The days had passed since Kayleigh’s arrival in sunny Los Angeles, although her days were far from sunny. Instead, they were filled with anger, expletives, tears, and a whole lot of alcohol.
Things with Trace hadn’t improved since the episode in the kitchen, and things weren’t much better with Justin or his attitude. She was beginning to doubt her choice to come here, and she had even contemplated packing her bags. Unfortunately, that nagging feeling in her gut seemed to always keep her in place to deal with the chaos that was seeping through every crevice of the oversized mansion that she had come to despise.
Her long blonde hair was neatly pulled back into a ponytail, her curls cascading neatly down the middle of her back. Her shoulder and upper arm were supporting her weight against the frame of the large archway connecting the living room and the kitchen. Sighing, her eyes slowly watched the troubled man laying dormant on the couch in the living room. She crossed her arms over her chest, analyzing his every feature and form of body language.
Her eyes were glued to Trace’s lips as he brought the longneck bottle of Bud Light to them to sip the bland urine-colored liquid. He had been nursing the bottle since she got there, and it worried her. Sure, he was a partier, but the only party he was throwing lately was a pity party and he was the only one invited. Frankly, she was sick of it.
She was trying her best to be there for him, but not only would he not let her help, but he made it difficult to even talk to him. She was getting tired. She shook her head with a sad sigh before quietly pushing herself from the support of the frame. Her thoughts consumed her mind as she slowly ascended the winding stairs to the second floor.
Without thinking, her feet led her to the entranceway of the bedroom Trace was staying in. Since he had been nursing the bottle and being downright grumpy to everyone that came in contact with him, she had decided to try and take a different approach to dealing with him, since talking obviously didn’t work. Her first order of business was to do his laundry, since he wore the same skanky shirt and jeans everyday; her second was to cook him his favorite meal; her third was to get rid of all of the alcohol. She was a woman on a mission, and she wasn’t going to stop until she got through to him.
Her small hand slowly reached for the door knob before turning it quietly. She let it creek as she pushed it open slightly, shocked to see the massive piles of dirty clothes everywhere. It looked like his room was utterly trashed, and it should probably be declared a national disaster site. Her bare feet slowly stepped over the land mines as she searched for a laundry basket, deciding to try the closet for the hidden object.
Upon peaking into the open closet, she saw a clear plastic basket on the top shelf of the massively large space. Her hand went to her hip as she let out a sigh, blowing a small piece of loose hair out of her face. She finally moved to reach up, her short stature finally getting the basket into her grasp, pulling it slowly down from the top shelf of the closet. As she did so, a small black and white marbled composition notebook fell from its position on the shelf with a muted thud against the white carpet.
She slowly shifted the clear plastic basket behind her into the bulk of the room. Bending down slowly, she took the small notebook into her hands with intentions of placing it back on the shelf; curiosity, however, got the best of her. She slowly opened it, curious about it’s contents. Quickly, she realized it was his journal. She shook her head and moved to close it. She wasn’t about to read his journal. That, to her, was a crime that no one should commit. No, she wasn’t going to read it. She stood back up and placed it back on the shelf with care before turning to go put his clothes in the basket.
One by one, she placed his dirty laundry into the laundry basket, emptying out pockets in the process so that she didn’t accidentally wash something important. As she was doing so, the thought of reading his journal was eating away at her inside.
Why would it be so bad? She just wanted to know what was going on with him, and he obviously wasn’t going to tell her himself. Maybe just reading the last few entries wouldn’t be such a bad idea. It wasn’t like she was going to read his entire journal or life story, right? No, she just wanted to know what he was feeling so that she could try and relate to him, to get through his thick, stubborn skull. Her body halted its motions and turned towards the closet, still battling with her morals inside her head. Ultimately, she decided she needed to do it. She needed to understand his emotions if she was really going to be able to help him through this.
Her body shifted unsurely, pausing to look back at the entrance to his room, before finally making the initial steps towards the closet. She made sure that the door was closed, spying the knob nervously, before turning back to the task at hand. Her arm stretched slowly, grabbing the notebook and sliding it down. She slowly sat down on the carpet inside the closet, and she slowly opened the notebook.
She flipped through the pages carefully, yet quickly, wanting to find the last few entries and read them as quickly as possible. Finally, she found the last one that was dated for the day before.
Dear What does it all mean? Self,
The Sunday ritual of eating breakfast, drinking coffee, and reading the paper together has been chopped to pieces this morning. My mother was up all night throwing up in the hospital bathroom. So, I'm sitting here, in the quiet, in the gloom of the house because the lights are off and the sun isn't shining; not a soul is up besides me, and I'm waiting. I’m drinking. That’s all I seem to be doing lately. It’s a lonely life to lead, but it’s better than sitting at the hospital, watching her slowly wilt away to nothing.
At the hospital, I just sit. I watch her. I watch her eyes, sunken in the back of her head, the way their pale blue orbs used to look so vibrant, and now? Now they just look deathly, vacant, and pained. Sometimes she talks to me, but most of the time she’s too weak to. Every once in awhile, though, she’ll open her mouth, and her hoarse voice will peep out of her taught, chapped lips. That’s what I wait for. For her to speak, to say something to me, to call to me, to even know that I’m there. It scares the shit out of me when she does. I move towards her bed, wide-eyed, uncertain, she utters a few words. Then I nod, waiting for her to go back to her little world, and I mentally run. I run away from this place where there’s pain and sorrow, so that I don’t have to see the look on her sad face. It makes me sick.
Last Thursday, she laid her head in my lap while we were watching television, and she started to cry. Not big crying; it was difficult to tell that she was crying. It was more of a whimper. She was crying again this morning. I've only seen her cry a handful of times: 1) she had an abscessed tooth and she didn't know I was watching her, 2) when she took pictures of me for graduation, 3) when her cat died, 4) and now that she's sick.
I wish she weren't so stubborn and that I could know how sick she is. At the same time, I wish that she weren't sick at all. She's gaunt and yellowed, much too thin. She doesn't sleep; she doesn't eat. When she talks, which is rare, it's sharp and bitter--she's angry all the time. She's losing her mind. If you ask her a direct question, seldom does she even answer, and if she does, the train of thought is skewed.
Kayleigh arrived a few days ago. She has not yet seen her in the state that she's in. I’m afraid for her to. She knows how much my mother means to me. But one can express little in haphazard brushings in the hallway. She doesn’t understand anyway, mostly because I don’t want her to. I don’t want her to feel the pain I’m in. I don’t know why I asked her to come. She can’t help me, and she can’t help my mother; no one can. She’ll see her, the way my mother acts in her dying sickness, and she’ll become sad and angry and bitter and confused just like the rest of us. Then, she’ll leave for Memphis, just as planned, and think little about it. I should have left her out of this, but I need her. She’s always been my strength, my rock. I thought she would be able to help me get through this, but I end up just pushing her away and wallowing in my own self-pity. I hate the person that I’ve become. I’m losing my sanity. Maybe I’m the one dying...
But through it all, I remember something Kayleigh had written to me when I had left a few years ago, a simple note for me to read on the plane. It kept me going when I left her behind, and as I read the words, it keeps me going now.
“Patience is a virtue; tolerance is key. Solitude and quietude are ever important. Independence and strength may be all we have. We are in jeopardy, but we must still live. Depression, anxiety, bitterness, sadness; they pit against us, and we fight as hard as we can and we fall. We get back up again, briefly nursing our hands and knees and begin once more to fight. Right now, our struggle is indefinite, but there is nothing but life at the end of it. And I hope that that is something for us to look forward to, and more than look forward to, something for us to strive toward.”
The tears slowly slid down her face, slowly hitting the page, leaving their salty remains. She took in a sharp breath as she sighed, physically forcing herself to close her eyes. Her mind tried to picture Trace in this situation, seeing him watch his mother die before him. It pained her to think about it, to envision the vibrant woman that baked her cookies when she was little being thin, deathly, and restrained. At the same time, though, it made her a little relieved that Trace still cared for her and thought about her, even though he hadn’t seen her in years. A soft smile had pushed its way onto her face when she was reading the little ditty she had written for him years ago when he was leaving to stay in LA with Justin. It had hurt her, losing her best friend to her nemesis, but she wanted to assure him somehow that they would endure the separation and remain best friends. Even if they didn’t, he would live a long and fruitful life, filling it with people that meant the world to him, and he would be happy. That’s all that she wanted, for him to be happy.
She finally closed the book, realizing that she now, more than ever, had to prove her friendship and love for him. Her arms pushed her body up after closing the book, and she delicately tucked it back into its resting place. In a flash, she was on a roll, pushing clothes into the basket. When she had a full load, she went to the laundry room, shoving the items into the several washers that Justin had. How did he live with all of this shit? Sometimes, the pompous ass amazed her with his materialistic ways. She wasn’t here to bicker with Justin, though, she was here for Trace.
After she finished placing the clothes in the laundry, she went into the kitchen to start searching for some food. Luckily, she had everything she needed since the part-time wait staff that Justin employed always stocked the industrial sized refrigerator with random food to fulfill his every waking whim. Humming a quiet little song, she started fixing Trace’s favorite, baked homemade macaroni and cheese with peach cobbler for dessert. In no time, the kitchen was filled with delicious smells, and for the first time since she arrived, she had a smile on her face. Today, she decided, was going to be a good day.
Incomplete
ninabina is the author of 15 other stories.
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Story Tags: celebrityj justinandtrace college
