Treasure "If I could live forever, I'd stay with you until I died..." Some people say that having a treasure is like having a love; it's something that you can't part from for very long because sooner or later the string that ties you and it together pulls taut, and it starts to burn. Some people have said that their treasures are their loves, whether that means a husband coming home from work and presenting a soft subtle kiss to the cheek, or a wild adventure shared between a traveler and her companion. A treasure is something to be adored, something to be worshipped, on occasion, something to die for. If you think that's climatic, think again. If you weren't willing to die for your country-your treasure-then you weren't a soldier. If you weren't willing to die for your wife-your treasure- if it was to save her life, then you weren't her husband. You may kiss the bride... Till' death do us part... It's backwards, it's mixed up, it's suicidal, but...from the second you are born, you've committed suicide. Every time you blame yourself, it's killing a small piece of your heart. Broken. Bleeding. Ruptured. Red... A treasure can be a small stopwatch given to you from your father. A treasure can be a summer visit, or kisses in the ocean. A treasure can be a small gemstone broach handcrafted with love. A treasure can be seeing him every day after work, smiling and laughing and crying tears when he presents a silver ring made from his own hands. I don't have that kind of treasure, and even though it's vain, it's grudgingly juvenile, I stare at them during the night and wish that I was her glowing in moonlight, twisting a ring around my finger with his arm holding me tight. Alaska Snow... The perfect name for the perfect treasure... The perfect treasure for a beloved... The beloved of someone loved by another... I don't mind the loneliness, I don't mind keeping to myself in the solemn silence of my empty workplace, and I don't mind seeing him happy. I just mind that I'm not in the picture. I'm selfish, I'm snooty, I'm a brat and a zealous women. I'm Mary, girl who lives along among her pencils and her stories, watching her treasure kiss his bride under the falling snow. I think, if something or someone is your treasure, you should never let them go, you should never watch it slowly jog out of your sight, and into someone's arms. I can stare out a window as long as I like, watching them in what I would like to call a somber grace, blinking my eyes and surveying them hand in hand, laughing and whispering and kissing. And what I would like to know, if he's my treasure, why on earth, would I let him go? Love...regret...hurt? I take one look outside, take one look at the stacks of paper, and the titles of so many stories sad, happy, wondrous stories, and come up with my answer. It's attracting, it's venomous, it's beguiling the way the air inside of here smells, pinewood and musk, the dust floating lazily as if it isn't worries about washing away. The stories inside of each page, the words and the feelings... Love...regret...hurt...happiness... They all wash over me, they all whisper things as if the man I loved never existed, only I and them in a small building, sitting under the falling snow in silence. Talking to one another as if we were lovers, as if we were close, as if we were happy like the two people outside in the dark, Illuminating the night like fireflies. My pen scratches across the paper, building a fire, a flame that flickers like a candle inside of my chest. Resentment, anger, hatred... Slowly dipping my heart into something...something I curse, something I shouldn't believe in. Whoever the idiot was who said that the quiet girl, who hid away in the darkness and loved from afar with a gentle kindness, was brutally wrong. Whoever the straight A student was, who said that the girl who loved from afar amidst the darkness, plotting to kill, plotting to take what was hers, was right. So right, so true... So wrong... So I see them from outside of my frosty window, laughing and playing and dancing like I was never inside watching out. I hate. I burn. Jealously, antipathy, Empathy for the one who's heart had been broken. Not me. Them. Happily married, happily in love... What she doesn't see, oh pretty, oh beautiful Alaska Snow, is that love breaks your heart. It kills you; it tears you in pieces, eating them up one by one until finally all you see in the mirror are scars, horrible wounds. All because you were willing to sacrifice everything for the one you loved. All because that person, a shining night, was willing to be your treasure... And when you say that you would die for him, you mean it, because the love that you show him slowly eats your heart, killing you until all you can love is him. You can't stop, even the tears, even the pain. They just overshadow everything; they just help the rainy clouds along. You see him with another, and still can't forget, even through the rage and the hate, that you loved him. You still love him. Love the way his eyes look at her with love, with admiration. That's the way love is. They slowly gain your trust, gain friendship, they know that sooner or later it'll be love, and when it turns into that, they know that you will never stop. Even when he leaves you in the dark, in the silence, all you can do is watch from the distance, standing under the snow and the glow of the candle. The only thing I allow myself is to stare at them through my window, loving him, loving my treasure, loving the way he makes me hate and love and wish I was dead. The candle falls over as I open the window, hearing them laugh as she dances in circles under the snow. All I can really do is watch him love... And slowly wait to burn. - To Gray, By the time you read this, you know what has taken place. I just want to remind you. Every time you read this. Every minute you spend thinking about this. I'm in your head. Twirling and dancing under the snow. My eyes illuminating the night like fireflies. The girl you used to love made you a promise. She promised that she would stay with you forever. So, every time you think about this, About the girl named Mary. She's standing right besides you, Laughing. Loving. Hating. Burning. All because she foolishly let her guard down, And let herself love you. Forever, Mary. - I'm dying. I'm dead. I'm floating. Above your head, Don't tell Momma, Because she'll say, It served you right, For love to treat you this way, I cry I break I sleep I wake When the light Of morning comes I close my eyes Shut out the sun It'll be dark And there'll be snow And far from him, My heart will glow "The candle fell down" Papa cried Love was too much And so I died -
A/N
And she's back again with an angry tragedy. I am not in a happy mood. Well, actually, I'm perfectly happy now that this has been written. I always imagined Mary to be the quiet yet angry person. Especially when facing a loss. Gray and Claire stories are really popular. And I'm totally not bashing them because I've written quite a few myself. I just... I just put myself in Mary's place, and find her to be growing angry. Not exactly at him, but more at herself for being foolish enough to fall in love with him. Anyway, I'll probably do two more sequels to this. One in Gray's perspective, and one in "Alaska's" perspective.
To clear any confusion up, Alaska is Claire. I just named her Alaska because frankly, the name "Claire" is just way too repetitive. The poem isn't part of the letter to Gray. It's just a poetic ending. Try Ekoaleko's stories. They have prose and great stuff like that.
Well, anyway, this is done, now to work on other stories.
Questions? Comments? Flames that I can use to cook?
Let me know what you think.
TMoh