, her thigh warm on the bare skin of your knee. She’s funny. When was the last time you laughed this hard? Your ribs ache, but it’s different from what you're used to. This is a good ache, not a broken one. When she kisses you, she tastes like vanilla. Her hair is just as soft as you thought it would be. She’s gentle, always asks before she touches. She looks nervous. You think it’s sweet. The night passes quickly and you're laying with your head pillowed on the soft skin of her thighs. She’s staring at you. She’s been staring for what seems like hours, but oddly enough you don’t hate it. The clock starts running backwards. You’re not healed, not happy, but you're content. When you ask her what her tattoo means, she chuckles. Her laugh sounds like fire, deep and raspy and oh so warm. She asks to see your tattoos and you ask to see hers and soon you’re stripped to nothing. Her fingers trace the lines that have been etched into your skin. She doesn’t stop at your scars like most of them do. Instead, she looks up asking for permission. You feel yourself nod and as her rough hands drift from black line to white line to black again your breath catches in your throat. She doesn’t call them beautiful or ugly, she acknowledges them and moves on. You’re near crying when you kiss her and her hands come up to your face, wiping away the tears that fall from your eyelashes. When she leaves, she kisses you, her hand lingering on your cheek, before you close your door. She left her sweater. It’s yellow and smells like coffee beans and your favorite tea. You trade the scent of your lavender sheets for that of her sweater.

You ask yourself again, what is God? You still don’t know the answer, but with your hand in hers you feel time slow. When you open that book and the familiar scent drifts up to your nose and your heart aches. The cold metal of your cherry key as you open the door to your apartment, a grocery bag of vanilla ice cream balanced on your hip. And you feel like you can live forever. And you feel like you are everything. And you dance in the tears that fall from your eyes, and you cherish the blood that fell from every now healed scar, and you feel alive. The immortality of your own mortality. The endless ticking of the clock.