She is three.
The tap of the chubby feet on the polished wooden floors, as she runs, and runs around; the dinging room table an incomprehensible maze. The laughter, loud, the kind that echoes childish joy.
"Olivia slow down!" A familiar voice reprimands. But it's soft, playful, and she carries on. Faster. And every time she turns a corner, it's a new place – unseen and unexplored. And she runs.
"Olivia!" And she laughs lauder and runs faster. The tap of the feet behind her makes her turn around. And it's soft curls that come in and out of focus, and lips that stretch into a smile – wide. And she runs. And then, then she's being lifted by lean arms, up, high up, into the air.
And she kicks her chubby feet through the air.
It's the first memory she has.
/
And she is six the first time he tells her – twice as good, to get half of what they have. And she doesn't understand, not then, but it seems important; so she nods, nods and repeats.
And she is – she's better than other girls in plaid dresses and polished shoes, but never good enough; not for him.
And she asks, she asks one afternoon after school; when he picks her up in a large black car; she asks why – with childish despondence. She asks because it's a thing to talk about; it's their thing, and they don't have many. She doesn't expect an answer, not one that will hover around the corners of her mind for years, decades to come.
I just want you to succeed.
And she decides, as she flips through the book he brought her from his trip, success is the way to be happy.
/
The last thing she says to her is – I know. And she does. She's never not known, never wondered. She doesn't say she loves her too – she just puts her headphones back on – it's her first regret. Not the last, not the biggest one.
And she remembers his eyes, how puffy and red they were; how broken, contorted his face seemed – he seemed weak. Love made him weak.
They can't bury an empty casket, no; so instead there's a wake. And to her it makes no difference. She doesn't understand.
She loves her. She has to come back. People who love, don't just leave. People who love, come back. And that, that's her first disillusionment.
He doesn't take her to the airport. No, he's away when she leaves. She doesn't cry in the car, or as she boards the plane; her shaky hand clutching on to her small backpack.
There's no one to wipe the tears away.
/
She's not twice as good, she's the best.
Top of her class, honor roll and valedictorian. He comes, to her graduation; he does, and he smiles in the crowd. But he doesn't stay, not to say hello, or goodbye.
Ivy League. Politics. She has a sharp mind; she's always had a sharp mind; and it intimidates and it wins arguments. And, again, she's the best. And she's bored and discontent. And there's a man. He teaches her philosophy class. He is older, and he is wise; and he has the prettiest blue eyes. And she likes that he treats her like a grown up, although she's everything but.
And in Law School she meets Cyrus Beene; and he sees, sees something in her that only her father had seen – a spark, a need to be challenged; challenged until success is the only thing that matters; until the ugly pain that gnaws in her chest dissipates under the mental burden. And it feels like sweet relief; lightness of being.
It's a high, a high that feels like homecoming.
/
They buy her pretty things, and they caress her thighs in public; they whisper dirty words and they do dirty deeds. And she enjoys it – the risk; the danse macabre on the thin line between success – the soaring heights of success and the abyss that welcomes the forgotten.
She now knows power.
/
The first time she sees him she is lost in his eyes for a moment; the briefest of moments and the longest of memories. Her world momentarily ceases to exist; it is reduced to a pair of cerulean eyes that dared; that dared to dare; and a smile that wasn't intimidated, wasn't scared.
She disappears in him. And she keeps disappearing.
She fights it. She tells herself it's wrong – he's married, he has kids, he's running for president, and he could be great.
But really, it's that he has power over her, and under his gaze she is powerless.
And she takes his hand, lets her fingers intertwine with his, finally; as his name rolls off her tongue effortlessly. And it falls off her lips again, and again – as he fills her up, as he discovers her body, lets her discover it. She whispers it – and it's a quiet scream; she concedes before him; surrenders.
She now knows love.
/
She says yes, in a shaky voice as her lip quivers. She strangles it out, and it burns her throat; like acid – slowly; the burn never ending.
She sells her soul for him. For his success – because success, success is happiness.
/
And she looks for him. She watches for him. She belongs to him.
Her body is his; his touch is her high; and her mind, their minds are forever intertwined. And it scares the hell out of her – belonging. It's being tethered; tied forever to the heart that beats loudly against his ribcage as he bites on her shoulder; as he thrusts and thrusts again. And the warm liquid trickles down her thighs; and it marks, marks – more than any bite.
And she kills, inadvertently, but she does – and murder, it feels like a quiet death. A death of them.
And she leaves.
No longer tethered; she now knows heartbreak.
/
She's broken, so she fixes.
She saves.
She disappears in her work again. And she soars. She doesn't stop – not until it's her name being whispered in rooms that don't exist; by people who have no face, no name.
And she fixes.
She saves.
And she misses him. All the time. All of him. She is unhappy. More success; just a little bit more – and maybe, maybe happiness will follow.
And they meet again; and his lips crash on hers – and she begins, begins yet again, to disappear.
And they are dancing; and it's playing with fire; because his eyes, his eyes always tell too much; and because the hand on the small of her back, the one pressed against her heated flesh is making her eyes speak as well. But she walks away that night, and the next one; and then, then suddenly she's falling apart in a restaurant as she watches him leave.
People who love, don't just leave, because people who leave, don't come back.
And she mourns the loss of him as strangled sobs escape her throat.
/
He chooses her, earns her; and she lets him.
And as he peppers kisses down her trembling body she understands – disappearing in him – it's what happiness feels like. Dissipating in another soul, until all that's left is the fondest of memories of what was before, still incomparable to what is now; still faded and just fragments of the perfection that is present.
Some people aren't meant to be happy. They're meant to be great.
She repeats it, like a mantra, after she leaves him for the last time.
Success. She can be great again. And maybe that, maybe that will fill the void that defines her existence.
/
I was twelve. She bares her soul. And it's not in what she says, it's in how she says it. How she whispers his name as a plea, to understand; to see, that right now she is twelve again, and waiting, forever waiting for her to come back.
I don't know what you're taking about. It's a lie. And they both know. And his eyes, his eyes plea, for understanding, for temporary relief; for a minute to catch a breath and settle his mind. But all she sees in them is finality; as a chance for closure slips away from her yet again.
And she makes him leave. Wordlessly.
You need to stop. He says, and the brokenness in his voice resonates. It hits the very marrow of her bones and shakes her to her very core.
But the thing is – she doesn't know how to. Because nothing was ever enough; nothing but the taste of him, the feel of him, the idea of him. Nothing, but him.