The Sad Side of Happy

3: run

LIGHTS GLAZED UPON THE dusking sky as Elisa Ridley walked in a rush on the cobblestones outside the cabin. The clouds were getting darker every passing minute and lightning stroke now and then. She had distractedly left the group and had run outside on instinct the second she saw Marc Khader.

Oftentimes, the worst thing about walking away was that (1) they won't try to chase you and (2) they won't call out your name to stop you. They just let you walk away. They just allow you to slip out of their fingers until your retreating figure can no longer be seen. Just like that.

But you couldn't just walk away from Elisa Ridley because she would always run to you.

Elisa thought of all the things she wanted to tell him, or at least say to him to open a conversation, but nothing came. And as her feet collided with the slightly damp soil outside, she wondered, 'Why am I chasing Marc Khader?'

Before she could stop herself, she called out, "Hey!"

Marc turned around, too swiftly. His hood was over his head and his face was shady beneath it, almost unrecognizable in the dark. Despite the few lights outside the cabin, they all reflected in his green eyes. This nearly gave Elisa a heart attack as Marc walked up to her slowly. "Christ! If that really is you, Marc, can you just freaking pull your hood down so I can see your face? You're scaring me, no joke."

He squinted at her and pulled down the hood as she said so. Elisa's stature seemed small in the dusky night but that was only because she walked with an awful posture. He muttered her name under his breath, uncertain.

"Ridley?" He paused and took a good look at her. "Ah. Ridley, do I look like — like a ghost to you?"

She sucked in a deep breath. She wondered if that was how acquaintances called each other. By their surnames. He wasn't merely an acquaintance to her but she should keep her act together if she didn't want him figuring it out, right? As his eyes scanned her features, she prayed to the stars he would remember her the next second his eyes bore into hers. She wished for him to hug her and tell her he remembered her. She wished for the next second to happen. But it never did.

"You look like the devil himself," she said and looked away. She couldn't dare look at his eyes when they had nearly caused her death. "And yes. It's me. Elisa."

They were silent for a few seconds, just staring at each other, unsure what to do and what to say; afraid to open their mouths, afraid they were about to say the wrong things.

"Ridley?"

"Yeah?"

"Er — what's up?" he asked, not as a question but with an intonation at the end that indicated irritation if Elisa only listened properly and caught on.

"Aren't you coming inside for dinner?" she asked, stupidly.

He took his hands out from the pockets of his hoodie and stretched them. "I just came from there."

"Listen," Elisa started. "I'm sorry. Can you please... don't tell Tyra? About what happened at the cliff?" Tears were teeming in her eyes, blurring her vision, but she swore she caught the fleeting moment of Marc reaching out to her and then withdrawing his hand. He closed his hands into a fist, frustrated for wanting to make sure she was okay and watched as her lips trembled. He wondered if her skin was just as cold as his; just like when they held onto each other at the cliff.

Maybe it was just an imagination—a suppressed memory in her mind but Elisa saw the look of concern flash in his face before he looked away and a scowl made its way into his features. "I'm sorry Tyra said...things that offended you. She blew off and went crazy and — I don't know she's just — she was upset with the both of us, you know? And I think..."

She was rambling and he wasn't listening because he was rather busy staring at her lips and then at the fresh, livid bruise that sat on her wrist. The sleeve of her sweater had risen to her forearm from her unnecessary fidgeting, giving him a display of her skin. It was a remembrance that would haunt them both for as long as the bruises thrived. He felt his bruise—the one she had caused on him from her grip—sting and for a split second, he reached up to touch it but withdrew his hand and balled it into a fist instead.

"...the menu, right Marc?"

He had not realized Elisa was still talking to him until she called his name. "It's um — fine. Stop apologizing," he said, unsure if it was the proper response.

She gave him an amused smile. "What? I asked if you didn't like what's on the menu today."

Marc silenced and the smile on Elisa's lips faded as they both plunged into the space of awkwardness. For a moment it was only Marc's heavy breathing that made sounds until Elisa chuckled and then laughed at the situation. "This is unnecessarily awkward, isn't it?"

"I won't — won't tell anyone about — about what happened," he said and narrowed his eyes as she stared at him in shock.

Elisa thought it was better to just forget about what happened—because that was what Marc said back at the cliff: to forget this ever happened when they came back to the campgrounds. She didn't expect him to be so concerned about it—updating about the whole ordeal, to check if she was still completely sane and making the right decisions. Well, that was what she thought, because Marc Khader stood with a stature that seemed rather assuming to her, and well, he sounded demanding, too.

"I said—"

"I heard you the first time," she interrupted. Right in front of her were those green eyes, a few shades darker. They stared at her the way they did at the cliff. Green. So green they could kill you. Elisa thought that blue eyes and dark hair were a combination that was very lethal to the heart, but now as she stared back at green eyes and dark brown hair, she knew he was the only lethal person in this world that could be the death of her.

"You know what," he said, his voice unwavering. "I'm a bit surprised about — about how you — handled this." He forced his stutter at the farthest back part of his tongue to look confident and unwavering.

"Why?" Elisa asked, confused. She was clutching at the hem of her shirt, stretching it down that she's sure as hell it would tear apart later.

"You're acting okay."

She furrowed. "Meaning?"

"You almost committed — committed it. And minutes ago you sat with your friends. Happy. Good time. Seemed like you and — and everyone else 'round that table — not as broken as everyone is in here." Marc wasn't yelling. His voice was soft but his breathing was labored and impatient as if there was something more that he wanted to say.

Marc wondered when the last time was when he felt so happy. The Elisa kind of happy. Or the kind of happy where joy soaked right through your bones. The kind of happy where you weren't worried you were happy because no one was watching you, judging you, and yelling at you, saying you weren't allowed to laugh that loud. He wanted that kind of happiness. Marc Khader needed that kind of happiness.

"I wasn't laughing that much," Elisa said in her defense. The end of her shirt made a ripping sound and they both looked at it in shock.

"Unjustifiable."

"Well, what am I supposed to do then?" She was impatient and breathing heavily, too, and thought that this was a circumstance she did not want to end up with Marc.

"You can't — can't run away from — what's chasing you."

"Are you jealous? Because some people here could find happiness even in the darkest of times?" Elisa taunted with fierce eyes, forcing herself to look back at him. There it was. It was a massive fight between two distant eyes—brown and green, weak and strong, compassion and indifference. It was obvious to Elisa she didn't know Marc anymore. He wasn't Marc Khader, to her. He was a stranger, almost a nobody. But she couldn't just make him a nobody. No. Not ever.

"I don't pretend to be happy. I give in to that — void. I know how — how to accept," he paused. "You? Can you do it, too?"

"Stop that."

"I'm just trying — to help you understand. You shouldn't forget — pain when it's still there."

"Don't tell me what to do," she spat, "I have my ways of coping, Marc. I live with pain. It's part of me."

Elisa then wondered why she was even friends with the noisiest; maybe because with them, she could block whatever she was feeling by their laughter or the fact that she couldn't ever get herself beaten up with sadness when she was with them. She didn't feel apologetic for feeling that way—sometimes, it just felt empty for her to be around with people you wish it were you. Just carefree.

"You should tell — tell your therapist about what — what happened," Marc demanded.

There was silence.

"I'm not going to tell anyone yet, Marc. If you so bloody want to tell someone, fine, go ahead! I don't care. But I'm not going to sit in front of a therapist and tell them my problems because I'm just not ready for that! I may be here but I have my privileges and I can delay all my sessions for how long I want—but just don't tell Tyra about whatever happened back at the cliff! Swear on your life, Marc." Elisa breathed heavily and found herself leaning to Marc as she realized their proximity to each other. She was drawing herself closer to him slowly while she rambled on about that, and Marc hadn't realized he was leaning to her, too.

"If you can't tell — tell anyone about your problems then — then tell me! Tell me instead! I was there and — f*****g hell—"

"No! Damn it," she swore. "I'm grateful for your concern, but please, just swear on your life not to tell Tyra."

"Fine!" he exclaimed, and then calmed down. He blinked and leaned away from her. "But if you need — someone to — to talk to — well, I'm here. I was there, wasn't I?"

"How could you? You badly need saving just as I need it, too," she said.

He shook his head in disappointment.

She turned on her heels and walked away, back to her dorm where she could cry her eyes out at how things weren't ever going to piece themselves together again.

Marc stood there with no definite reason. He wasn't the type to chase people when they walked away. It was his ego telling him she deserved to know the truth. But as he said earlier, f*****g hell, she was too stubborn and he ran out of ideas on how to help her.

Marc noticed a faint shadow a few feet away from him. He squinted at the small figure near the cabin but couldn't decipher who it was. The figure gradually sauntered toward him as he backed a few. He saw it. He knew who it was. The person's voice loomed over him like a tower as it said, "Better if you stay away from her."

"You — heard everything?" he asked, his voice a mere whisper.

"I did and it'd be better if you stay away from her. Do you understand?" It was Tyra Max.

Only speak when spoken to. Keep your hands visible. No sudden movements. "Yes — yes, ma'am," he whispered in defeat.

"Is it true?"

Marc Khader did not want to say it. He wasn't the type of person to snitch no matter how much his hands were trembling. He didn't say anything because he swore on his life to a girl. They were both silent. The sound of thunder cracked in the night sky. He looked at his wristwatch to check the time.

"Late," he said, "I must go."

"I'll take care of her," Tyra said. "Oh, Marc? You're still taking those services and you start on Friday."

"Yes, ma'am," he said without so much of a glance and started to walk away.

"Wait."

He paused.

"Thank you for—" Tyra said. 'For not being able to remember Elisa. For disappointing her today. For trying to help her but ended up failing and pushing her away. Keep doing that. You're doing great, sweetie.'

"Just, thank you for being there," she said, rather.

He nodded and continued to walk because he thought her gratitude was half-assed and pathetically fake and forced.