Entry #516349, added on 06-20-07 @ 6:05 pm EDT
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| Chapter Five | Entry #516349 |
It didn't take long to find Wren's address. There weren't many Stoners listed in the immediate area. All I had to do was find the one that had MESQ printed beside it. He lived on Quail Hollow, a street that connected to mine. I was never aware that he lived there. Wren had only showed up in our town two years ago, and although most people I went to school with lived in my neighborhood, it never accured to me that he might.
I stand on the corner of his street where it meets with mine and will myself to walk along the houses and find his. But just as I'm about to take a step, fear creeps in and I pull back.
I hear he killed someone.
I turn around to go home, realizing the stupidity in my actions, but I stop. I just want answers. If he can give me that, it'll be enough.
I stroll down his street, searching for his house- 1776. As you can probably imagine, I had quite a laugh upon learning his house number.
My feet stop as soon as I spot the numbers. It's across the street from where I'm standing. A perfect white house stands before me, not much different from my own. The only obvious difference being that mine is only one story high. My eyes sweep over all the flowers that line the porch, and I remember Morgan mentioning that he lives with his aunt. I've seen her come into my mother's nursery and buy beautiful flowers that are obviously well-kept.
I clench my fists and finally muster the courage to amble up the front steps. My hand rests on the door, waiting to be pulled back so that it can fall again against the wood. Instead, I uncurl it and press the doorbell.
A few seconds pass before the door swings open and I'm face to face with Wren Stoner.
We stare at eachother for a long time and I wonder why he lets his hair cover up his brown eye, when the fact that he has two different colored eyes is so unique.
"Hey," he finally says.
I stay silent until I can't help it anymore. "How can you help me?" I ask.
He takes a step aside to invite me into his house and I accept without a second thought. "You want something to drink?" he asks politely.
"No. I'm good." I don't look around his house. I just look at him. He's wearing a pair of faded jean and a regular, long-sleeved cotton shirt, rolled halfway up his arms, with an old beatles shirt over it.
"Come on," he says to me, and I follow him up a flight of stairs into what I suspect is his room.
He says something to me, but I only pretend to listen. I'm looking around his room, being nozy. Posters of different rock bands cover the walls where the sky blue paint sticks out behind them and it's unusually clean for an eighteen-year-old boy. My eyes linger on a photo sitting on the desk that holds his computer. It's a picture of a young woman, with hair the color of Wren's and a lovely smile. Next to her, with his arm thrown around her shoulders, is a younger version of Wren. His hair is cut short so that it doesn't cover his left eye and he smiles widely at the camera. It makes me realize that I've never seen him look happy that way. Or happy any way.
I look up at him and the expression on his face, a stern, serious look tells me he probably hasn't been that happy in a long time.
He points to the window that he's standing beside and I notice that he propped up the blinds, "It actually looks semi-normal out there, you know, for March."
I glance out the window and see that he means that it's not raining or too dark to see. There's apparent sunshine, with the occasional flash of lightening to show that I'm still slightly afraid to be standing where I am.
"I've been trying to keep my emotions on a minimum," I say.
He pushes his hands into his pockets before saying, "I think people were getting sick of the black clouds. What do you have to be depressed about anyway?"
I look at his blue eyes- or should I say eye- trying to get across that I really don't want to discuss my recent misfortunes.
Wren seems to understand. He shrugs and moves on. "What made you change your mind? I thought you didn't need my help."
I don't know why, but in that moment I decide that it's safe to open up to this guy, if only for a short time. "I killed somone."
His body tenses and his fingers, that have been wiggling around in his pockets, freeze. "What do you mean, you killed someone?" He asks patiently.
I shake my head, looking down at the pale blue carpet. "Not directly, it was an accident. I got angry..." I trail off, remembering what he said to me the day before and feeling guilty for not listening to him. "How did you know?" I ask him instead.
"I've seen this before."
My head shoots up, and I try to read his face, while asking him frantically, "You know someone who's been through this? Who? Where?"
"That's not important," he replies, no longer meeting my eyes.
Suddenly I feel angry. I watch him analyze his feet, mad that he knows something so personal about me but still won't tell me the one thing I'd really like to know. "How do I know I can trust you?"
He looks up at me and it seems he's trying to send me a message so that he doesn't have to say it. "I'm the only who knows, right?"
I nod.
"You don't really have a choice."
We both know he's right. I nod again. "So what now?"
"I can help you find a way to fix it, but it's going to take time. For now, keep doing what you're doing- learning how to control it."
I nod one last time. That sounds like a good enough plan.
I leave Wren's house and stand at the end of his street again. I close my eyes and force myself to change something. I can't just think hey, you know, I really wish it would be sunny and warm and expect the clouds to part for the sun. I have to feel it, make it happen.
Think of something happy, I tell myself. Graduation, college, my mother. I look up at the sky, The gray clouds are still piling up. That stuff doesn't make me happy anymore.
Wren. Wren Stoner. He's going to help me. He's going to find a way to fix this. And with that, I feel the heat of the sun splash my face. |
© Copyright 2007 GryffindorGurl (UN: magicfreak11 at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
GryffindorGurl has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
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