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EMOTIONAL PAIN IS PHYSICAL,
IN A SENSE

I learned much too early in life just how quickly tragedies come. Like a car crash, the moment before a collision with only seconds to think about your fate, the light before the crash, or the calm before the storm, to put it nicely.

I learned much earlier than I ever wanted to. Then again, I was young and naive, and I would never put myself in such a position I broke my fragile heart for no reason other than realism. I filled my mind with wondrous, fantastic ideas and didn't think twice. That's why Hanson called me a romantic, because I loved to dream of everything good.

But idealism ends, like many other things.

I was seventeen when my heart broke for the first time. Weeks had passed since I shared a dance with Dallas, and I felt a feeling I'd never felt before. It was new and passionate, although I couldn't label it as anything more than infatuation because I was too young to know what love felt like. All I knew was my desire to be by his side, and I never went against my instinct.

My birthday passed. I'd gone to the Curtis house (Darry invited me personally), and they baked me a cake while I opened gifts. I got books since the boys didn't know too much about what I enjoyed, joined by a few personalized things. Steve got me a record, the Stones, cause he knew I dug them a whole lot. They were tuff, something new.

Steve objected but majority ruled and we ended up getting smashed at Buck's later that night. Two-bit had it the worst. He was reeling over, vomiting on the lawn before midnight hit. I was there with my hand on his back, trying to keep it in my stomach while the vile smell wafted up. I crept away shortly after a much more sober Soda arrived. Steve tried his best to abstain from the alcohol for the night so he could keep an eye on me, but I slipped past his gaze and scurried upstairs with Dallas on my arm and a bottle of vodka dangling in my hand.

He was particularity happy that night. His eyes were lit up like the stars and his smile, something he seldom did with genuineness, was stretched from ear to ear nearly all evening. Perhaps it was the alcohol surging through his system; I'd never know. I got a real warm feeling when he held me like he did.

He got me a Polaroid, pulled it from behind his back with a smile like a boy on Christmas morning. He also got me roses, and I kissed him after that. The camera was a meaningful gift. It meant more to me than anything anybody could give me. The roses were flattering, I took them and he admired me, telling me I was beautiful. We were closer than ever, and I spent the night with him, curled up in his bed with my head rested on his chest. I slept like a baby.

Steve was on my ass the next morning, and I felt sort of bad for leaving him like that. He ended up drinking and was almost as hungover as me. We made up sooner or later, we always did.

Hanson was gone for a week like he said he would be. I didn't bother visiting the store; I knew he had an extra set of keys, and if he wanted to hire me, he'd do it when he got back. I waited until Wednesday, to keep the routine. Things were changing so much, so rapidly in my life, I figured it'd do me good to keep a little bit of my old self. Walk the 580 steps to Barnes street to grab a brand new book.

Dallas came with me that day after school. It was a rarity he even attended, but he did plan on graduating. He was smart enough to figure out how many days he had to go to keep from not beating it out of there at the end of the year.

I went happily, but the store was empty and dark. Desolate, to put it accurately. It was locked and I could have opened it with my key, but there was no point.

"Maybe he's decided to stay longer," Dallas said, catching the worried look on my face. "He didn't get along with his son. Probably catching up."

I swallowed the lump in my throat – I didn't have a good feeling, but there was no sense in worrying, so I went back to Buck's.

I visited the store every day after that. I couldn't wait a whole week not knowing whether he was back. I needed to know everything about the wedding, how it went with his son, what his wife was like. I wanted to know if they reconnected well. Worried or not, I missed his voice, I missed his wise words and sarcastic remarks, and I missed seeing him with Dallas. I had two of my favorite people together, slowly but surely growing on each other, as different as they could possibly be.

Then it hit three weeks.

"Don't know what to say, Holls." He wrapped an arm around my shoulder and I could just about cry into it if I wanted to, but I didn't. "Let's not assume the worst, huh?"

"I hope he's not mad about the books James ruined when he gets back," I said, because I couldn't think of anything else, then buried my head into the crevice of his neck. I didn't cry, but I was upset.

"Don't be stupid."

I knew it in the back of my mind. The last image I had of the old man was pallid, dark bags and skinny arms, a cadaverous body. He was nothing short of haggard. As I realize, I was naive and ignored it, because I shoved away anything threatening to distress my frail, delicate, little heart.

The store opened back up late that autumn, but there was still no sight of who I wished to see. Dallas was by my side, once again, as we entered the store and were accompanied by two unfamiliar faces. A man and a woman, both young, likely in their twenties.

The man looked up. He had a lot of wrinkles for his age, but he was fairly attractive. Disheveled brown hair and a close-trimmed beard, his shoulders were broad and he was quite muscular. His eyes were a light blue, almost to the point of transparency, and they seemed familiar.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice seemingly devoid of emotion, "this place is closed for business."

I was on the brink of tears and Dallas noticed. He pulled me to his side.

"Where's Hanson?" Dallas asked.

The man looked at who I could only assume was his wife. Absolutely beautiful, coiled hair and bright red lipstick.

"Well I'm Hanson, but you must be speakin' of my old man. You're Holly then, are ya?"

I couldn't speak, my throat tightened. I opened my lips just enough to sputter a choppy, "yes," but even then, it was practically incomprehensible.

"William spoke a lot about you. All good things." He smiled, albeit dismal, and got up from his crossed legs on the floor with cracking knees.

I saw the resemblance then, as I glanced at the photograph. The eyes so blue they stood out even in black and white. I wanted to wrap my arms around my fragile body and cry, but I couldn't will myself to do it until he said it himself.

"William has passed away, Holly."

And then, too early in life, I learned what heartbreak felt like. It was an agonizing ache in the pit of my stomach, nausea flooding through my whole body. It was so many tears that I could barely see what was in front of me. It was such a raw, physical pain that couldn't be concealed, almost as if my shattered heart was spilled across the floor with shreds of ripped pages from the books for everyone to see. It was something I'd never want to feel again.

It was such a strange connection I'd had with him, like a tie between the two of us that nobody could cut because he understood me more than anybody could. He was like my second father, who taught me more than my first.

To most it came with a boy, a first love break up. To me, it came suddenly, like a stab to the chest, a punch to the gut, with an old man that was pushing eighty years old. I never chose to accept the fact that he was ill, even when I saw his gaunt body before he left. Perhaps his beaming smile hid it, knowing he was going to see his son again.

Dallas pulled me close, but my tears merely rolled of his leather jacket. My shaking limbs were too much for him to keep still. I was a mess, a heartbroken, blubbering mess.

"I'm sorry," he said, and he was. I knew because I could see him doing all he could to keep it together. "I really am. He said you could take whatever you wanted. Anything. Said you were real keen on books, so I packed 'em up for you. You can come back for 'em if you want, I know you got a key." He paused, his body tense. He was uncomfortable speaking over my cries, but he had to. "He uh, he left you this."

Dallas took it before I could and shoved it in his pocket. I appreciated that because I couldn't do much at the moment.

"He told me to tell you, if there's any book he wants you to keep, it's somethin' by Shakespeare. Romeo and Juliet I think. Really wanted you to keep that book he said Dallas had, too. Now, I don't know what that's all about, but he seemed real adamant about it, you know? So I tried lookin' for Shakespeare, but there's nothing there. I'm sorry."

I took a gasp of air and whatever entered my lungs was cold and biting. The one thing Hanson wanted me to have, James tore in front of my eyes.

Dallas released me and I nearly dropped to the floor. I wanted nothing more than to stop crying. I wanted to know Hanson's son because of how much he meant to him. But I could barely see him past my bleary, tear-filled eye. I wanted to stop, but I couldn't; it might have been impossible.

Dallas was back at my side in a moment, then tugged me out of the store. He hollered something on my way out but I wasn't listening.

I stopped once we were outside. My legs were jello, tingling with such an intensity I thought I'd collapse if I took another step.

"Let's go back to your place," he said. Dallas's voice had never been softer. He spoke as if any word he said could will me to sob even harder.

"I don't want to move," I sputtered. "I-I can't believe-"

"Holls," he interrupted. "Let's not talk about it now."

He was right, it was a fresh wound. We waited until I was stable enough to walk, and then we made our way down the foliage littered street. It was emptier than usual, but maybe I was paying closer attention to detail. It was possible. I was thinking about everything and nothing all at once.

My dad never talked much about my mother after she died, but the few times he did it broke my heart to pieces. He said it took a while for it to sink in that she was really gone. Sometimes it seemed as if she were still there. I never knew what that felt like until then. He died, so I mourned, I cried until there were no tears left, but it didn't feel like he was really gone.

We went back to my place instead of Buck's. I wasn't aware of where we were walking until we turned onto my street. I followed in Dallas's footsteps, mostly because I trusted him to take me where I needed to go.

Steve was hysterical when he saw my tears, but I didn't see him much longer because I'd locked myself in my room before he could get a word out.

I curled myself in my bed, under my sheets, and closed my eyes. I didn't want to sleep. Just listen to the beat of my own heart.

"Could we talk about it?" I asked, my voice stabler than it was before.

"Whatever you want, sweetheart."

I sat up when I saw the spark of his lighter. He noticed my eagerness and placed the weed between my lips, then lit one for himself.

"I don't know what to do," I said, shutting my eyes. "It hurts. It hurts so bad, Dallas. I know emotional pain is physical in a sense, but I never knew it hurt this bad."

"He loved you, y'know. He really loved you." If Dallas was capable of tears, he would have cried then. "The kid gave me this." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. He tossed it my way. "Don't know if you wanna read it now, but-"

I opened it before he could say another word, uncrumpling it and squinting enough to rid my blurry vision. It was a letter written in classic print, black ink. Flawless, just as Hanson liked it.

Holly.

Oh, Holly. I'm sorry for leaving on such terms, I really did think I would make it back in time. My son got married to his beautiful wife on the fifth of September. It was the happiest day of my life, other than my own wedding. I got to reconnect with him, it was the one thing I wished to do before I passed, and my wish was well granted.

I wanted to be sitting in the front pew of your wedding, and I said I would. I apologize. Things don't always work the way we would like them to, do they? That's the way life goes, and I've learned to accept it.

You amaze me in more ways than I can explain. You've kept me young, and you've kept me excited for life. You rekindled my love for literature, and I could never thank you more, but I hope to perhaps execute it well through this letter. You love letters, don't you? Tell your grandmother I say hi.

Tell Dallas I say hi, as well. What a wonderful boy. He may be trouble, Holly, but he's good kind of trouble, and that's not something I ever thought I would say. I could only wish you don't get yourself into something you can't handle. I see how you look at him, and I see how my wife once looked at me. It reminded me of beautiful times. I thank you for that, as well. I would say keep him, hold on to him as long as you can, but as I've already said, things don't always work out the way we would like them to.

I hope you can take my books, and whatever else you wish to have. You deserve it. Again, I'm sorry our goodbye had to be written words, but it's better than no goodbye at all.

Thank you, Holly.

Love,

WILLIAM HANSON.

The letter was stained with my tears by the time I finished reading. I crumbled it back up and placed it on my bedside, knowing I'd read it a thousand times over before I went to sleep that night.

Dallas was gone by sunset, and I got to watch it by myself. I figured if there was a heaven, the sunset, the divine hues of red, orange, and blue swirling through the sky like a holy essence in itself, was a sliver of time I could see the beauty of the afterlife. I believed wholeheartedly he was watching down on me, alongside his wife, as I gripped the photograph of them between my trembling fingers. Dallas slipped it to me before he left.

I felt broken, but I knew I wasn't. I was strong, and that was enough solace for me.

I could only wish he knew, wherever he was, that his thanks was enough.

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