I Think About You Ronnie Anne

5

I'm watching her again. This time a bit later than usual. It's raining but I can endure it. I've also picked out darker clothes to "blend in" more with the dark. I can see her through that glossy window. She's inside her bedroom looking at her phone. I wonder what she's looking at. She's all alone. It's almost a little sad, the way she looks at that phone. Her eyes are so bored... and so tired. But you know what? Her parents aren't awake. This could be my time to shine. I don't know why, maybe it's because it's dark out, but I have this spark of motivation—a spark of confidence. Nobody from school is around to laugh at me and point their fingers. No mocking, no sneering, no laughing. I take this idea and spin it around in my head, only making myself feel happier and happier. This is it! This is how to talk to Ronnie Anne—One on one! I spring out from the bush I was hiding in with a swift dash forward, gently skip to the front door, and knock on it once. She must not have heard it or thought it was just some implacable noise, so I knocked three more times. I am able to hear a loud thump—no doubt it's her jumping off her bed—then several more tiny thumps. Her footsteps, I'm sure! The door pulls back and a familiar cute face pokes out from behind it. "Louis?" she asks rubbing her eyes.

I can see the bags under her eyes. She needs rest, the poor girl. Now, I have to handle this as smoothly as possible. It has to be correct this time. First impressions are everything, and a lot of people have mastered first impressions. A perfect first impression is comprised of three steps: Introducing yourself, the handshake, and finally, making a joke. That ruleset is a fair strategy, but is it foolproof? I'll do my best. "Hello, my name is Lincoln." She turns her face a bit to the side to give a suspicious side glance. "Lincoln? You said it was Louis, didn't you?" I forgot I told her a fake name, and her question has thrown me off my game. "Uhh, I must've misspoke last time." I stutter. She opens the door a little more so she doesn't have to keep peaking. "It's pretty late 'Lincoln,' shouldn't you be asleep?" I found that question odd. "Asleep? You haven't been asleep, why should I be?" She squints her eyes. "How do you know I haven't been sleeping?" I hope it's not visual to her, but I am definitely starting to break into a nervous sweat. Where's that confidence that I had just a moment ago? She's done it again! She's taken us back to the Stone Age, where my brain perceives her as the saber-tooth tiger that has cornered me in its cave. I'm the poor Homo sapien whose body that tiger's teeth will be carving if I don't run out of here! Escape!

"Um... I'm sorry, Ronnie Anne." She starts to look almost as nervous as me for some reason. "It's okay Louis—or, I mean, Lincoln—I'm just a little creeped out." That line sets it in stone. My heart sinks lower than it ever has. She finds me creepy. What was that line that Clyde used? "I don't care what people say. I don't think you're weird." Yes, and now along with everybody else, my love now sees me as a freak as well. I could cry right here where I'm standing. I could grip my stomach, aching from pain and nausea, fall to the ground, and cry. It's like experiencing loss, more specifically the grief of a loss, as soon as you hear the word from that horrible phone call from the hospital. "Your mother is dead" or any turn of the phrase. She's staring at me, waiting for me to say something, and it feels all too familiar. We've been in this exact scenario before. I have to say something—anything—but I can't. The tiger has closed in. There is no escape now. It's too late. It's caught me in its jaws. I should say a prayer so that I go to Heaven. If I can't have Ronnie Anne here, maybe she'll be in the perfect world after death. That's not a suicidal thought—it's the acknowledgment that I've already died.

I guess the only thing left to do when you're on death row is to plead. "I don't want you to think I'm weird Ronnie Anne. Everyone already does. I just want you to like me. I don't have anybody else to say that to. It's just you. I think about you, Ronnie Anne." I must've let too much of my heart spill out for her because she did not react to this revelation with glee. It was the complete opposite. She was afraid. "I'm sorry," she said, "but we barely know each other, Lincoln. I'm flattered but I just can't say that I feel the same way." Whatever was said after that, I don't know. I wasn't paying attention anymore. I felt the worst sorrow imaginable, and it really did hurt. That's not being figurative in any way. I felt a genuine pain in my heart. My stomach turned and sloshed and folded into itself. I thought I was going to throw up, but nothing ever did come out. She closed the door, and I stood there for maybe another ten minutes. It was so quiet. I wonder how well she'll sleep tonight. I wonder if she wishes she hadn't said that. No—no no no. She's made up her mind. I can't change that.

...

Or maybe I can. What's worth doing in this world if an angel of purity has rejected me? Nothing could be worse than failure. It only seems reasonable, right? That I force her to see me? Not the same way as previously, no, not knocking on her door. I mean truly chain her up and make her look at me dead in the face. Stare into my "weird" and "creepy" eyes as you would call them, Ronnie Anne. Bloodshot and stricken with grief. A grief that is so strong that it cuts like a dagger and penetrates right through the chest. Are you curious what that feels like; what a blade being slowly inserted into your rib cage and twisted around, mixing up your lungs and your heart into one amalgam of pinks and purples sloppily twisted together? Can you imagine it? The pain that shoots through you, so terrible that you can only writhe on the floor, crying out for help BUT THERE IS NO HELP? DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME NOW? DO YOU KNOW WHAT'S IT'S LIKE TO DIE?

Because I have, Ronnie Anne.

You've killed me.

And I have a plan which can save us both.