The dust had settled everywhere. The shelves on the far side of my room were filled to the brim with books, stories I would never read let alone touch. Somedays, mostly out of pity, I would pick up a book off of the battered racks that held them only to open it. Sometimes I read the first page of whatever novel I was careless enough to buy once upon a time, just to see if the story written on those lonely pages was familiar. Usually, that’s how I ended up reading on a lazy afternoon, out of pure shame for abandoning them. The books and their spines facing my bed looked intact, unmarked, unharmed by the events that had developed in front of them that gloomy afternoon. They mocked me for it as she stormed out of my room, slamming the door shut, running out of my life as I asked her to.

It was difficult to say how our argument started in the first place. Lately, they began to pour out of our mouths easily, dripping with poison. Our fights had become so consuming that we knew they were inevitable once they started. Sometimes they lasted for an hour or two, just enough time for me to apologize or to simply forget her venom to begin with. Those feuds were the kind of conflict that a person could get used to if they wanted to, and for reasons I can’t comprehend anymore, I did. Simple words of comfort were enough to bring forth peace treaties among us, even if they would be broken on the next apology.

There were times in which we clashed so forcefully that it took days for us to speak again. Those fights warranted more than just a simple verbal recognition of my remorse. Nevertheless, they always ended with me, begging for forgiveness and mercy at the feet of my one close friend in this life.

Paralyzed in place, I gaze at my poster-covered walls, memories of her influence on my character over the last sixteen years. Despite this being my room, she was everywhere against my will. Part of me wants to believe these walls were the reason I started the fight this time, but it was a mix of rage and sadness I can’t seem to explain.

Earlier today, I woke to the sound of pounding at my front door. Frantically jumping out of bed, I raced downstairs in my disheveled state to open the door for the one person I didn’t care to see this morning. As soon as her figure came into view, I was ready to dismiss her feeble attempts to pretend our anger had dissipated, but before I could tell her to get lost, she went through me and darted up the stairs of my family home towards a place she knew all too well.

Ellie didn’t say a word until I reentered my room, which unnerved me.
“God, it’s half past noon and you’ve barely just woken up, how pathetic Jen,” she spat as she made herself comfortable in my bed.
Embarrassment swamped me as my mouth moved to apologize while my brain rummaged for an excuse. I caught myself before a single word could slip past me.

Rolling her eyes, she continued, “Wow, chatty as ever J. Anyway, I’m here to say that you need to stop talking to Izzy and those girls because they literally hate me and it’s not a good look for my best friend to speak with them, now, is it?”

Finally gathering my thoughts, I responded, “Ellie, you can’t be serious. They don’t hate you and they never did; you just don’t know them–”
“I don’t care that you like them, I don’t like them and that should be enough to drop them. Don’t be cruel J, you wouldn’t want me to leave, would you?” she interrupted. The thing about Ellie is that she knew just where to stake the knife and how to twist it so I would eventually cave. Deciding to ignore her calculated attempt to deconstruct me, I carried on.

“You can’t tell who I can and can’t be friends with. That’s not fair and you know it,” I managed while her eyes drew to slits before relaxing and taking my hand.

“Of course, I can, I’ve been telling you what to do since we were four. I’m trying to help sweetie,” she said stroking my cheek and brushing unruly curls out of the way.

She was right. Before I could utter a coherent sentence, Ellie made sure to teach me how to live as she would. When I look back, it feels almost as if she had raised me more than my own parents. In some ways, I depended on my best friend to live, but her influence had begun to bleed into areas of my life that I wished to be my own. The lines where she ended and I began were blurring.

Staring at the posters on my wall of films and artists she liked, my blood began to boil. I put them there for her, yet that wasn’t enough to satisfy her greed.
Clenching my fists, I decided to speak, “Listen, Elle, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this...” Looking anywhere but directly at her, I continued when she didn’t reply, “I think we need some space.”

Her face morphed from stoic to the murderous expression that I had become too familiar with recently. “Are you serious?! I come here to help only to find you feeling sorry for yourself?! YOU’RE A COWARD!” she belted stepping forward.

I flinched, retreating far enough to hit the back of my head with my door which promptly closed and locked itself before I had the chance to shut out the world that was about to implode in my bedroom. Trying to get another word in was useless at this point, and I should’ve known not to provoke her so suddenly. My childhood best friend continued to berate me for the following ten minutes before she ran out of air and insults to throw my way. Closing her eyes to gain some composure, I slipped out of the cage she made and sat on my bed hoping she would just unlock the door and leave. Unsurprisingly, she turned around and stood in front of me donning a condensing look despite her eyes still begging for violence.

“Look, Jen, you know that a break will only make you unhappy,” she started in a faux-sympathetic tone which I naturally detected. “I mean, do you really want to lose your only friend over a pointless argument? I have people J. Who do you have that isn’t me? Are you really willing to sacrifice our history—”
“Yes, Ellie. I’m done.” I replied, promptly cutting off the speech she gave every time I needed clarity. Somewhere inside me, some tiny dying part of the love I reserved for her shattered as she stared back at me blankly. In hindsight, I acknowledge how my decision seemed abrupt and harsh, but I understood that I had to make the cut before she had the chance to throw me around like a rag doll, only amusing when she was bored.

After another beat of threatening silence, I searched her eyes for any sort of response in them, but as had been of us lately, I couldn’t find anything worth saving. Tired of belonging to someone for the sake of not being alone, I found myself to be lonelier than I had ever been beside her. For so long I tried my hardest to convince myself that I was being dramatic because she would never deliberately hurt me, no matter how furious she got sometimes. No one wanted to believe she wasn’t the villain more than me, but it was time to accept the undeniable truth.

I told her to leave. She didn’t.

For a moment, as the only friend I ever had stepped closer, open palm raised, I didn’t breathe. For a moment, I felt numbness wash over me, so I closed my eyes and let our ending begin.

I understood it this time. I felt it in the sharpness of her words and in the sting of her fingertips colliding with my cheek. Deep down in my bones, something told me that she was thirsty for death and her only casualty would be me. My tears, salty and hot running down my face like unchained floods were never enough to make her stop anyway, and I knew that. Eventually, I opened my eyes and saw stars being ripped out of the sky and drawn into my ceiling where cracks were visible. They spun beautifully as if dancing across my room despite the chaos. All at once, they stopped and the bleeding began to burn. Laying in my bed, motionless, I felt victory as I heard her gasp and shuffle towards the door. It was far too late to save me from this endless war.

Carefully, I rose from my bed and stalked towards my bedroom window, where I observed my childhood best friend fumble with her car keys as her vision blurred with tears while trying to drive away from today. I watched her wipe her eyes before getting in and leaving. For a moment, I worried that her now cloudy vision would impair her driving. I felt guilty. Turning around to face my room, I caught a glimpse of my reflection on my vanity mirror beside my closet. My face was still flaming from her anger and my eyes were still glossy from her hatred. I looked like a scorned child, her scarred child. The guilt vanished in an instant.

I once read in one of those forgotten books on my shelf that love, in all its complex definitions, should hurt but it should never kill. All this time, I thought that our love was hurtful, perhaps debilitating, but never malicious. Only now, here stuck in the aftermath, do I realize just how deadly it was. That afternoon, I left.