*~Frozen~*
They never found her body,
Just her diary by her bed.
It told about the fight they'd had
And the words that she had said.
when he'd told her he was riding,
She said "Then I don't give a damn
If you never come back from Cheyenne..."
Why?
His fists clenched, the young man sat on the edge of the bed, fighting against the simmering emotions that threatened to overpower him.
Why you?
His swollen eyes flickered to the bedside table, his vision blurred by the burning cold tears that trickled, unbidden, down his ice-cold face. They seemed to carve pathways through him, etching their way into his pale skin. Words tumbled over each other in his throat, fighting to escape his shaking lips, but none came out.
Why then?
He gazed at the photo, set so lovingly in its silver frame on his table. She smiled back at him, her blonde hair so elegantly framing her crystal- fine face. Clear blue eyes reminded him of her perfect glance, cold enough to freeze a man's heart yet warm enough to melt him at the same time.
Before I could say goodbye, before I could even say sorry!
His mind danced back to their fight earlier. He thought of his careless words, the burning fife of shame and sadness he'd sent through her veins. The scalding liquid of hatred that he'd injected into her blood, sent coursing through her, searing everything it touched. Eroding her, until the liquid overflowed and trickled from her eyes in flaming tears. The way she'd turned and fled, the poison eating away at her insides, and the way the icy realisation had settled over him.
He'd known she'd not meant what she said... those words that froze him to the spot. But did she know the same about him? Did she know, deep down in her heart, that he still loved her?
His eyes now moved to the items which lay on the bed next to him. A letter, printed in her beautiful handwriting, on delicate pink paper, the words of which were frozen in his mind. And a jewellery box, its black velvet so soft and perfect, his reconciliation present to her. She'd never get it... she'd never receive the letter he'd written, his swirling handwriting on the crisp, clean paper.
With shaking hands, trembling fingers refusing to do his bidding, he opened the box. A delicate pendant lay there, so fitting, a fragile snowflake shining silver against the black box. He thought of the few sentences he'd written in deep blue ink on the frosty white paper that lay below the pendant, the time he'd spent choosing the exact words to make his feelings known to her. How she'd never see them, never know the true extent of his remorse for their fight.
He d read her pink letter over and over again, unable to tear himself away from her last words to him. The red pen, so typical of her, the words dancing on the page. A soft moan escaped his throat as he read it yet again, not needing to, reciting the words from memory.
He snapped the box shut, folded up the letter. He turned back to the bedside table, seeing her face staring up at him so lovingly again. In a fit of anger, he slammed the photo face down on the table.
Why should I look at you? You 're the one who left me here, broken!
{But it's not her fault} a tiny voice at the back of his mind told him. {She didn't want to die...}
He dug his nails into his palm, trying to shut out the whispers that told him it was stupid to be mad with her.
Who else %fault is it? Who else's fault that she wanted to go to that stupid concert up in Deling City? That that coach hit the car? That she captured my heart so quickly made me so in love with her, made me adore her so much (hat J don't know what to do now she ½ gone?
{Yours,} the voice told him. {*You* let her into your life. *You* loved her, cherished her, adored her. You're the one who made you feel the way you do flow.}
He knew it was right - but he didn't want to admit it. He bowed his head, more tears rolling from his frozen eyes. The whispers continued, casting cold shadows of doubt across his mind.
{Is it grief that's making me feel this way? Is it just sadness that she's gone? Or is it... guilt?}
Why would I feel guilty? His mind screamed. J 'd done nothing wrong! It's not my fault she died!
{Your fight... the burning poison...her tears... your last words to her...}
It was true, he could see that now. The whispers were creeping across his addled brain, making him see why it was so broken. And his last nerve snapped, the realisation of what he'd said chilling him to the bone, and he fell to his knees on the floor. His shoulders trembled, his face hidden in his shaking hands, frigid tears dripping like melting ice through his fingers.
J said... J said... I wouldn't care if she never came back from Deling...
But that's a lie! I knew it was then! I should have told her! I would care if she never came back! Look at me now, crying like a child, because she's gone. Why, why didn't I tell her?
He tipped his head back, gazing at the ceiling. I do love you! I always did, I always will do! No matter what I said in the fight, I've always loved you. Do you hear me? I... love... you!
The whispers were gone from his head, the fog creeping through him again. All he wanted right then was to be with her, to bold her again, to tell her how much he loved her. Unthinking, his mind frozen, he grabbed his gun from the bed. He took the pink letter again, laying it in front of him with quivering fingers, reading it over and over again.
I'm coming...just wait there. I love you.
He thought of what she'd said to him during that fight, the cold words that had frozen his heart. She'd told him he was selfish, thoughtless, caring nothing about other people.
But I do care! I care about you! Look what I've done, look what I'm doing, because of you... no, for you! I love you so much, it hurts...
His head throbbed, aching with wintry sorrow. He pressed the barrel of the gun to his temple, trying to alleviate the pain. The cold metal felt warm against his icy skin. He put one finger round the trigger, gazing down at the letter and the photo he'd laid next to it. At least my last thought is of you.
He pulled the trigger.
They never found her body,
Just her diary by her bed.
It told about the fight they'd had
And the words that she had said.
when he'd told her he was riding,
She said "Then I don't give a damn
If you never come back from Cheyenne..."
Why?
His fists clenched, the young man sat on the edge of the bed, fighting against the simmering emotions that threatened to overpower him.
Why you?
His swollen eyes flickered to the bedside table, his vision blurred by the burning cold tears that trickled, unbidden, down his ice-cold face. They seemed to carve pathways through him, etching their way into his pale skin. Words tumbled over each other in his throat, fighting to escape his shaking lips, but none came out.
Why then?
He gazed at the photo, set so lovingly in its silver frame on his table. She smiled back at him, her blonde hair so elegantly framing her crystal- fine face. Clear blue eyes reminded him of her perfect glance, cold enough to freeze a man's heart yet warm enough to melt him at the same time.
Before I could say goodbye, before I could even say sorry!
His mind danced back to their fight earlier. He thought of his careless words, the burning fife of shame and sadness he'd sent through her veins. The scalding liquid of hatred that he'd injected into her blood, sent coursing through her, searing everything it touched. Eroding her, until the liquid overflowed and trickled from her eyes in flaming tears. The way she'd turned and fled, the poison eating away at her insides, and the way the icy realisation had settled over him.
He'd known she'd not meant what she said... those words that froze him to the spot. But did she know the same about him? Did she know, deep down in her heart, that he still loved her?
His eyes now moved to the items which lay on the bed next to him. A letter, printed in her beautiful handwriting, on delicate pink paper, the words of which were frozen in his mind. And a jewellery box, its black velvet so soft and perfect, his reconciliation present to her. She'd never get it... she'd never receive the letter he'd written, his swirling handwriting on the crisp, clean paper.
With shaking hands, trembling fingers refusing to do his bidding, he opened the box. A delicate pendant lay there, so fitting, a fragile snowflake shining silver against the black box. He thought of the few sentences he'd written in deep blue ink on the frosty white paper that lay below the pendant, the time he'd spent choosing the exact words to make his feelings known to her. How she'd never see them, never know the true extent of his remorse for their fight.
He d read her pink letter over and over again, unable to tear himself away from her last words to him. The red pen, so typical of her, the words dancing on the page. A soft moan escaped his throat as he read it yet again, not needing to, reciting the words from memory.
He snapped the box shut, folded up the letter. He turned back to the bedside table, seeing her face staring up at him so lovingly again. In a fit of anger, he slammed the photo face down on the table.
Why should I look at you? You 're the one who left me here, broken!
{But it's not her fault} a tiny voice at the back of his mind told him. {She didn't want to die...}
He dug his nails into his palm, trying to shut out the whispers that told him it was stupid to be mad with her.
Who else %fault is it? Who else's fault that she wanted to go to that stupid concert up in Deling City? That that coach hit the car? That she captured my heart so quickly made me so in love with her, made me adore her so much (hat J don't know what to do now she ½ gone?
{Yours,} the voice told him. {*You* let her into your life. *You* loved her, cherished her, adored her. You're the one who made you feel the way you do flow.}
He knew it was right - but he didn't want to admit it. He bowed his head, more tears rolling from his frozen eyes. The whispers continued, casting cold shadows of doubt across his mind.
{Is it grief that's making me feel this way? Is it just sadness that she's gone? Or is it... guilt?}
Why would I feel guilty? His mind screamed. J 'd done nothing wrong! It's not my fault she died!
{Your fight... the burning poison...her tears... your last words to her...}
It was true, he could see that now. The whispers were creeping across his addled brain, making him see why it was so broken. And his last nerve snapped, the realisation of what he'd said chilling him to the bone, and he fell to his knees on the floor. His shoulders trembled, his face hidden in his shaking hands, frigid tears dripping like melting ice through his fingers.
J said... J said... I wouldn't care if she never came back from Deling...
But that's a lie! I knew it was then! I should have told her! I would care if she never came back! Look at me now, crying like a child, because she's gone. Why, why didn't I tell her?
He tipped his head back, gazing at the ceiling. I do love you! I always did, I always will do! No matter what I said in the fight, I've always loved you. Do you hear me? I... love... you!
The whispers were gone from his head, the fog creeping through him again. All he wanted right then was to be with her, to bold her again, to tell her how much he loved her. Unthinking, his mind frozen, he grabbed his gun from the bed. He took the pink letter again, laying it in front of him with quivering fingers, reading it over and over again.
I'm coming...just wait there. I love you.
He thought of what she'd said to him during that fight, the cold words that had frozen his heart. She'd told him he was selfish, thoughtless, caring nothing about other people.
But I do care! I care about you! Look what I've done, look what I'm doing, because of you... no, for you! I love you so much, it hurts...
His head throbbed, aching with wintry sorrow. He pressed the barrel of the gun to his temple, trying to alleviate the pain. The cold metal felt warm against his icy skin. He put one finger round the trigger, gazing down at the letter and the photo he'd laid next to it. At least my last thought is of you.
He pulled the trigger.