Another life, insanity

I am no stranger to anything that is Jackie Pierce. I have never been, I will never be. "God. I actually hate him sometimes," Jackie sighs, her fingers fishtailed in my hair, twisting and pulling at it as she drones about her boyfriend for the umpteenth time today. I listen. Jackie speaks. I dance, Jackie leads. Jackie pulls, I follow. I will never deny Jackie Pierce, because Jackie Pierce is god. Jackie Pierce is the holy portrait up on my wall that I pray to before dinner, Jackie Pierce is the name I whisper into my chapelled hands, Jackie Pierce is--- "It's just, like, I can't give him what he wants, you know? Not now. Maybe never," Jackie continues. She tugs at my hair too hard, and it hurts but I don't say anything. "I just keep asking myself if I should break up with him at this point. It's like he never listens." "You should," I say easily. And I am sincere when I say, practically beg, "Karl sucks, Jackie. I've told you a hundred times. He doesn't deserve you." Jackie makes a sound that is halfway between a sigh and a groan. "But you're my best friend and you have to say that. Maybe me and him are actually perfect for each other, in a screwed-up way." My eyes settle towards Jackie's carpet, pink and plush over her hardwood floors. What does she even want me to say? 'Yes, Jackie, you're right, Jackie, my bad, Jackie, I'll go prostrate myself for you, Jackie?' It's like she just wants to tell me I'm wrong all the time. Like all she wants is to shoot me down, I think bitterly. At least I can write something poetic about it later. "Why are we even going to Karl's party if you want to break up with him so bad?" If Jackie notices my clipped tone, she gracefully does not comment. Instead she hums, "I don't actually want to break up with him... I think. I was just thinking out loud. Turn around." I do. Jackie's legs bracket mine as she twists, pulling my legs up from the side of the bed and into criss-cross. Then she hauls up, hand against the mattress for leverage, and straddles my lap, armed with lip gloss and blush. I am no stranger to it. But, God, am I still hungry. For something. I don't know what it is. I don't want to know it. My diary knows it. My scattered, verbose and vague poems know it. I don't want to. I drown in Jackie's perfume, floral and fruity, something expensive. Something hard to breathe in. One hand braces herself on my shoulder. Her other hand cups my chin and forces my gaze up. And I look and I look and I look and she looks---Jackie is so pretty. Jackie is so perfect. Because Jackie Pierce is god, and this bed's the altar, and I'm the priest writing all the prayers. What's art without a muse? What's suffering without a point? What is a poet without a pen? What is Elijah King without Jackie? And other poetic things. It's easier for this to be poetry than it is for it to be love. Hate is easier, too. I like saying it's hate sometimes. "Pink or red?" Jackie asks, reaching off my shoulder to hold up two vials of lip gloss. I don't even look at them, because I know what Jackie wants me to choose. Jackie

"Pink," I say, and Jackie smiles, pleased. She twists off the cap and slickly swipes the gloss over her lips, bottom then top. It's a familiar ritual, one I've watched a hundred times before. Jackie Pierce, my muse, my god, my everything. She leans in close, her face inches from mine, and I can smell the sweetness of the gloss. My heart pounds in my chest as she carefully applies the color, her fingers brushing my lips as she works. It's a small, intimate gesture, and I can't help but wonder if she realizes the effect she has on me. "All done," Jackie says, pulling back with a satisfied smile. She looks at me expectantly, and I know what she wants. I lean in and press my lips to hers, a soft, chaste kiss. The taste of her lip gloss lingers on my tongue. "Perfect," Jackie declares, pleased with the result.

She hops off my lap, smoothing her clothes and tossing the lip gloss aside. Her eyes meet mine, and for a moment, the air between us crackles with unspoken tension. But then it's gone, and Jackie is back to her usual self, bouncing around the room and chatting about the upcoming party at Karl's. I watch her move, drinking in every detail like it might be the last time. The curve of her waist, the sway of her hips, the way she fidgets with a strand of hair as she talks. It's all so painfully beautiful, so perfectly Jackie Pierce. My hand drifts to my pocket where my keys jingle softly, a reminder that I need to leave soon to make it to Karl's party on time.

I say, "Hey, Jackie, I'm gonna wait in the car."

Jackie pauses mid-sentence, her head cocked to the side as she processes my words. A flicker of something—surprise, perhaps, or even disappointment—crosses her face before she quickly masks it with a bright smile. "Oh, okay! I'll just be a sec." She flutters around the room, gathering her things—a small clutch, her phone, a light jacket. As she gathers her belongings, I notice her hands shaking slightly, but she quickly tucks them into her pockets. "You sure you don't want to wait here? It's not like we're in a rush or anything."

I say, "You wanted to go, right?"

Jackie's shoulders slump slightly, but she nods, a forced smile on her face. "Yeah, of course. You're right, let's go." She grabs her things and follows me out to the car, her heels clicking on the pavement. As I drive, the silence stretches between us, thick and heavy. Jackie fidgets in her seat, her fingers drumming an erratic beat on her thigh. I can feel her gaze on me, but I keep my eyes fixed on the road ahead. "So, um, about earlier..." Jackie starts, her voice hesitant. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable or anything. I just... I don't know. I guess I just get carried away sometimes." I glance over at her, taking in the way she bites her lip, the uncertainty in her eyes. It's a rare sight, seeing Jackie Pierce unsure of herself.

I say, "How unlike you to be like this."

"Yeah, well," Jackie says, her voice barely above a whisper. "I guess even goddesses have their off days." She looks out the window, her reflection staring back at me in the glass. "You're not mad at me, are you? I promise I'm not trying to lead you on or anything. You know I'm with Karl." The car swerves slightly, but I correct it quickly. I can't help but feel a pang of jealousy at the mention of his name. "I know, Jackie. It's fine." Jackie turns to face me, her eyes searching mine. "Elijah, really. I value our friendship more than anything. I don't want to screw that up." I shrug, trying to play it cool. "It's cool, Jackie. I get it." But the words taste bitter on my tongue.

After arriving, Jackie goes and hangs with Karl. After about ten minutes of fuming, I go outside after bumming a cigarette off some chick.

I step outside into the cool night air, the cigarette dangling from my lips as I light it. The smoke fills my lungs, a sharp, acrid taste that momentarily distracts me from the ache in my chest. Through the window, I can see Jackie laughing at something Karl said, her hand resting on his arm. The sight makes my stomach churn. "Hey, you're Elijah, right?" A voice breaks through my thoughts. I turn to see a girl from school—Amara, one of Jackie's teammates—standing nearby. Her dark eyes are kind, and she offers a small, sympathetic smile. "You look like you could use some company." I take a long drag of my cigarette, the ember glowing bright in the darkness. "I'm fine," I mutter, but my words lack conviction. Amara doesn't seem convinced. She moves closer, her presence a gentle pressure beside me.

My mind runs on having a conversation with itself again. "You know Eli, you should really just let me out," one voice says. "Hell no," I reply. "Oh come on, you're so miserable all the time and constantly drool over that girl. I swear one day I'll be free!" the other voice argues. "As if," I snap back. My two personalities argue over and over and over again, yet barely a second has truly passed.

Amara leans against the wall beside me, her posture relaxed and unassuming. She reaches out, plucking the cigarette from my lips and taking a long drag herself. The smoke curls around her face as she exhales, a wispy halo in the night. "I know that look," she says, her voice low and conspiratorial. "You're hung up on her, aren't you? Jackie?" My jaw clenches, a muscle twitching in my cheek. I snatch the cigarette back, taking another deep pull before answering. "I don't know what you're talking about." Amara chuckles, the sound warm and knowing. "Come on, Elijah. It's obvious to everyone but her. The way you look at Jackie, like she's the sun and you're the earth, constantly orbiting. It's a little pathetic, to be honest." My fingers tighten around the cigarette, the paper crinkling beneath my grip.

"COME ON LET ME OUT YOU FUCKER!!" my other twisted personality screams in my mind. I continue smoking while glaring into the distance.

Amara's hand comes to rest on my arm, her touch light but firm. "Look, I'm not trying to be mean. I just... I see you, Elijah. And I see how Jackie treats you. It's not right, what she's doing. She's using you, and you let her." The words hit like a physical blow, striking deep in my chest. I'm about to respond when the door to the party swings open, spilling light and noise into the night. Jackie emerges, her arm linked with Karl's as they stumble out, clearly drunk. She spots me and Amara, her face clouding with something—anger? Guilt? Jealousy?—before it smooths into a practiced smile. "Elijah! There you are!" She slurs slightly, her words slurred. "I was looking for you." She tugs Karl closer, as if to emphasize their relationship.

And suddenly *snap* my hold on my other much more sadistic and twisted personality shatters. I pause, my head droops as I lean against the railing. Slowly, a dark twisted smile filled to the brim with malice and glee sprouts on my face.