Before It's Too Late
AN: Inspired by the Goo Goo Dolls' song "Before It's Too Late" (or is it actually titled "Fiction"( or "Hold On")? I don't even know . . . whatever, it's from the Transformers movie! Which I never saw. . . . Damn, I'm just all sad in my information today.)
I wandered through fiction to look for the truth
Buried beneath all the lies
And I stood at a distance to feel who you are
Hiding myself in your eyes . . .
"Have you ever thought about jumping?" she whispered into the darkness. To their backs were the cars driving by full of rowdy, lonely, fearful, and excited people who didn't care that two college students happened to be looking out over the water, watching the lights of the city play on the swells. It all looked so pretty from the distance, from above. And maybe that's what made it so scary, too.
"Sure. I've thought about jumping. Not off this bridge. But I've thought about jumping," he whispered back, stealing a glance at her, masked in the night, in thoughts, in joy, in turmoil. "I like to think that everyone's thought about jumping at least once in their life." He paused, waiting for a reaction, a snappy retort, an angry outburst, anything. And yet all he saw were the dim lights reflected in her eyes, making her look as though she were about to cry. "Why? Are you thinking about jumping now?"
"No. I was just curious. But I've thought about it, too," she murmured, and he could tell that with each passing second, he was losing her, losing her to life, and consequently death. He didn't know which he hated more, or if there was even a difference. The bridge on which they stood, it was like the only common ground between them. Above and below were death. On all sides were life, but a life in which their paths and views touched only in passing, like a fleeting caress, soft and warm for a moment, then forgotten the next. If only they could stand there forever, caught up in that caress, maybe he wouldn't have to hate life and death.
"We talk about such pleasant things," he joked. "Especially when we're about to graduate and leave here and potentially never see each other again. I'm getting a fuzzy feeling just thinking about it."
"We'll see each other again," she said, finally looking at him. She'd always found him to be . . . well, a work of art, with black hair that blended in with the night, yet pale skin that made him unconsciously stand out, with a touch of pink on his smiling lips, and a hint of maroon to shade in his mockingly lazy, happy-go-lucky eyes. His eyes, she couldn't look at them, for when she did, there was something besides a look of friendship and playfulness, something that she couldn't return. Something they'd given up on awhile ago. Or she'd given up on. Or they'd become fed up with trying. Or she'd become fed up with trying. She didn't even know. Or she pretended like she didn't.
"Sure. We'll see each other again. But only as friends, right?" he asked, because hearing her dash all his hopes ranked high on his list of fun things to do.
His words caused her to sigh inwardly, to frown even more. "Van . . . I don't want to fight with you. Not now."
"I don't want to fight with you either . . ."
"Then why are you bringing this up again? It's over. Why can't we just be friends?" she cried heatedly, while a car honked loudly behind them, angry that the person in front of them was driving too slowly.
He sighed. "I don't want to fight with you, Hitomi. I just want you to see that your life sucks and you hate it."
"My life doesn't suck and I don't hate it," she retorted, glaring at the city spread before her.
"You keep telling yourself that," he said, moving closer to her. "But remember that these are the moments when I love you the most. When you ask me about committing suicide. The moments when you're everything but perfect. Because then I know you're not pretending." The headlights, they betrayed her blush, betrayed her true feelings towards him. Feelings that she didn't pursue, but didn't fight as he kissed her gently, faintly, on the lips, teasing her with a little taste of what she could have.
"Hitomi, I love you, and I know that you love me. But I'm not gonna wait for you. At least, I don't think I am. I'll move on. I'll stop fighting for you. Will that make you happy? Is that what you want?" he asked, still holding onto her, trying to intake the feeling of her against his body, the taste of her lips, the smell of her hair. He knew it was impossible. He knew most things were impossible. But he still had to try. Try, just a little. A few seconds passed. He gave up and, releasing her, started to walk backwards, away from her, away from the bridge that connected their hearts.
"Just remember," he said, somewhat saddened that she hadn't responded, wasn't even trying to stop him, "whoever said 'it's never too late' obviously had no clue what they were talking about."
And hold on, before it's too late
We'll run 'til we leave this behind
Don't fall, just be who you are
It's all that we need in our lives
oOo
The scratching of her pen against coarse paper reverberated in her ears, and where once her eyes used to sparkle with the creation of lines and images and ideas being transferred from forgetful mind to physical representation, she now scribbled listlessly. The things she wrote, they were only numbers and words that meant something to somebody, and that somebody would never be her. The scratching, she'd tried to drown it out with faint music, whether it be classical or pop or hip hop or rap, but then the songs simply repeated over and over, and the talk show hosts dragged on and on and on about nothing.
And the office. Oh God, the office. It was so . . . so . . . so white. White was supposed to be a good thing, like purity. But why didn't novelists ever use it to symbolize . . . dullness? Oh wait, they had. Well, she had some pictures on the wall. Some. Not too many. She didn't want to be flamboyant, and she definitely didn't want to show off. But at times when the numbers and words streamed together into some incomprehensible blend, when the day slowed down to a nostalgic pace, then she saw the blank walls as canvas, with this irresistible urge to make a statement.
Irresistibly resistible. The urge, it struggled deep inside her, struggled to come out, yelled at her, screamed at her, lashed at her, tore her apart, bit by bit, so much that she could feel it with each passing day, week, month, year. Years. It'd been years since she'd been truly inspired, since she'd finished anything. Had she even started anything? It didn't matter. She didn't want to get hyper just thinking about it, only to have the anger, the sadness, seep further into her brain, kill more of her blood cells.
The scratching stopped, and with a sigh she glanced at the clock, noting that it was an hour after she supposedly got off from work. Supposedly. Everyday, supposedly. But that's okay. It was typical, typical for her to get so lost in her work, to have to finish it, that he didn't care. Or at least, she thought he didn't care. Maybe he did care. Oh yes, certainly, certainly, he had to care; now that she thought about it, there were fewer kisses, fewer caresses, fewer . . . less . . . romance. Sexual frustration? Frustration in general.
Others waved to her as they walked down the hall, busy, but with a smile, and she wondered why she didn't seem to feel what they felt, wondered how she came off to others. Soon she reached the glass door, saw herself in it, covered in makeup, maybe a little gaudy, and high heels and a nice, accentuating suit, so powerful, powerfully feminine. With the just right amount of strength, maybe even a bit weakly, she opened the door and walked away, to her car, and drove off into the almost already set sun.
By the time she drove through the routine streets and reached her apartment, the sky was only illuminated by the power of artificial lamps, blocking out the natural light of the stars. Wearily, she closed the door and locked her Mercedes Benz, before hurriedly shuffling up the steps, still maintaining her professional composure. Composure. Ha. If she took out the com and the u and reversed the e and the r, it spelled "poser."
She could hardly see in front of her, only able to make out the outlines of the couch, the television, the table, the chairs. Her eyes darted around the room as she turned on the light. Odd. She made her way to the bedroom. Nobody. She looked at the answering machine. No messages. She looked in the kitchen. And found only a note.
We need to talk.
oOo
I was told you are depressed
By a little bird who was severely hurt
As it did not notice my window
It just flew wherever the wind blows
"Mr. Fanel, you listen to the weirdest songs," said the first student to walk into the classroom.
"Thanks," he replied, continuing to scrawl in his spidery cursive on the blackboard. Or greenboard. Or . . . some-funky-shade-of-red-board. The fact that it was still called "blackboard" bothered him, just as the fact that he was nearsighted bothered him. But at least his glasses were a cool, light shade of red, to bring out his eyes, and caused his female teenage students to whisper incessantly about his sexiness. No, he wasn't "sexy," he was "sexay." Duh. He wasn't that old. Maybe that's why he hated being called "Mr. Fanel."
"So, what did you do last night, Mr. Fanel? Did you go out on a date?" asked one girl eagerly. Typical. One of her groupie was bound to ask him that question. Every single day.
"No . . . I graded your papers," he said, not missing a beat.
As it convulsed on the pavement
It whispered "I am hated."
"Your genetic flaws," I said
"Say it all,
You can't decipher reflections from reality
But neither can I."
"Really? How'd we do?" she asked, completely forgetting her initial question for the moment.
"All of you failed," he said seriously.
"Come on, be serious! What'd I get?"
What do you do
When your life's a disaster
And you're moving faster
And it's getting harder to breathe?
What do you say
To someone who's right but
You disagree
Even if it's the truth?
"I'm glad that song's finally over," said the student who initially walked in. Van turned towards him, ignoring the girl who wanted to know her grade, because he sure as hell couldn't remember it anyway and would only give his typical response of 'I don't know.'
"I'm sure you'll love the next song," he said, with a coy smile. Funny how he gave coy smiles to fifteen year old teenage boys.
Sometimes, the feeling is right,
You fall in love for the first time
Heartbeat, and kisses so sweet,
Summertime love in the moonlight
"Ew, is this by those 'Barbie Girl' people?"
"Oh, hell yeah. Don't they just rock? I love Aqua," he said with a laugh.
"Gee, people must be ravin' on the dance floor when you're DJ," the boy said. Indeed, he was such a boy. Thought he knew everything when he didn't know a damn thing.
"Like I'd play this crap when I DJ," Van said calmly, turning off his iPod just as the bell rang and the disobedient obedient students sank slowly into their seats. Oh, the paradox and the irony and most importantly . . . the alliteration.
"Alright, my little childrenses," he said, abusing his amateur mastery of the English language. Taking a seat on top of his desk, he looked no more than a sloppy student himself, all dressed up to be dressed down, allowing the shirt to hang out of his khakis and his toes to breathe freely in sandals. "Let's delve into the tragic world of Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet, shall we?"
oOo
She didn't feel right. She didn't feel happy or sad or angry or perplexed or . . . any more anxious than she usually did. Maybe she did feel a little sad and a little anxious. Maybe. What if he wasn't happy to see her? What if he'd found someone else? Not that she'd care, but maybe he would. Okay, she'd care a little. But still. What if he was so wrapped up in his work that he had no time to talk to her about the petty problems he'd warned her about all those years before. Jokes. As if he'd pass up the opportunity to say "I told you so." He was only human.
It'd been awhile since she'd stepped foot in a club. She'd never been a big club-goer in the first place. Too many drugs and misogynistic bastards floating around looking for the right chick to screw in an affair that was even less meaningful than a one night stand. But she'd always liked the music. And dancing. No, not having sex with clothes on, actually dancing. That was just another reason she hated the clubbing scene. He'd always loved the music, too. That's probably why he became a DJ. He always was one to chase down the things he loved . . . to a certain extent.
The bright, dim flashy lights played with the shadows across her face, as she watched people pass her without a thought about her. Or hardly a thought at all, for that matter. She never could understand people who just didn't get it. What's not to get? But she envied them, because they understood how to let themselves go and cease caring. Knowledge and ambition were curses, curses. No, no. They had to be something more. There had to be something more.
Are you ready?
If you ain't got no money, take your broke ass home
You say
If you ain't got no money, take your broke ass home
G L A M O R O U S, yeah
G L A M O R O U S
We're flyin' first class up in the sky
Pop the champagne
Livin' the life in the fast lane
But I won't change
By the glamorous
Oh, the flossy, flossy
(Are you ready?)
He looked like he was having fun remixing Fergie's "Glamorous." A small smile played on her lips from the sheer fact that she actually knew the song. Maybe she wasn't so out of touch after all. Or maybe it was just luck. Huh. Funny how luck bestowed itself upon her during the times when it was of absolutely no help.
She watched him work at play (or play at work?) from a distance, and even in the shady lighting, she could still tell he was still a work of art. No, now he was even better than still a work of art. He was in the prime of his life; a masterpiece. She especially liked the glasses sketched onto his face. It revealed how much time he'd spent looking at computer screens, reading in the dark, the dark, the dark, well, there were lots of things to do in the dark, but most of all . . . it proved that his eyes weren't perfect.
His eyes definitely weren't perfect. They made him think he was crazy. He definitely had not just seen her standing off to the side, staring at him, oblivious to everything around her. He glanced up again. No, his crappy eyes weren't playing with his crazy mind. It really was her. It had to be her. Sure, she'd aged a little bit, had a more sophisticated air, but . . . it had to be her. Or at least, it was her body.
"I'm going to take a break," he said, loudly, but not too loudly.
"Did you say something?" his partner asked, lifting up his headphones.
"I said I'm going to take a break."
"Oh," his partner said, taken aback. "Okay."
She was thinking about what it would be like to have a one night stand with some druggie who'd just asked if he could buy her a drink when he arrived. "Hey, why don't you make like a banana and split? My girl doesn't want any of your lackluster ecstasy." Thrown off in his tipsy state, the guy simply moved onto the next victim. She looked more appealing, anyway. She had bigger boobs.
"I don't think he understood either pun. And I'm not your girl."
He just smiled. "Oh, Hitomi . . . what's the matter? Haven't broken the glass ceiling yet?"
"Obviously."
He stopped smiling and put on his most serious face. If he had on a serious face, it had to be serious. "What took you so long? I missed you, Hitomi."
"I missed you, too, Van."
"No, I'm not Van here. I'm DJ 22."
"DJ 22?"
"I wanted to be DJ Catch 22. But that's too long. It doesn't flow."
"Only you would want to be DJ Catch 22."
"Hey . . . life itself falls under catch 22. It's paradoxical and ludicrous. I think you know this most of all."
"Don't remind me."
"I'm sorry," he said, and if it weren't for the damn unromantic setting, she was sure he would have whispered it softly in her ear. "You probably came here to escape all that . . . Just hang on a second."
She debated whether or not to leave. It would be so easy, to leave-- just walk out, as simply as she'd walked in. But she couldn't. She knew this was all a bad idea, and yet she couldn't leave. There was, after all, nowhere else to go, except into the arms of the one person she was sure would catch her when she fell.
"Alright, let's go," he said after he'd returned, jacket in hand, face emotionless.
" . . . What?" she asked dumbly.
" . . . Let's go," he mocked, yelling this time.
"Go where?"
"Anywhere."
"But you're working . . ." she protested.
He placed a finger on her lips. Damn him for touching her soft lips with his sensual finger. Damn him for even thinking of touching her soft lips with his sensual finger. Damn him for using the adjectives 'soft' and 'sensual'. He regretted it as soon as he felt the urge. No, he didn't regret it. Regret wasn't the right word. Stupid life and his being an English teacher and all that jazz and still being trapped by language. "My partner is covering for me. It's okay. I told him it was an emergency."
"But it's not an emergency . . ." she began after he'd regretfully removed his finger.
He laughed. "I guess Fall Out Boy was rightwhen they said 'baby, seasons change but people don't.' It's horrible that I'm referencing Fall Out Boy when I have so many great literary classics to refer to . . . or from which to refer. Oh, whatever. I'm such a dumb DJ, eh?"
"Er . . . no, you're a good DJ, bad English teacher." What the hell. How had they ended up at the door, walking through, strolling down the street?Oh, Van Fanel, he was a sneaky bastard, tricking her with his silliness. He was always so goddamn silly! She smiled.
"So what have you been up to? You better have a good excuse for not even calling me once in awhile," he said.
"Working . . ."
"That's not a good excuse."
She didn't reply. He could see it, as he glanced at her, see her put up yet another wall of defense. Defense. Against him or herself, he didn't really know. But he again felt regret creep up on him. Along with an urge to hold her hand, to squeeze it. He'd seen her hand, noted the details, knew that there was no ring. No ring should have automatically given him free pass to hold her hand. And yet he stuffed them in his pockets instead.
She noted the movement, knew the truth, had seen that he wasn't wearing a ring, either. "If you wanted to talk to me so much, why didn't you call me?" she asked.
He tilted his head her way, and beyond his glasses, she could see the remorse in his eyes. "I think you know the answer to that . . ."
"So what have you been up to?" she said. Very discreet and all.
"Stuff . . . ranting to teenagers about how such and such author observes that this and that is wrong with life, or how we're losing ourselves, or how global warming is going to kill us all . . . 'cause all English teachers are automatically treehuggers."
"So you tell them all these things, and yet you're a DJ in a club in the big city."
"I think the English gods can forgive me-- music has been around since way before language was invented."
"I see . . . any teenage girls have a crush on Mr. Fanel?"
"Oh, yes, of course. I'm just too damn sexy for my shirt, duh."
"I see . . . any big teenagers like yourself that you've gone out with lately?" Coy, very coy.
"Yeah, here and there . . ."
"But you haven't found the right person yet? I'm surprised."
"Why, thanks for your vote of confidence. And no, I suppose I haven't found the right person yet. Except for this one girl. I was sure I loved her, and that she loved me. I still love her. It's funny, really. We were complete opposites, and yet completely the same. I guess the opposite part is what got in our way. See, she wouldn't open up and be herself. She still won't. It really is funny. She came to me this one night, at the club, out of the blue, after we hadn't talked in years, looking all hurt and upset, wanting to talk to me about it, and yet she still hasn't gotten around to telling me exactly what's wrong . . ."
He stopped. She'd stopped walking a few paces back. He turned around, saw what havoc his words had reeked. Confusion and anger and sadness and pain and longing.
"Why do you always do this . . ?" she asked, and he could hear the suppressed tears in her voice.
"Because Hitomi . . . " he said lowly, sadly. "Because I don't know how else to make you understand. I don't know what words to say or things to do to make you understand. No, I know you understand. It's just that you hold back. You don't say what you mean, you don't do what you want. I know you understand why you're unhappy. So what do you want me to do . . ?"
" . . . I don't know," she whispered. And before she knew it, she was crying, quietly, into his neck, subconsciously taking in the feel of his skin, his smell, his essence. Warm familiarity in a cold, cold world.
"Tell me why you came," he whispered back, stroking her hair, holding her close.
"Another horrible day," she whispered. "Overworking. Then my boyfriend leaves me a note. I thought I loved him, but then I realized that I don't. But it still hurts, you know? It still hurts . . ." She trailed off. He didn't say anything for awhile.
"What are you thinking about, right now? And don't think about what to say you're thinking about. Just say it."
But she thought about it anyway. Just for a moment. "I'm thinking about . . . how I can hear your heart beating even through your jacket . . ." He pulled back his head slightly, ever so slightly, but for once she reacted quickly, pulling back, meeting his eyes directly. They looked almost black in the darkness. A pool of black, reflecting only tiny glimmers of light. "And about how much I've missed you. And about how I . . . I want to kiss you."
He cocked his head to the side in a boyish way, as if preparing himself for the kiss. He didn't smile. "Then kiss me."
"I can't," she said under her breath.
"Yes you can," he said, leaning closer, poised. But he wouldn't kiss her. She glanced to the right to escape the intensity of his gaze, to look at the empty streets. And then slowly, slowly, she allowed her lips to brush his gently, gently. He kissed her back just as gently, no, even more gently, so much so that as he pulled away, she was already coming back for more. And more. And more. So much so fast that they both forgot to breathe. He tried to ignore that fact, kept giving her butterfly kisses while desperately taking in air, trying and knowingly failing to keep her by his side.
"How do you know that you still love me?" she asked, looking into his sad, sad eyes. She'd never seen him so sad before. And it was all because of her. Then he plastered on the faintest of smiles. And it was so sad she wanted to cry again.
"Because I'm stupid and naïve and think love is the one thing that lasts forever . . ." He could feel the unsprung tears burning his eyes. Damn how weak he was. He was only truly sad when he was with her. He was only truly happy when he was with her. Catch 22. His life really was catch 22.
" I have to . . . go now," she whispered, allowing her hand to slide down the front of his chest as she pushed him away. Rejection for the millionth bagillionith time. He was tired of fighting for her. So he just let her go.
"Of course you do, Hitomi. Of course you do."
And the risk that might break you's The one that would save A life you don't live is still lost. So stand on the edge with me. Hold back your fear and see Nothing is real 'til it's gone.
oOo
Hold on before it's too late. We'll run 'til we leave this behind. Don't fall, just be who you are
It's all that we need in our lives.
He wasn't quite sure how he would describe himself. Dumb? Or . . . dumb? Or . . . dumb? Dumb sounded good, since he was trapped by his own vocabulary (or lack of one). Words, words, words . . . he sounded like Hamlet. Only he wasn't Hamlet. He wasn't the one asking 'to be or not to be?' No, that was definitely her. She was Hamlet. So who did that make him? Ophelia? Oh, why not? That's how society rolls today.
Why the hell was he thinking all this? Because he was on the bridge that he swore he'd never cross again, the bridge where they'd parted their separate ways. She'd told him to meet her on this bridge. Of course, of course- because the bridge made all the difference! It was all about the setting- not the character development or the plot or the conflict, no, only the setting.
Please.
Cars passed each other behind him, never to touch. If they touched, that would result in a crash. A crash, that's what she and he were always doing- crashing into one another. Crashes were ugly and sad. That's what made them so attractive. That's what made a juicy story. Not these cars never touching. Not the two of them leading separate lives. Just the two of them crashing.
"I'm surprised you came," he heard her say behind him.
"I'm surprised you wanted me to come," he said, turning around to face her. She was wearing jeans and a raggedy collared shirt, evening shadows falling over her. He wished he could be falling over her, she was so innocently sexy, with a backpack making her look like a schoolgirl. In her hand, she carried a separate bag. There was a canvas within and other various art supplies. He gave her a funny look.
She stared at the ground and didn't say anything.
"What if I jumped off this bridge? Would you cry?" he asked.
"Yes . . ."
"I'd jump off this bridge. If you asked me to, if you promised you'd stay with me afterwards, I'd jump off this bridge, and hope I didn't die."
"I wish you wouldn't say things like that, Van . . ."
"And I wish you would say things like that. And tell me why I'm here. That'd be nice."
"Because I . . . I wanted to . . . sketch you," she murmured, barely audible above the rushing of cars.
"You want to sketch me?" he asked incredulously. "Well, I'm flattered, girl who hasn't done art in a million years."
"Can't you see I'm trying . . ?" she asked sadly.
"I can see that," he said heavily. "But trying isn't good enough."
"I want you," she said forcefully.
"You can have me, then. I'm right here," he challenged.
"Wait for me," she begged, standing right before him, tempting him.
"Promise me," he whispered, wrapping his arms around her, going under the backpack, not caring that they were standing in the middle of some stupid bridge. People could look at them all they wanted. It wouldn't matter. Their lives wouldn't crash. They were just a brief comment, a brief imprint, in someone else's life.
"On one condition," she whispered, emphasizing the movement of her lips. "No, two conditions. No . . . three conditions."
He smiled, pulling his head back slightly. "And what are these conditions?"
"One is that you kiss me right now," she said, pulling him closer. If the other three conditions were that juicy, he sure as hell could comply. "Another is that you let me sketch you so I can look at you everyday . . . And the third is that you never ever jump off this, or any other, bridge."
He laughed. "I think I can do that . . ." he murmured, moving in to fulfill condition number one.
So live like you mean it
And love 'til you feel it
It's all that we need in our lives . . .
So stand on the edge with me
Hold back your fear and see
Nothing is real 'til it's gone
AN: It's been like a half year since I even started this. Eh, whatever. It was just some cute little story I wanted to write. The end was kinda rushed, but I just wanted to finish it, you know? I just got finished writing a novella for my senior graduation project. I kinda rushed that ending, too, but only because it was due in like . . . five days, haha.
Songs: "Fiction" by the Goo Goo Dolls, "Decipher Reflections From Reality" by PlayRadioPlay!, "Dr. Jones" by Aqua, and "Glamorous" by Fergie.
Anyways, I hope you enjoyed it :D. And remember to always be you and follow your dreams!
-Spirit0