Not Enough

by Mia Hoddell

  “I’m heading to work now. Are you going to be okay here on your own?”

  “I’ve had a house to myself before, you know.”

  “Yes, but you’re in a strange mood and I don’t feel comfortable going without checking.”

  “I’m fine. I’m going to job hunt.”

  “I told you not to worry about that.”

  “And I told you I’m not letting you pay for everything.” I sound like a petulant child and Blake arches his eyebrows at me with a grin.

  “You’re stubborn.”

  I shrug and focus my attention back on the screen.

  “I’ll see you later, Stripes,” he calls as he leaves the room.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Neve

  It’s a few weeks later, and although I wouldn’t say my job hunt has been highly successful, at least I have some money coming in. I may only be cleaning tables, but it’s the best I could find in a small, rural town where no one is hiring.

  As I trudge through the fresh layer of snow to get into work and start my shift, I’m seriously questioning why I didn’t listen to Blake. I’ve only been working in the fast food restaurant for just under a week and already I hate it. Regardless, it doesn’t feel right to let him support me; he is already doing so much by giving me a roof over my head and food. To take advantage of that and not chip in with funds just isn’t me, but as I don my apron and head behind the counter I wish I had ignored my guilt. Getting a job wasn’t part of the plan¸ nevertheless neither was moving out of my mum’s. I knew a job would take away precious time, and I’m right. I haven’t been able to work on my designs in days. I’ve been too tired, down, or busy. It may not be directly Mum’s fault, but I’m still blaming her. If she’d supported me fully like she said and not thrown wanting to set up my own business back in my face every chance she got, then I wouldn’t have had to move. Therefore, Blake wouldn’t have had to give me a room, I wouldn’t have to pay rent, and nothing would detract from my goals.

  “Is anyone planning on serving me today?” a voice snaps and breaks into my musings.

  Conjuring up a smile that I’m sure doesn’t look real, I turn to the man who spoke. By the look of him he’s a regular customer and needs to cut back on the fatty foods, not that I’d ever point that out to him.

  “Hi, what can I get you?” I try to sound upbeat and enthusiastic like the manager wants, but it’s hard to be excited when you repeat the same phrase hundreds of times in a day. Not only that but burgers, chips, and other products that can barely be classed as food aren’t the most enticing items to sell.

  I take down the man’s order, shouting into the kitchen so they know what to cook. We haven’t hit the rush hour yet so things are still calm. And just like the name suggests, within minutes I’m handing the man his order and then moving back to the till to deal with the next customer.

  “Hi, what can I get you?” I repeat over and over again. This is what my life has become, I think while handing over a box of chicken nuggets. Everyone I know is out putting their degrees to good use whereas I’m stuck serving disgusting food to people who only care about how quickly they can get it from the box to their mouths. All because I want to be more than the norm.

  I shake my head, telling myself not to go any further with that line of thought. Up until now I’ve done a good job of avoiding anything that reminds me of the world I’ve cut off. I haven’t spoken to anyone but Blake, I haven’t looked at my Facebook, and I’ve convinced myself I don’t care. What they’re doing is irrelevant. I’m choosing to make my own career.

  At the end of my shift I hang up my apron again, clock out, and leave with only a wave over my shoulder. I haven’t really made friends with my colleagues; we don’t have a lot of common interests. Of course when we get a lull in customers we gossip, but I’m happier staying by myself.

  Walking out of the door I notice that the snow’s started again. Great, just what I need.

  The slushy puddles line the edges of the streets where cars have driven over it, churning it up and turning the pure white into a muddy brown. I barely lift my feet as I walk, placing them carefully on the icy pavement. The stupid penguin-shuffle everyone seems to adopt when it’s like this is ridiculous. I hate it, and despite everyone around me doing it also, it makes me even more self-conscious. I don’t want to fall and make a fool of myself.

  Why can’t they grit the friggin’ pavements? I think angrily, my foot slipping from beneath me. My arms reach out, searching for anything to grab hold of to stop myself, but they don’t connect with a single object. Within a second I’m on the ground. The rush of panic that had surged through me disappears and my head flits around, searching to see if anyone noticed. Around me people are going about their normal routines, seemingly oblivious, so with a grumble I pull my feet up beneath me and stand gently.

  I curse the patch of ice that was hidden beneath the fresh layer of snow and brush myself down. When I feel my trousers are soaked through at the back, I take a deep breath, holding it in as I fight whatever is building in my throat. I think it might be a scream of frustration, but it could equally be a sob and I don’t want to take the risk of letting it out. Swallowing the ball of emotions, I return to doing the absurd penguin routine, trying to avoid all of the icy patches.

  The door slams behind me when I stomp into the flat, not bothered about concealing my emotions now that I’m home. Yes, Blake’s flat finally feels like home. I throw my bag over the chair and leap off the floor when a startled yelp fills the room.

  Peering over the back of the sofa, Robbie is staring up at me with a grimace. He has my bag on his chest and is rubbing the spot just above his left eye. His hair looks ruffled like he’s been asleep, and there’s a small damp spot beside his head and in line with his mouth. Yuck.

  “Sorry, didn’t see you there.” It comes out snappier than I intend, causing him to stop rubbing his head for a second and glower at me.

  “What’s wrong with you?” he questions, sitting up so he can watch me remove my beanie, fluff my hair, and ditch my coat on the table.

  “I can sum it up with four words: I hate my life.”

  “It can’t be that bad.” He stretches, pushing his chest out, then stares at me with incredulity.

  I decide to let him believe I’m being melodramatic. No one seems to realise how much I mean that statement when I say it every day I get home, and that’s fine with me. There are fewer questions to answer if they think it’s only dramatics, which suits me. Before he can say any more, I head to mine and Blake’s room, shut the door behind me, and do something that I haven’t done in weeks. I pull out my laptop and bring up my email diary.

  I thought I had moved on, and things had become bearable, but I need the comfort it gives me right now. I need somewhere I can vent all of my true feelings, just be me and not pretend that everything’s okay, because that’s the real killer in all of this. If people knew what really went through my head then they wouldn’t be rolling their eyes, stretching, and brushing me off. No, if people knew they would be sending me to a psychiatrist, and that’s why I have to keep it private.

  I bring up a blank email and begin to type. I let it all out, hoping that when it disappears into cyberspace it will take it all away … that I’ll be free of my problems.

  From: Neve Colvin

  To: Neve Colvin

  I haven’t written to you in a while. I thought I was getting better, and that by breaking free from your presence I was starting to move on. Now I’m starting to consider whether it really was just me in the first place … that I have some innate tendency to push everyone away and ruin my life.

  I’m not angry now. Not really. There’s no part of me that wants to see you again as what you said was wrong … you’re not forgiven, but I think I’ve reached a point of indifference with you. Is that worse? It seems worse in my eyes. It means I’ve managed to dispel all feeling towards you when I think of you. I prefer it, but you probably wouldn’t. The space between us ha
s allowed me to forget … or at least to bury everything deep. This time I really have suppressed my heart so that you can’t affect it. I needed to, to be able to live my life. Yet I don’t think I’m even doing that anymore.

  Every day I get up, go to work, serve people, clear tables, and then traipse home. Blake’s not around as much either because of work. I think he assumes I’m getting back on my feet, but I’m glad he doesn’t know the truth. I shouldn’t be a burden to him; he should be out having fun.

  And yes, the irony of that statement isn’t wasted on me. I know I sound like you and I’m cringing inside as I type it, but there is a difference. I’m not saying it to hurt or wound, and I’m not telling Blake he isn’t good enough. So really, I’m nothing like you, thank God. What I mean is Blake shouldn’t have to be brought down with my problems. Just because I’m not enjoying my life it doesn’t mean he should drown with me.

  It’s surprising he’s stayed this long to be honest. If what I’ve figured is true and I am the cause of why no one wants to be around me, then he must be a saint. I try to be happy around him … I don’t know if he see the truth, but I’m not an actress so it wouldn’t shock me. Some days it gets too much. The lack of people around me, the lack of success, and the list of things people have said to me. They all cut deep. My mind clings to them and refuses to let them go, pulling me into this pit that only gets deeper. It’s like I’m looking up at the sky from the bottom of my hole. I can see freedom but I can’t reach it, and I doubt I ever will. Like I’m standing in quicksand, the more I fight for it the further it drags me.

  So I’m done fighting. I thought I was strong enough to get through this, but I’m back where I started. Going with the flow seems like the best idea. I can see why people force themselves to fit in now.

  I hit send and shut down my laptop as soon as the email goes whizzing into cyberspace before popping back up in my inbox. Like with all of the others, I marked it as read and replace my laptop under the bed. Curling up on to my side, I draw the pillow beneath my head round so it’s pulled tight again my chest and stare at the clock.

  For a while I count the seconds between each minute in my head, but when I never succeed in getting it correct it soon becomes boring. Instead I wait for it to change, watching the digital numbers transform repeatedly. There’s a tear trickling down my cheek but I don’t bother to move to wipe it away. I let it fall, and then the next one follows it. The damp spot beneath my cheek grows as the tears keep falling and force it to spread. Not one sound escapes my lips because I learnt to cry silently a long time ago.

  I lie there, blinking hard to push the next tear from my eye and clear my vision so I can see the bare wall again.

  It’s useless.

  As soon as I get rid of one, another follows closely behind, breaking free and tracing the same path that has been created on my face.

  I hug the pillow tighter to my chest, my legs automatically drawing up as well and curling around it. The odd car passes by slowly underneath the window, the snow sloshing under tyres. There’s no other sound beside that.

  I know I’m being stupid.

  There are people worse off than me who complain less.

  However, the ache in my chest from everything I’ve pushed to one side for too long is persistent. A part of me wants to be normal. I want to be able to go out with friends and let go, to not be scared of what others will think, and to be confident, but it isn’t who I am. I’ve tried to change, and it never works out well. I can only pretend so much, and then something makes me reach a limit and a barrier slams down in my mind.

  It’s not something I can help. That’s what people don’t understand. This lifestyle isn’t a choice, it’s how I was born and pretending to be someone else only makes it worse.

  I heave a sigh, wondering what my life would have been like had I been born more extroverted. Would Mum and I have a good relationship? Could I be the daughter she wants and is proud to show off? Would I have been popular in school and remained friends with everyone?

  I’ll never find out.

  The thing most frustrating is that I left to be me, but everywhere I go there is a reason I should just conform. The most prominent one is that it would just be a heck of a lot easier. People like me, we aren’t accepted in society. We are classed as weird and outcasts because certain situations are not particularly enjoyable. People call me anti-social because of it, they call me depressed, quiet, reserved, shy, and many other names I’d rather not remember, yet none of them take the time to get to know me. It’s true I don’t enjoy small talk, large groups of people, or conversations on the phone—that’s just how I am—but I don’t know why that gives people the right to judge. It’s happened for as long as I can remember: my friends always dragged me to events, other people called me names and judged me because of my lack of conversation, teachers picked on me for not contributing, and my mum … well, the one person who is supposed to have my back has joined them.

  Another sob wracks my body. I thought I was strong enough to move on and shrug the comments off, but lying here I want more than anything to be someone people can love and accept. I don’t think I’m asking much if I’m honest.

  “Neve?” A whisper comes from the door and I tense at Robbie’s voice. Then, hurrying to relax my muscles again, I pretend to be asleep.

  “Neve, I know you’re awake.”

  I don’t respond, hoping he’ll get the message and leave. It’s not like I can say anything without sounding like I’ve been crying.

  Gentle footsteps on the floor catch my attention and my heart starts to race until blood pounds in my ears. If he reaches me he’ll see the state of my face, but if I speak he’ll hear the pain in my voice.

  “I’m fine. Don’t come in, I just need a lie down.” Like I predict, my words come out in a hoarse choke.

  His footsteps stop. “Did you want anything to eat? I’m going to order pizza.”

  I shake my head, but when I hear no sound to make me believe he’s retreated, I speak. “No, I’m good. I ate before I got home.” It’s a lie, but the sound of any kind of food right now makes my stomach churn uneasily.

  A few seconds pass before the door clicks shut again and I breathe a sigh of relief. All I want is to be left alone.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Blake

  “Robbie, this had better be important. I’m busy right now,” I bark into the mobile pinned between my shoulder and ear. My head is buried beneath the bonnet of the Fiat 500 I’m meant to be working on, but I’ve been forced to answer the phone Robbie has been ringing continuously for the last fifteen minutes.

  “I think you should come home and check on Neve.” His words are slow … cautious. They send my heart plummeting to my feet, dread filling the space it once held inside my chest.

  “Why? What’s wrong?” I pull myself out from under the sheet of metal, giving Robbie my full attention. My breathing’s speeding up, my mind jumping to all kinds of conclusions while I wait for him to fill the pause.

  “Uh … well …”

  “Robbie, what the fuck is going on?” My language draws a few shakes of heads in disgust from waiting customers. Turning my back on them, I move around to the side of the car and lean against it. Crossing one foot behind the other is the only position in which I can control myself from not pacing the length of the garage. It’s taking forever for him to reveal what’s going on.

  “I don’t know. She came back from work looking miserable like usual, but it was worse. When I went to check on her she was curled up on your bed and crying.”

  “Shit.” I rub my hand over my forehead, not even bothered by the coating of oil. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. I have to finish up here first. Just … just don’t let her leave the flat, okay?”

  “I don’t think that’s going to be a problem. She’s hasn’t come out of your room in hours.”

  I hang up and return to the car with a newfound haste. It’s a struggle to focus with my mind constantly leaving the
garage to worry about Neve, so I turn up the radio with the hopes of drowning everything out. I have to constantly restrain the urge within me to just up and leave, but I can’t. No matter how much Neve means to me, and no matter how much I want to be there for her, I can’t get away. I’ve already taken too many days off when she moved in. Even if my boss is a good friend, I can’t keep messing him around with time off. I won’t be any good to Neve if I lose my job.

  * * *

  The car takes longer to fix than I expect, but as soon as I can I’m pulling off my overalls and hurrying down the road. The weather makes it difficult to drive at the speed I want, yet I force myself to take it steady until I reach my flat. I can’t get my keys into the lock fast enough when I’m in front of the door. All of the terrible thoughts over what could have happened to Neve have built up and refuse to allow me even a second of calmness.

  Pushing the door open, I step into the room and study it. I don’t know what I’m expecting to find, but I’m surprised to see nothing out of place, and no drama. Not even Robbie is sat out watching TV. In fact, if I didn’t know better, I would have thought I was the only one in the building.

  I throw my keys on to the table next to me and start to move towards my room when Robbie’s door opens. His hair’s stuck up at odd angles like he’s been pulling on it repeatedly, and his eyes are drawn with stress. It must be bad if this is affecting him. Although Robbie has become a friend and I can tell he cares, he’s not usually the one to see everything.

  Nodding his head towards his room, I glance at my door, torn. When he notices my expression, he shakes his head and moves to allow me to step past him. He shuts the door behind us both and I turn to face him with a questioning look.

  “I thought you might want to know the situation before you went in there.” His voice is soft, tired. I only shrug, not bothered either way. If what he described is true, I’ve faced it before with Neve. It can’t hurt to have all of the facts, though, because knowing Neve she will try and leave things out.