One

"You’re the reader and I’m the character; you’re reality and I’m fantasy; you’re fire and I’m water; we are two basic elements that are always at odds with each other." A romance story like no other.

(One)

It all started when you first opened the book, I’m sitting on my own reading by lamp light when suddenly everything became really bright. I look up and see you, reading my thoughts on the pages and that’s when I see your beautiful eyes. Yours meet my brown ones and I softly smile. I can tell you were something different, I know you are unlike the people who would pick up the book randomly off the shelf and start flicking through my thoughts. Because when you open it, the light stays.

     

I try to carry on reading, but it is rather impossible knowing you were there basically looking into my soul. I have this weird feeling that this was the start of something new. I didn’t know that that day was the start of me falling crazily in love with you. Maybe if I did, I might have not looked up and let our eyes met. 

Anyway, as I was saying, I can’t read any longer, so I gently put the book down and make my way across the room, so I can be in the more in the light for you to see me properly. I look up, looking at you with my eyes, pressing my lips into a tight line, I frown. You don’t say a word, you just stare back, I may have not been able to read any longer, but you could. I move my head away so I am no longer looking at you anymore. It’s so weird that you could look into my life, my past, my present, but what scared me the most was that if you flipped a few pages ahead, you’d know about my future too. I would have loved to be able to skip parts and see what happens, but I can’t, just as you can’t do that to your life either.

I put my shoes on before leaving my flat and walking onto the streets of London. I keep throwing you glances, it is weird knowing you are following me, yet you aren’t even walking at all. You are somewhere completely different, whether that was in the States or in Europe or another place out of reach from me… it doesn’t make any difference anyway. 

That’s when I turn round.

“It’s rather off putting you reading into everything I think, you know. I bet if it’s the other way round you’d want me to shut the book and never pick it up again,” I say, you don’t reply.

I frown. “Are you going to say anything? Introduce yourself, that kind of thing?”

Sighing slightly, I clear my throat, “I’m Hayden by the way, Hayden Jones, and you are?” 

You just stare at me; I groan and turn back round, still throwing you an occasional glance here and there.

“You know that you’re going to have to tell me sooner or later who you are, it’s a bit weird how you know about me and I know nothing about you.” Nothing. “Okay, how about this, I’ll tell you about my life and you spill about yours?” Still nothing, but I take that as a yes.

Quickly I slip into a cafe and order a hot drink before I take a seat on the brown sofa. 

“So you know my name, it’s Hayden, in case you’ve forgotten, which you probably wouldn’t have because you just heard/read it a few seconds ago. Anyway, I grew up in a small town in England, it was nothing special, the usual, girls being mean and boys being cocky, it was natural from where I grew up. Anyway, my mother, well she was a Doctor and worked at home most of the time, she was the ‘town healer’ as they called her, she lives not that far away from where I grew up now. My father, well he left when I was seven, not much to say about him.” I take a sip of my drink, before putting it back down.

     

“Mum told me he left because he just didn’t love her; she then said that didn’t mean he doesn’t love me. But I know the real truth, a few weeks before he left, I saw something. I might tell you soon, but right now, I’m keeping this my secret. Anyway, I never saw him, I don’t see him now either, but its fine. If he couldn’t be bothered to stay when I was a kid, then he shouldn’t be bothered to be around now I’m nineteen.” I reach out for the newspaper and unfold it, nothing interesting; I chuck it next to me and take another sip.

     

“Anyway, my mother met this guy called Billy, he was alright I guess, he wasn’t amazing, which my mother deserves, but I knew he would treat her with care and that’s all I really needed to know. They met when I was seven, the same year my father left, but they were just friends at that point. Recovering from both having a divorce, Billy had two sons; Tom and Joey and together they had my little sister Lily. I haven’t seen them in a while, mum never seems to want me around these days, yet she doesn’t want me to live in London. Weird, right? I don’t blame her, I’m not saying I was an out of control teen, but I did have a temper problem. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not going to come up with some sob story saying I was like that because of my dad or anything.” Another sip.

     

“Certainly not, no. I became angry because it was who I am. I do still kind of get mad, but so does everyone else, I don’t get Bruce Banner angry, but sometimes I just want to rip some people’s heads off. Do you ever get that?” I ask, looking at you. Nothing. 

“I’ll take that as a sometimes. Anyway, I went to secondary school at a minor education place. Nothing fancy, but nothing below standard. I was crap at everything but English. I suck at Maths, sport, science and all the important stuff you kind of need to know. But English, I don’t know, just something about it made me feel like I could do it. I love to read, I guess you know that since I first met you when I was reading. Then at eighteen, I moved here to London.” I laugh, “I’ve been talking about myself for awhile, your go. So, what is your name?”

    

You still don’t reply, I scratch the back of my neck. “Tough crowd, huh? Well, I guess if you want to keep your personal life, well, personal, that’s fine with me. Just wanted to loosen the strings between reader and character, but I guess you prefer being far away from us. I understand you, I mean I read a book to escape all the crap of real life, you don’t really want a book to start developing reality, do you?”

    

You still don’t talk; I scratch my head in confusion. “Do you just not like talking is that it? I totally understand, but can’t you at least nod or something?” Still nothing. “Forget it, I give up.” I take a large swig of my drink, draining it before putting it back on the table and leaving.

    

I push open the door hard and it slams shut with a loud bang, I look up.

     

“Hey, don’t look at me like that! You’re the one who is staying all cold towards me. I asked you questions and you didn’t reply. It’s your fault I’m in a crap mood-” I stop talking and come to a halt. “I’m sorry, that was uncalled for. It’s not your fault, it’s mine. I got myself worked up because you don’t want to tell me stuff. That’s fine; you don’t have to if you don’t want to. Totally fine.” I glance back at you, just as I start walking again.

      

“Okay, maybe I’m not ‘totally’ fine with the idea, but I’ll get used to it. How hard could it be?” I rub my brow, before slipping back into my flat. I kick my shoes off before flopping down onto the bed and staring at the ceiling.

     

"When you close the book, what do you think will happen?” I ask to no one.

     

“Do you think I’ll remember you? Or will it be just like I was sleeping? I know what happens once you’re finished reading completely, I become forgotten until you pick me up again. But no one ever does. They just pick us up once, read it or just sometimes look at part of us. And when they shut the book, we all become ourselves again; we don’t have the reader to make us feel a different way to how we normally are. We’re not scripted when the cover is closed. But once you finish the book, that’s a completely different story.” I smile. “Pardon the pun, I really didn’t say that on purpose, if that is what you’re thinking.”

     

I shift my weight slightly, making sure my head rests on a pillow. “You see, the thing is, once the book has ended, we are nothing but a character in a book someone once read. We’re not toys that come alive at night or pictures that move. We’re people that once we come to the final word, we have to start again. We no longer remember saying words we said a few pages in, nor do we remember how it all ends. We become small, fragile fools, and that’s such a shame.”

                                                 *

The first morning after I met you came quickly as soon as I finally drift off to sleep. I had a dreamless slumber, but you probably would know that, since you are sitting, standing, kneeling or whatever position you are in, there reading my most inner thoughts.

     

I roll over in my bed, the sheets falling around me. Opening my eyes, I feel your hands on me, yet we aren’t even touching. Slowly, I look up at you and smile. I may not know about you very well, but I’m not going to lie; waking up to your eyes is not such a horrible thing. I lay in bed for a moment, staring up at you, before deciding to finally get up. I wash, which in fact was rather awkward with you staring down at me, got dressed, before finally taking a seat at my desk. The typewriter sits in front of me; I load the paper before staring at the empty page. I really need to sort out my writers block, I haven’t written for months. I sigh before unloading the paper and putting it with the rest. Looking up, I groan.

     

“Why is it so difficult to write? I really need something to inspire me, but creativity these days runs very low and I’m not just talking about myself and my writing.” I get up, pushing the swivel chair rather hard; it falls to the floor with a crash. 

“God d****t!” I scream.

     

I pick it up and almost slam it into the desk before flopping down on my unmade bed. I sigh and groan again, before picking up a book from the never-ending bookshelf that runs all the way round my room and chucking it against my white wall.

      

“If only I had something to write about. I know I have you, but there’s not a lot to go with just from your looks, no offence.” I lift up my hand in a ‘calm it, Kermit’ sort of way, even though you’re not manic. 

      

I sigh again. “God I hate writers block. How do people get over it? Okay, they may find an idea and write that down, but no great story happened after a goddamn writers block.” I sit up, resting my body weight on my forearms. “Well, not what I’ve heard of.”

      

I get off the bed and pick up the book I threw; it’s To Kill a Mockingbird. Opening the first page, I settle back down on my bed. With my thumb, I trace over five words that, even though caused me anger and happiness in one, meant nothing but the world to me. Dear Hayden, love, your father. I haven’t, to be perfectly honest, read this copy of the book. The day I got it through the post, a stamp marked Hong Kong, I put it among my thousands of books on the shelf before going out and buying another copy. Sounds silly, right? But something about those five words made me either too angry to open it or too happy to ruin it; whatever option, I still kept it and never read a single word from the book. The day after, I visited my mother and over dinner I happen to mention it. She looked up, while serving Lily some carrots, before saying five more words, but these ones definitely angered me:

     

“I told him to get it.”

    

Sounds pathetic, but I kind of hoped he had guessed I liked classic, brilliant books. But no, he doesn’t know anything. Billy, who passed me the beans, told me that he came round a few months ago asking them where I was. They merely answered saying I was studying in London (which is in fact a lie, I really just left because I wanted to get out of my dead-end, pathetic excuse for a home town). That’s when my mother brought up the fact he should buy me the book for my upcoming birthday. 

     

When I returned home, I wanted to wrap it up in the packaging and send it back to Hong Kong, with just a note telling him to shove it somewhere. But something stopped me. Whether because the fact he still brought it meant something to me, or because I was too lazy to do anything but lay in a bath and read my new copy of the book, while my father’s version sat on the dustiest shelf along with the ten children’s books he had sent over the years, which I also happened not to read. I wasn’t sure.

      

So on this Wednesday morning, you can kind of understand my surprised that I was actually opening it for more than a minute. I turn over the next page, lie down on my back and begin to read; the book held up in the air, the spine pointing to the ceiling. After a while, I look up at you.

     

“Do you sometimes wish you could give people a chance that you never gave them? Swap it with someone who you know wasted that chance?” 

     

I take the book in one hand and let gravity take my arm; it falls onto the bed, page four slightly crinkled.

    

“Have you ever given someone the opportunity to make something better and they wasted it? They’re saying sorry and telling you that they won’t do the same thing again, and then the next moment they’re back to their old routine. Do you ever wonder what it would be like to take that chance, the one that you risked everything for, and give it to someone different? I know I have. My mother used to tell me that there are certain people out there who aren’t meant to fit in your life, no matter how much you try or want them too.”

    

I take a deep breath before sitting up and smoothing out the page. I shut the book and put it on the side, before looking up to you once again.

      

“Maybe I was wrong, maybe I should have given my father a chance, and you gave me one after all. But then again, I didn’t run away to Hong Kong with my old babysitter.”

     

So now you know, my so called father left my mum for a man. In case you’re wondering, the ‘thing’ I saw a few weeks before he left was him and babysitter kissing. Even after twelve years, I have never been able to get over that; not only because it was proof that my father no longer loved my mum, but also I knew she was lying about the real truth. Okay, maybe he fell out of love with my mum, but the main reason was because he loved men, not women. And that’s rather important in an opposite sex marriage, (well done, Hayden. You idiot.)

      

“Maybe, I should tell you the whole story, from beginning to end and maybe you’ll see the reason why I left everything and came here.” I move and fold my legs under me.

      

“Okay, I guess, I’ll start telling you a bit about my parents. That’s always a good place to begin. Well, my mother she was born in Suffolk and moved to a small village a few minutes away from where I grew up when she was ten. My dad, well he was born there and lived there for most of his life. My mum, she’s the daughter of a Mid-wife called Victoria, who died before I was born, and a Carpenter called George, who I think is still alive. After my mother’s mum’s death, she never saw my grandfather, Billy told me they never got along in the first place.

     

 “Anyway, my dad was or is, (I’m not sure which tense to speak in,) the son of a house-wife and an alcoholic, both who died in a car crash when my father was in his early teens. He lived with Aunt-Helen while growing up, who happens to be dead also, (heart attack in case you were wondering). They both met at secondary school. They had the same lessons and became good friends, eventually that turned into something more and when they were both sixteen and I was born.” I scratch the bridge of my nose.

      

“Anyway, when I was six, I remember going to the zoo with my parents. That’s when I kind of guessed they were no longer in love, because while my mother was buying me an ice-cream, my father was flirting with other women. At that age, I didn’t know this; I just thought he was being friendly. Also, at that age, I couldn’t really tell who was female or male; so I didn’t know that he actually wasn’t flirting with women, but with men. Yes, I know; at the age of six, I had the mental age of a two year old. But I grew out of that, don’t worry.” I laugh.

     

“I barely even know you and I’m telling you mine and my parent’s life story, that’s kind of weird. You didn’t drug me or anything did you?” You don’t reply. 

      

“You’re either not saying anything because you did or you’re not say anything because you haven’t even told me your name. I’m guessing the second option.” I smile briefly.

      

“Can I ask you something?” You don’t reply. “I’ll take that as a yes. Okay, since I’m not really real, I don’t know the answer completely, I guess I could research it, but that won’t give me a proper answer, so here we go: Why do people leave? We all hate goodbyes, even if you like being alone; so why do some people choose to go? There must be a simple answer somewhere. There is always a simple answer, nothing is complicated but we just make it that way. Also, why do people make it look so easy to just walk away from their life and maybe even other’s? Why do they choose to go, or does someone choose for them?” I groan, before taking my legs from under me and stretching them onto the bed, I flop down and stare at you.

      

“I know my mum was right; just because he no longer loved her, doesn’t mean he doesn’t love me. But it just doesn’t feel that way. He didn’t just leave her behind, he left me too. And the worst thing is I take departures personally. That’s why, when someone opens this book, then a couple of minutes later close it; I feel like it’s my fault and maybe it is. Maybe I’m just trying to make myself feel better. We all blame other people for the things that we can’t work it out, but at the end of the day, it’s really our fault, no one else’s. Not many people realize that. 

     

“I make everything difficult; let’s just say that the word easy isn’t in my vocabulary. I guess that’s why so many people have walked in and out of my life, but I make things too difficult to understand, I’m too difficult to understand. Like I said, I take departures personally and that’s not the way to live. You shouldn’t- I shouldn’t ever feel like that. But do you ever look at yourself and ask ‘why can’t I be perfect?’ the truth is, no one is and the people that think they are; their personalities aren’t. I take departures personally because I am and never will be perfect, I’m not a model or a Hollywood star, I’m just Hayden, nothing special, but like my mother said to me ‘we are all flawless in our own little way’ and do you know what? I think that’s true.”

      

Author's Note

Thank you for reading, yours truly, Oswin xoxo