Break

Yesterday, after lying around in my room and not doing anything in particular, Tom and I went over my list, and we fixed it. I took away the movie-watching, and now the only thing left is my quest to go to the zoo. I feel like there should be more to my life than going to the zoo, and there is, but I feel as if my wants are too delicate and personal to put to paper. I would not feel right if I wrote them down, because it would be as if an actual, physical part of me were floating around, and I am not comfortable with the thought of people knowing what I really, truly want. Am hardly comfortable knowing, myself.

"Your car smells," Olivia says loudly from the backseat. "Bad," she adds, emphatically.

Lance shrugs. I twist the seatbelt with one hand, the fingers of my other hand nervously tapping against the door.

"I mean, what did you do, drive it into the pool?" She takes in a deep breath, and I see the puckered look of her lips in the rear view mirror. "A pool filled with pensioners," she corrects, sounding slightly disgusted. It does smell of chlorine, and there is the faint odour of the sort of aftershave that an old man might use, but it isn't that bad.

"It was an old man's car before I had it, if you must know," he says drily.

"It's not going to break down on us, is it?" she asks. "I mean, it looks about a hundred years old."

"Liv," Tom warns.

"Would you rather walk?" Lance asks.

"I'd probably get there faster by walking," she says. I look at the line of cars that stretches into the distance, seemingly never-ending. We've been here for about fifteen minutes, and Lance has given up even the pretence of having his hands on the wheel; his chair is reclined into the empty space behind him, and he has his arms folded behind his head.

"I refuse to be told that the traffic is my responsibility," Lance says, blinking his eyes shut. "Also, it probably is about a hundred years old; the guy who bought it never paid much for anything. I know it's a piece of crap, so stop insulting my car."

"Can I point out that you just did what you told me not to do?" Olivia asks.

"It's my car. I can do what I want."

"That makes no sense."

"You make no sense." And with that piece of illogic, Olivia falls quiet.

I stifle a laugh, unsuccessfully, and Lance raises an eyebrow at me, the expression hardly visible from beneath his hair.

I reach over, without thinking, and brush the hair from his face, trace my fingers over the mark beneath his eye. "After this, we're getting you that haircut," I say. He half-opens his eyes and looks at me.

"Anything you want," he murmurs.

I smile and settle back into my chair, the pressure of the belt on my chest going away, my fingers rearranging it so that it doesn't press against my neck. I realise how quiet the car is, then, and feel Olivia and Tom's eyes on me in the mirror, questioning and knowing. I flip the visor in front of me up so that I can't see their faces, and feel the blood in my cheeks rush to the surface.

I take a breath. Tom coughs. I stare at my fingers in my lap; the serpent of cars outside, their metal backs made into the scales of a large, monstrous creature. And then the traffic starts to move, in the distance.

"Lance!" I say.

"What?" He doesn't even bother opening his eyes.

"The cars!" Olivia says.

Tom leans forwards and hits Lance's shoulder. "Go, Kefton," he says. Lance sits up, sliding his chair into place and switching the gears from neutral to first just as the car in front of us starts to pull away. And then we are moving. Tom whoops and Olivia and I cheer, and Lance smiles his barely perceptible smile as the traffic peters away. For the next forty minutes, we talk about nonsense. And then it is just Tom and Olivia talking about nonsense, and I am silent, thinking, as I watch the land go past.

I wonder what Marcus is doing, right now. He's out with Hannah, I know; he said he was going to tell her about me, today. To try to explain the complicated thing that is our relationship. I hope she understands. I hope she doesn't think we're more than just friends, and leaves him. Because she makes him happy, and if he is happy, then I am, too.

They suit each other. I remember the night of the formal; disastrous and painful, in the end, but nice enough at the start. Dancing with Marcus, Marcus dancing with Hannah. Watching Lance swing his cousin into his arms. I remember the smile on his face; I remembered it as easygoing, from class and the corridors. But now I see it as forced, something he learned to do so that people would think that he was alright. I know him well enough, now, to know what he looks like when he is truly happy, and that was not it. But it makes me happy to know what he would do for his cousin; go to a place he did not want to be, and stay there for the night just so that she would not be alone. And then try to make me feel like I was not so strange. Beat up the boy who hurt me. Help Marcus to strap my leg, to hold me down when I screamed.

"Lance," I ask, quietly, over the top of Tom and Olivia's chatter; they continue talking, but Lance glances at me as he shifts up a gear, and I know he is listening. "Remember when I broke my leg, at the formal?" His grip tightens on the gear shift, so that his knuckles are white; clearly, he remembers. "Where did you get that piece of wood you gave Marc?" I continue.

I watch him carefully and, after a small moment, his lips quirk at the corner, just barely, the hint of a smile. "The fence at the front," he says.

"I thought so," I say. My eyes go to his hand again, and I see the faint lines of new scars, still a little pink, and raised along his knuckles. I touch them lightly, trace the sharp rise and fall of the bones beneath his skin. "What are these from?" I ask.

He stares ahead, at the road, as he answers me, shifting down a gear as we approach a corner, my hand over his. "The fence." He pauses, and I frown. "Greaves had a lip ring," he adds, hesitant.

My eyes widen, and then I think about what he said. "Don't you mean 'has'?" I ask.

His lips twitch again, and his eyes glint beneath his hair. "Not anymore," he says, shortly, and not without satisfaction.

I pull my hand back, and he looks at me sharply as the indicator switches off, after the turn. "What?"

I open my mouth to say 'nothing', but the look in his eyes says that he knows what I am about to say, and knows that it is a lie. He would have been right to think that. I close my mouth, and think for a moment. "It's just, even though he hurt me, he was drunk."

"He knew who you were," Lance says, his face clear of the hint of a smile, his eyes now dangerous.

"Maybe he didn't mean to hurt me," I say.

"He sought you out amongst a room full of people, seventy percent of whom were girls he wanted to sleep with. He looked for you." He pauses and checks the mirror before switching lanes. "Greaves is an asshole. If he wanted to find you, he wanted to hurt you."

"Regardless," I say, quietly. "He didn't deserve to get his lip ring ripped out."

Lance grits his teeth, his jaw taught. "Trust me, he did." He turns another corner, and the zoo is in sight. "If it's any consolation," he murmurs, "I didn't rip it out. It got stuck on something in the car park when I was dragging him."

It doesn't make me feel better, because he still got hurt, and pain is something I am so intimately intertwined with that the thought of anyone else having to endure it makes me feel sick. Surely, if there is as much pain as I have felt, there should not be room for more in the world.

Lance sighs softly. "I'm sorry, Syl. Just, when he hurt you, I got angry."

"You didn't even know me, then," I say.

He looks at me, quickly, a darting glance. "I remembered you, from school. And people always used to make fun of you, but you didn't care. You ignored them, did your work. I... admired you for it."

"You admired me for my ability to ignore people?" I ask, confused.

He pulls into a parking spot and kills the engine with a deft twist of the keys. He looks at me. "I admired your strength," he says. I watch him, a little stunned, as he climbs out of the car, unfolding his long legs. Olivia and Tom clamber out of the back, still chattering at each other. Lance opens the boot and takes out my chair, and Tom opens my door and undoes my seatbelt, scooping me into his arms.

"Your chair awaits, madam," he says. I smile a little, snapping out of my stupor, and wait as he holds me and then carefully lowers me into the chair. Lance grips the handles at the back, a frown on his face. Tom takes Lance's keys and locks the car, and then drops them into Olivia's bag, and the both of them walk towards the entrance, hand in hand. Lance pushes my chair behind them, at a slower pace.

"What?" I ask, when he says nothing.

"I hate this thing," he says, and I know he is talking about the chair.

"I know why I hate it," I tell him, "but why do you?"

"It's like you can't walk," he says, after a moment. "Like you're incapable. Like the world moves too quickly for you so you need this thing with wheels to make you move faster. It's all a little 'Secret Garden', and you're Colin, and I hate it."

He pushes me through the arched entrance, and we stand in line behind Tom and Olivia as we wait for tickets. I am quiet as I think, and Lance grips the handles of the chair so tightly that I can feel the tension in his body surrounding him, in the air. After the tickets are bought, he pushes me through, into the zoo.

"Where do you want to go first, Syl?" Olivia asks, turning towards me.

"Monkeys!" Tom says, excitedly. I smile at his enthusiasm. Olivia rolls her eyes.

"I sort of wanted to see the fish. Why don't you guys go see the monkeys, and we'll meet later?"

"Alright," Olive says, reluctantly. She looks at Lance, her eyes narrowed. "Take care of her, or I'll have to hit you. And I'll hurt you more than Greaves is able to."

"I'm sure you would," he says, sounding slightly amused. And then Tom drags Olivia to see the monkeys, his hair feathered in the slight wind as they go, and it is just me and Lance and the tension is back.

"The fish?" he murmurs, as he turns the chair and pushes me in the opposite direction that Tom and Olive went in. "Didn't pick you as the fish type."

"They're free," I say.

"They're trapped in a glass tank," he says.

"But they have so much they can do. They're under the water and they're safe and they're all the same. Fish don't alienate other fish."

"Unless they want to eat them," Lance corrects. "Then they kill them without a thought."

"But, mostly, they're in groups."

"Some fish are solitary."

"Can't I like fish? Am I not allowed to?" I ask, frustrated. "In groups or alone, I like them. The solitary fish especially, because it's alright with being by itself; it's strong enough to live that way. And the other fish don't try to hurt it, or eat it; they just let it live its life. They don't bother it. They coexist, even rely upon each other , sometimes."

"They alienate it. Isolate it. The solitary fish is alone."

"Do you have something against the solitary fish?" I ask. "Is there something wrong with being alone? The solitary fish is strong. It doesn't need the other fish."

"Sometimes it does," he says, softly.

"Sometimes, but it doesn't need them; it wants their company. But it can live without it."

Lance stops wheeling the chair. We are in front of the aquarium section of the zoo, outside the building. "Are we still talking about fish, Syl?" he asks, quietly.

I shrug, because I don't know what we are talking about, anymore. We could be talking about me, or him, or any number of things. About how unfair life is. About how even when something seems free, there will always be the glass walls of a tank to cage it in. About how no matter how many people there are in the world, they will always have pity. Endless pity. Enough to drown in. And that pity is isolating in nature. About how I might die, soon, and the horrible fact of life is that Tatiana might, too, and Lance might be that solitary fish, alone and isolated and longing for those who have left him. Because life is not fair, and life is not just, but we must accept it. I don't want to.

I pull myself from the chair. Lance watches me with an inscrutable gaze, and follows me as I slowly make my way into the building. I hear the voice of the woman at the desk, asking if I am alright; Lance's voice, deep and soft, saying that I am fine and asking her to take care of the chair til we get back. I don't stop for him. I do not wait. I walk into the dark interior of the room, suffused with an unearthly blue glow from the water in the fish tanks, and the daylight above. I am tired, but I make myself move. Put one foot in front of the other. Again and again, each step slower than the last. My leg aches where it was once broken, though I have been assured it is healed. Fatigue weights my limbs. My heart beats quickly in my chest, so that I hear the sound of my blood, rushing through my veins, so loud that I imagine the little boy and girl in the corner must hear it, too. But they don't avert their gaze from the small fish in front of them. I go on.

I walk until my feet drag at the ground, and in my mind I am cursing the length of this room, and my impulsively idiotic need to walk all the way across it, as if I have something to prove. And the prison that my body is becomes overwhelmingly apparent, and then I am at the other side of the room, and there is a bench seat in front of me, and I lean against it, my body shaking, without the strength I need to carefully lower myself onto it without breaking something inside. My breaths are so heavy that the children are looking at me; I can feel their eyes, and those of the woman behind the desk, boring into my back. And I grip the back of the bench seat to stop myself from falling or crying or both, but it does not work. And sobs wrack my body, shaking me from the inside out. And then I hear footsteps, and there are strong arms around me, holding me up. And I am shaking so much and crying so hard that I can hardly breathe, but my body finds some way to pull in air, regardless, and my heart keeps on pumping, because it is the strongest part of me, according to my doctor. And I keep on living even though I feel as if I am dying, because I am, and it is not a placebo effect; my life is trickling between my fingers as surely as the sand from my failed castles.

I cry until I cannot cry any more, and then I cling to Lance's jacket and press my face against his neck. And I realise that, without the noise of my heartbeat or my sobbing, I can think and feel again. And I feel drained and tired, but I am also warm and safe, because Lance is sitting on the bench seat and I am on his lap, wrapped in his arms, his face buried in my hair, his breath stirring it. My fingers curve at the nape of his neck, and his hair brushes the back of my hand.

"I'm sorry, about the fish," Lance says.

"Are you saying that you were wrong?" I ask, after a small hiccup of laughter, my voice hoarse.

He laughs, softly, into my hair. "No. But we could both be right."

"Maybe," I say.

He sighs. I open my eyes and lean back a little; I can see his pulse ticking against his neck, and the faint shadow of stubble on his jaw, and the bright amber glow of his eyes, looking down at me. His skin is coloured pale blue by the light; it makes everything look cold, but it only makes him look lovely, in a different way.

"Are you alright?" he asks. I nod. "Still want to see the fish, or have they been ruined for you?"

"I want to see them," I say. There is a smile in his eyes, and a slight rise of his lips at the corner. He helps me to stand, and takes my hand when I hold mine out to him, stepping close to me and putting his arm around my waist, his fingers curling around my ribs. He doesn't ask me if I want the chair, and I am relieved inside, because if he asked me I might have screamed or cried again or something else I cannot even imagine. I should not have worried, because Lance would never ask me something like that. Would not ask me if I wanted it, because he hates it just as much as I do. Because he knows my limits. Because he knows both what I want and need. He would not do that to me.

Slowly, we walk around the room. We stop at every tank, and I rest my forehead against the glass; it is cool in comparison to Lance at my side, who is practically a furnace. "Sea turtle," Lance reads from the place card beside the tank.

We watch as a large turtle circles the tank, and then swims towards us. It passes by slowly, and I swear it looks at me, just once, for a moment. Then it swims away. "That turtle looked quite wise," I tell Lance, as we make our way to the next window; he is holding me up more than I am walking, but he says nothing, not a word.

He mumbles in agreement, and we sit in front of the next tank, side by side. A multitude of colourful fish swarm to and fro, diving at small pieces of food as it filters down from the surface of the water, thrown in by an employee.

"Syl," he says, after a while. I look at him, questioningly, but he stares straight forwards at the glass. "I don't know what's wrong with me," he says.

"Lance-" I start, but he cuts me off with a bitter laugh.

"I mean, I know that there's something wrong. I can never make people like me. I'm the solitary fish, but I'm alone because of me, not anyone else."

"You didn't make me like you; I just do. You don't even need to try. And you're not alone." I take his hand, but he doesn't wind his fingers through mine, like he usually does.

"I'm not being self-pitying or anything, even if it sounds like it. I do have a point to make." He slips his fingers through mine, now, and his hand eclipses mine, warm and strong.

"What is it?" I prod, gently.

"It's-" He stops, swallows. And then he turns to face me, angling his body on the seat, slightly, his head tilted to look down at me. He is achingly close; so close it hurts. And this is dangerous, this is not good. This feels frighteningly close to that moment when he said that he wanted to kiss me. When we were lying on my bed and the air felt charged, and I was so tired. And I remember something, something I have told myself almost my whole life, something that echoes in the back of my head. I think of the guilt that will be with me, if I let something like this happen. The guilt of loving him and leaving him, and having no control in the matter. Of knowing I am going to leave, and letting him get hurt.

"Syl, I still want to kiss you," he says. His voice is so deep I could drown in it, but I wouldn't mind. But I'd mind if I hurt him. I would. I would never forgive myself for hurting him, not even if I was dead. If I could feel anything after death, it would be guilt. Always guilt. The pain of adding another person to the list of those I will hurt with my going. And I fear that he is already there. But I don't want him to hurt more than he already does.

"Lance, I can't," I say, and my voice is choked.

"Why not, Syl?" he asks. And there is something in his voice that breaks me, a little, because he is already hurting and it is my fault, all my fault. There is pain and confusion and longing in his voice, and in his eyes; in the slight touch of his fingers against mine, the pressure of his eyes boring into me. And it is too much, too much for me to bear. I look away.

"I can't," I repeat. He is quiet for a moment. I can feel a question building, and I know what will happen if I let him ask it: my resolve will break, and I will not be able to say no again, because I really don't want to; because everything inside of me is screaming against that voice in my head that says no. "I want the chair," I say, quickly. It is the only thing I have left, and I hate it. Hate the way that, when I look up at him, his face is carefully blank. Hate the shadow of pain in his eyes, and the way he brushes his hair self-consciously over his birthmark. I hate the indecision as he looks at me, eyes narrowed. I hate the way that his body, when he stands, is rigid, as he walks to get the chair. As, when he comes back and helps me into it, his hands are overly careful. Because he was never like this before. Because there is pain in his eyes and his stance. Because he is quiet quiet quiet and it never used to matter like this, because the silence was comfortable, but now it screams. Because I have done this. Because, by my simple existence, I have hurt him. I hate it. I hate myself. I hate what I am.

He wheels me out of the building. We meet Olivia and Tom, and see some of the other animals. The experience is empty. If they notice the tension in Lance's body, or the anger I have for myself, the way I barely hold back tears, they do not remark upon it. They fill the hours with chatter. And then we go to the car, and Tom helps me into the back when I ask him to, and then sits in the front, beside Lance, who looks at me inscrutably in the mirror before ignoring me completely. Olivia turns into a backseat driver, though she doesn't know how to drive, and fights with Lance the whole way. And I close my eyes and pretend to sleep, because I don't want to see the confusion and pain in his eyes. Because I have put it there.