31 14.0: Eyelashes (1/2)

′Sometimes we cry with everything except tears.′

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I wonder what's more poetic, the fear of night or the hope of day? What's more poetic, shaking hands curled into shaking fists or bright smiles and crooked teeth? What exactly is our standard of beauty, the moon or the sun?

What are we more drawn to, the dark or the light?

I wonder that as I stare at Joshua's closed garage. Joshua's closed painting space. I wonder that and consider asking Tobias, who's crouched next to me, staring at a yellow daisy Benji is drooling at.

”Beautiful flower,” he comments.

”Help me with the door,” I respond and he gets to his feet and towers over me. He searches my face and holds his hips.

”You okay?” He asks and I lean on the garage's door as Benji jumps around freely in the front yard.

I look down. ”Never been better.”

He puts a hand on my shoulder, stoops to catch my eyes. ”You wanna talk about it?”

”There's nothing to say.” I sigh. ”I've given up on the sequence of events. Too unpredictable. Too disgusting.”

Tobias lowers his voice. ”You're scared Sierra will kill Joshua?”

A mass of worry and dread gets tangled up in my vocal cords and I say nothing as I kneel and try pushing up the garage door. I find it really difficult until Tobias decides to help.

When it's open, Tobias dusts off his hands and looks at me with raised brows. ”What's that?”

”Joshua's painting space,” I say, letting my eyes run over the columns of paint cans and brushes strewn everywhere. Many canvases are leaning on the wall, covered by paint-splotched clothes.

I step inside and the paint stench hits my throat. And I wonder what's worse, the stench of my rotting heart or this fucking paint? What's going to kill me faster?

”You needn't worry, you know that, right?” Tobias says. ”It's God's plan. You have to trust Him.”

I glance at him and sigh. ”But we haven't been playing by His rules all along, have we?” I say, my voice on the verge of breaking. ”I mean, I've been thinking about it and if Benji-” I point at the yard where he's currently running around. ”-if he wasn't there, he wouldn't have dragged Joshua's sweater under the bed and-and-”

”Sierra wouldn't have been able to take his phone?” Tobias continues. ”No. Of course, not. Who put this notion in your head?”

”How else do you justify this?”

”I don't,” Tobias says with a subtle head shake. He tilts his head. ”Who said we weren't playing by God's rules? Don't you think that maybe those are His rules?”

I roll my shaking fingers into shaky fists and look at him helplessly. Tobias steps closer to me, his eyes drawn down to my drowning ones.

He holds my hands. ”You know that I wish I could take your pain away? You know that, right?”

I sniff and nod, letting out a micro-sob. ”I'm so sorry,” I tell him, my eyes diving in tears that blur his concerned face.

”I'm sorry too,” he says softly. ”I wish there was an easier way to do it.”

”Tobias,” I whisper and my heart breaks into two. ”Am I going to lose you too?”

He freezes for a moment, the corner of his left lip twitching.

”Am I, Tobias?” I press, positive that I'm crying a river.

”You know,” he says so softly, so hurt.

My lips tremble. ”I hate this.”

”I'm sorry.” He keeps apologizing and I keep cursing his hazels that are reaching out for me in impossible ways.

I decide to say nothing before breaking free from his loose grasp and reaching for a painting piece to uncover it. I wipe away at my teary eyes and sniff with finality. Not surprised at how awfully good Joshua is, I stare at a car accident scene come alive.

”You know,” Tobias says from behind. ”I can see why you fell for Joshua.”

”Why?” I whisper, tracing the car he drew that hit a streetlamp.

”Good-looking. And he's either a good person or both, a talented painter and actor,” he says. ”I'm almost jealous.”

”You're jealous,” I ask/state with a faint smile and glance at him.

Tobias' lips part before he curls them into a charming smile. ”Almost. I'm talented too, remember? Dead talent, I get it, but I'm talented.” He points out. ”Thus, it's not possible to feel jealous. Especially at that age of mine. How old am I again?”

”Ten.”

He snorts. ”See, Rose? That's just plain rude.”

I smile. ”I just find it weird, you know.”

”What is?”

”Our feelings that persist in our death. I mean this torment? It's all because of our feelings,” I sigh. ”One would think his feelings would drown when his heart rots.”

”The heart isn't where feelings hide,” Tobias says.

I blink at him. ”Then where? Where do they hide?”

”I don't know?” He clicks his tongue. ”Everywhere?” He then looks at me like it hurts. ”Because everywhere dances when you're happy. And everywhere hurts when you're hurt.” He exhales smoothly. ”Our stomachs tiptoe and our hearts rush to meet them, somewhere around our diaphragms,” He points at his thorax. ”And then maybe when our diaphragms vibrate, we feel those 'butterflies'? That's how I felt about my first crush. Not butterflies. Violent vibrations of strong emotion.”

”Feelings are too strong to be butterflies,” I say.

”Yes,” Tobias smiles. ”And when you're hurt? It feels like all your organs have soaked up the pain. They pulse in agony. Your eyes get drunk on tears. Your heart is restless. Beating too fast or too slow, you think you might die. And that's how pain feels like. It feels like death. Like your every cell has aged a century. It's your every cell shackled. You feel heavy because you're not only carrying yourself around. You're carrying your pain's shackles too. And you feel it.”

”I feel it.”

He locks my eyes, glances at my shaking hands. ”You feel it in the dance of your hands. The crack of your voice. The ache in your gut.”

”The hole in your heart,” I add bitterly and he nods.

”Everywhere, everywhere.”

I inhale deeply, his words a new oxygen my body is getting used to. I turn away from him and force my mind from its Tobias'-words-woven vacation to my present.

”There's a sticky note on the canvas.” I simply say, removing it and reading it out loud.

'Monday nights are supposed to be quiet. Why was that one too loud? Nothing will ever unbreak my heart, so I'll just keep running for my life.'

I turn to Tobias with furrowed eyebrows. ”You think this is real?” I ask, examining the drawing for any date. ”You think something happened to him?”

”I think what will tell us if he's drawing from life experience or not is his other paintings,” he says.

”You're right,” I say, returning the note and moving on to the next painting.

Tobias uncovers it and there lie my unsmiling eyes and face, framed by my blond wavy hair, staring right at me.

”Wow,” Tobias huffs out.

I clear my throat and reach for the sticky note.

”It says sorry,” I say, studying Joshua's rapid scribble of 'sorry'. ”That's all.” That's all. That's what people are good at spreading. Their meaningless 'sorries'.

Tobias is letting his fingers touch my painted hair when he says, ”So he does draw from life experience.”

I nod, returning the note with a tight breath.