White. Flowing. High heeled. Shimmering. Ring. Necklace. Earring. Makeup. Her eyes flutter. Her hand reaches. A champagne glass filled with beer. It's shared.
Oh, those two, so newly minted as "together". They laugh.
A laugh which felt like a slap across his pale face.
His ears perked. The sliding door came open. The sound? Like a knife against metal. And it was then that he came upon his decision.
Though there would be a pursuer, rest assured, he was to run. And he was running. And running. runningrunningrunningrunning; running. He had ran. Ran so far away, to the point that the titular melody was in his head. But what reason to run? For shame, Dipper! Why?
The girl; nay, woman, he must remind himself, was married. A woman he so loved, more, perhaps, than god had supposedly loved man. Though if god were to have loved man, he would not allow such tragedies to befall the domestics. At least, those were his thoughts. The choice was hers, and the winner was neither himself nor that cunt Robbie.
Cunt. That's what he had said to him. I overhead as much; they said so right above me. I didn't know the boy had such language in him, but it was nice to hear. He'd become a fine young man, one who shared the Pines' tradition of smoldering looks (if I do say so myself), with the kind of face that made a lady lift her skirt, or, I suppose, another man drop to his knees.
Then why was he still alone? Why so much obsession over one person? As it stood, she now had what Dipper could never give - reality.
So I will quickly introduce you to the groom: Aleksander was a properly built young man. Muscular, with a neck as thick as a log - not dissimilar from his mind. Honorably discharged from the military, he... No, no. That's wrong. My apologies. He was dishonorably discharged for misconduct, though of course he could never let such revealing information fall into the hands of the Corduroy clan. No, he was the all American man, the kind who enjoys sifting through deer guts to find the bullet and a proper cut of meat. He was as white, aryan-in-the-nazi-sense as could be, too. Though this made one wonder what the kids' hair would be; surely Wendy had enough red all over to make up for Aleks' sandy mop.
The idea made Dipper shudder, but it was inevitable. Sure, the Pacific Northwest is a progressive place, but this is small town Oregon, not Portland or Seattle. Real small, actually. In accordance with expectations, as Wendy was 22 and married, by god, she'd pop a few out soon. That was the Gravity Falls way. And of course, of course, those rotten fruit would be there to remind Dipper of his failure, or at least, the over posted Facebook baby pictures would.
By now, he stood above all, like the same god who was supposed to so love the world, that was supposed to look over this town as he now did. If only he had the same apocalyptic powers, then maybe it could be redeemed. Alas, he could only stare at the quivering clusterfuck that lie below. It was...
Disgusting. What does it mean, disgusting? He thought of a film. He saw it recently, too. And frankly, this all seemed to play out as one before his eyes, having moved to the state above by this point in his life - every event previous had occurred from afar for him. Of course, he was now face to face with everything, and at that exact moment, it was a panoramic view.
But yes, it was disgusting. Did that mean the situation was? Or that he himself was disgusted? Or, for that matter, that he was disgusting? For whatever it's worth, I felt the same way, despite my position. So did Mabel.
Author's Note: Fuck. One of these. Yeah, well, OK; at least it's after the story, ammirite? No? Whatever. So, really, this is my first attempt at more expressive writing. I didn't really want to go traditional third person or traditional first person, being the fan of modernism that I am. I'm sure the end result is terrible, no? If it's not, why not tell me. If it is, please, absolutely tell me so I can bury my head in shame and try to not be a terrible writer. Expect more of this screwing around with POV, though. P.S., I know I overuse italics. Deal with it.