|=the little hill in the distance=|
a oneshot
Summary: In which nothing and everything is revealed.
So, I got this idea from my American Lit class. My teacher was saying that some stories seem very casual and nothing seems to go on. They are vague and tiny on plot; therefore, if one reads between the lines they will discover a huge theme. Now, my friends, read on and enjoy but try to remember that not everything is literal. Leave me a message if you have any questions.
...
There are the moments where it becomes too much to handle. There are moments where the truth of all sinks in and renders them speechless.
These are the moments they find each other on the fire escape overlooking Seattle.
...
He's sitting on his bed as the clock chimes 7 pm; he's recorded a little message that plays to him at this exact hour.
"Fredward, it's 7 o' clock," says the clock on his nightstand. "Time to dive into Advanced Physics."
Normally he's a good, good boy. (He shrugs on a jacket because although flowers are blooming and birds are tweeting the wind hisses like the snow has arrived months early.)
"Fredward, it's 7 o' clock," says the clock again. Always a reminder. "Time to dive into Advanced Physics."
Normally he wouldn't dare do something like this. (He packs two bottles of ice tea - because it reminds them of iCarly, reminds them of apples and chocolate pudding flying towards a face - and slides in a ice pack for good measure before zipping it up.)
"Fredward, it's -" The machine cuts off as he slams his fist on the snooze button; he immediately feels guilty for manhandling technology and runs a loving hand over the alarm clock.
Normally it's much easier to breathe. (He runs trembling fingers over the window and slides it open, grumbling to himself at the gust of cold air that hits his face; he'll develop a cold.)
Black tennis shoes scuff the edge of the window pane and Fredward Benson disappears into the night.
...
She's sitting criss-cross applesauce on the floor of the Shay's apartment as the watch on her wrist beeps 7pm; she doesn't have a stupid recorded message like the nub does and that's fine with her.
Silence: stretching on and on until her fingers twitch and her breath hitches and just can't take it anymore.
"Sam?"
He's standing in the shadows of the hallway with his messy brown hair and his t-shirt stained with paint.
"The one and only." She smirks and fingers close around the front door.
Silence stretches on, heart clenches, the beat in her head accelerates dangerously and she's gone like Peter Pan's shadow.
(She doesn't bother to raid the fridge because she knows the nub always packs something; it's practically tradition.)
...
"Hey."
"Hey."
Feet shuffle and they seat themselves - him in the chair because he's always been obsessed with safety, and her on the brick wall with her feet dangling over empty space.
Sam holds out a hand. "I assume you brought -" she begins, but he's already handed her a bottle of ice tea. She doesn't say 'thank you,' but he's not expecting it.
More silence, the worst kind yet: awkward silence.
Her eyes, beady and bright, glance towards the furthest place she can see before squinting. "Do you remember when that hill used to be round and luscious?"
"Do we really have to do this again?" he asks.
Her nails dig into her palm and she thinks the brown tint to her nails is bleeding onto her skin, dyeing it permanently.
"Don't break tradition." Her voice sounds dangerous.
He sighs wistfully. "I remember the day we first played on it."
"We were nine years old," Sam says with a chuckle, "and it looked so colorful next to us. I was wearing brown, the color of meatballs and you were wearing green I think."
"You referred to it as mucas-colored at the time," Freddie says. They laugh together.
"But that hill," Sam whispers, "was clothed in all sorts of colors; it reflected the blue of the sky and the brown of the earth and the red, pink and yellow of the flowers."
"And here I thought you weren't a romantic," Freddie says.
She throws her bottle of ice tea at him.
"Ow," Freddie whines. Sam only smirks.
"That hill used to have a playground on it," she continues. "All the kids in our school would go to play on it; they all loved it."
"And then we all grew up." Freddie sighs. "Not as many kids came to the playground because it had a bit of rust on it and they thought they were too grown up."
"Then the contractors came and tore the playground down because it wasn't safe to play on," Sam says.
She pats the brick wall in an invitation for him to join her, and reluctantly he does.
"If I break my neck then I'm suing you," Freddie mutters.
Sam thumps him and says, "Shut up before you sound ever more lame than you already are."
He glares at her but the look quickly fades as it becomes hard to breathe again. It's always so hard now.
"The hill began to fill with shadows; the storm clouds came, it rained and the mud clumped in ugly globs," he wheezes.
"The hill began to cave in on itself a little," Sam says, "sort of like someone who is starving to death."
Unconsciously his fingers wrap around hers on the word 'starving.'
"You're such a girl, you know that?" Sam says.
Freddie lets go of her hand as though he's been electrocuted. "I wish you wouldn't say stuff like that after - after what we went through."
"I'm never going to be one of those squealing girly-girls," Sam informs him, "so you may as well stop trying to conform me."
They turn back to look at the hill and it hurts to inhale-exhale, so monotonous now.
"Then," Sam says quietly, "one day, a new boy came to town and he visited the little hill. He was so different but he appreciated the hill and swore that one day he'd build a house there."
"Everything was good for awhile," Freddie says. His face is paling. "The hill began to fill out again and it shone radiantly."
"Until -" Sam hesitates. "Until the boy broke his promise."
"He got a girlfriend and eventually they bought a house in a different town," Freddie says. "The little hill was alone once more."
"The hill had us," Sam says, "but it didn't know it. It stopped striving for attention, and the ground turned black with decay."
So, so hard to breathe, like they're trapped in a cage pressing against their lungs so tightly.
"Change happened," Freddie continues, his voice cracking. "Contractors began discussing if a new apartment complex could be constructed on the little hill. The hill wanted to object, but it couldn't speak, and so change occured."
"Everyone moved away for college and life," Sam says softly. "We did too, for a time, but we came back eventually."
"The apartment complex had crumbled during an earthquake," Freddie mumbles, "and rubble covered the little hill."
Silence, choking, throttling. This time it is Sam's hand that slips into Freddie's. Their grip is as tight as stone.
"Men came and cleaned it up," Sam says tightly, "and it seemed that the little hill had been forgotten about." Her fingers clench in his.
"When we saw it," Freddie says, "the little hill had been sold."
"It now lies covered in gravestones," Sam forces out. "It is a cemetary."
She slumps into him - although she would insist she's the strong one - and inhales the scent of him. Neither of them have changed much during the years, but at least they have this.
"We should stop doing this," Freddie mumbles into her hair.
Sam shakes, but does not falter, "We won't." She pauses. "That little hill has always been the thing that kept us together, and that won't change now, even now that it's gone."
More silence - she hates it.
"We could -" Freddie begins, unable to finish. He simply holds out a diamond engagement ring for her inspection.
"Someday," Sam whispers into his coat, "but not today. Not today."
He knows that means never.
...
There are the moments like this one day where they actually cooperate.
Because - how can they ever forget - it's April 5th.
And every April 5th they can be found huddled together on the fire escape as they look out over the city to where a proud little hill used to stand -
- and remember just how much they've lost.
...
|=fin=|