A/N: Um, so I decided to write a story. But I kind of wrote this at like 2 A.M and its short but whatever. The idea seemed cool at first okay? But yah I hope it's not too bad, im kind of iffy with it but whatever. (sweats nervously)
Wide eyes, screaming, broken tears. Rough hands, blurred vision, crimson. Red on the street, red on her hands, red on him. Red, red, red.
People accusing; trembling legs, arms, lips. Sirens. Shaken apologies, more screams, more tears. Red was the color that painted the whole town. Blood. Fresh, seeping, pooling.
Darkness.
Her eyes flew open, wide and unnerved. Silent tears fell from those eyes, clear and cold. Her heart was racing, pounding in her chest. Her breaths were fast and ragged, searching for air to reach the lungs. She clenched her shaking fists. A dream. No, a living nightmare. She had went through that event. It was real.
She knew she would have to go and see him, that day. And every day after it. She would do it, because she owed it to him. She owed him everything. More angry tears fell, but she had to suck it up. Pretend as if everything were okay, as if life were the same and she was herself. But it wasn't okay, life would never be the same, and she'd never be 'herself'. Whoever that was, at least. Yet, she forced herself to believe her own lies. She forced herself to believe that it wasn't her fault. But it was.
The alarm clock on her bedside table read 6:37 A.M. She would be ready.
...
She tried her hardest to avoid their stares, but it was impossible. They were teary, apologetic, hoping. Inside, she was falling apart.
The grandmother was the first to speak up. Strangely enough, she seemed to be the calmest one in the room. "Eleanor, dear! Im glad you came to see the prince." Her voice was gentle, endearing. There was no sorrow in that voice.
"Uh, hello... Gertie, was it?" Her own voice was not gentle, it was nervous. Unconfident. She was already softening up, and she found herself growing angry again. Stop, you idiot. Criminy, quit acting so broken. You know nothing of what it feels like. But she did. She had broken herself.
When all she got in return was a smile, she continued. "So... how is he?" She forced herself not to look at the young man, laying unconscious on the hospital bed, and instead gestured towards him.
"Shortman's a strong one, I'm sure he's holding up." The grandfather cut in. He was not smiling. "A pretty lucky boy he is, also. Most people usually get worse than a coma-"
So he was in a coma. I put him in a damn coma. How could anything be worse? He's practically dead. In soul, I've killed him. He's good as gone.
"By the way, who are you again? Aren't you that friend with the oversized pink bow?" The grandpa asked, scratching the top of his head. The Sunset Arms boarders had long since stopped staring at her. She let out a breath she didn't know she had been holding. "Uh, yeah, friend," Lies. "Um, I'll just wait outside until you guys-"
"It's fine, dear, we were just about to leave." Gertie interrupted, still smiling. The grandfather let out a small sigh, walking over to his grandson and taking his limp hand. She watched from the corner of her eye. "I'll see you later, Shortman." He said while giving the hand a small squeeze. The rest of the boarders gave him small goodbyes, while Gertie ushered them out of the room. She turned back, looking at her grandson, and her eyes softened. "Goodnight, Kimba. Eleanor here will take good care of you. We'll see you soon."
And with that, she closed the door.
Letting out a small breath, the girl ran her fingers through her long strands of blonde hair. They don't know. They don't know it was me who did this. Just a few days ago, his blood was on my hands.
Finally allowing herself to look at him, her gaze landed on the teen laying on the bed. His tanned skin was pale under all the lights, his bright green orbs were hidden beneath closed lids, and his golden stalks of hair were matted. She felt herself shiver at the sight, but she couldn't look away. Instead, she slowly walked up to him, watching the rise and fall of his chest. He look frighteningly peaceful. Are you really at peace? Do you realize that I've practically taken the life from you? Do you... do you know how sorry I am?
She couldn't touch him. Instead, she sat herself next to his sleeping form, uncomfortably squirming in the wooden chair. Her eyes traveled to the small table attached to his bed, which had a small notebook and pencil on it. Curiously, she picked up the notebook. It's not right to look into his stuff, you know. She opened it anyways.
All of the pages were blank. It's just a regular notebook. Who would leave this here? She decided to use it as a distraction. Picking up the pencil, she wrote the date at the top of the first page. Her eyes glanced up at him, he stayed the same. She sighed.
I'll make it up to him, somehow. If I cant talk to him now, I'll do to on paper. She softened her gaze on him. I'll write him every day. And when he wakes up, hopefully, he will find a way to forgive me. Forgive me for turning him into a fucking vegetable. Forgive me for killing him.
With a small nod, she let the pencil flow onto the paper.
February 7th, 2014,
Hey, Football Head. It's been a few days since you've been admitted into the hospital. I guess you can say it's been different, not having you around. I wouldn't say I miss that goodie two shoes personality of yours, but it gets a little lonely, having no one to look on the bright side for us.
Don't flatter yourself, Mr. Optimistic. Im just saying it as it is cause... I don't know, I feel bad. I mean, we had this bomb ass pizza at lunch, yesterday. You said something about liking pizza once, so I thought of you. Hey, it's not like I wanted to remember or anything! It just kind of stuck with me, okay?
Anyways, I hope your not having too much fun in that head of yours. There are people that really miss you, ya know. You should wake up soon, they're kind of worried. Im not one of those people, of course. I just come here cause... I feel like I have to. Im not heartless, after all.
Well, I'll see ya around, Football Head. It's cold as hell and I don't have a jacket.
The-girl-you-probably-hate-right-now,
Helga.
