She sat there, in the middle of her darkened, empty, lifeless room. The four walls of solitude that had not heard a laugh or seen a smile since.. him.
One hand holding a blade, the other white and trembling, wrist upturned with the sleeve rolled up to her elbow. Her head was on her bedpost, the once shiny golden hair brittle and dull. No note was on the floor or the table. She had written so many notes they sounded wrong to her ears, fake and insincere, needy. Besides, no one had cared to listen to her anyway. At least not since... him.
Astrid Hofferson. The perfect golden girl. Perfect grades, perfect scores, perfect life. Oh wasn't everything just perfect? Shallow, insincere friends that would dump her for a new shade of nail polish in a heartbeat. A repeated, rigid structure that never falters. The same people, the same work, the same food, the same times. Like her life was never really hers but just given to her because she can pull off the fake face. The highest walls, the strongest dams and the driest pillow. At least she thought so, until she met... him.
Here on the floor with her blade, her escape, her wonderful imperfection. The one part of her allowed to be blemished and ugly, each line on her skin burning with everything she tries to hide. Everything she could hide. At least before... him.
Holding back dry sobs that won't escape her throat, she gets up and walks out, as if in a trance. She traces the pattern of yesterday.
Yesterday, she was walking, head buried between a scarf and a bobble hat, blocking out the world. Then, she struck something hard.
"Oof."
"Watch where you're going!"
She snapped. She always snaps. But never has anyone replied with a goofy grin and
"Sorry milady."
She never looks up. He never replies. But... she did. He did.
She wanders along the empty road, lit by dusky streetlights, thinking back to zooming along the light filled roads on his motorbike.
Except it wasn't sunny. It was raining. But it was light to her. Yesterday, they sat on a grassy ledge by the water, his favourite spot, talking about everything and nothing.
Today, she stands in the dark on a grassy ledge by the water, his favourite spot, and she whispers to the cold, limp form sprawled the floor. She can't cry.
He had cancer. He was dying. He never wanted to die in a hospital, hooked up to machines. He wanted to die here. And he did.
She wishes this were a movie. She would weep gracefully and whisper insightful and intelligent words to his still breathing body. Tell him she would never forget him. But she had no words, crouching on a normal patch of grass on a normal, dark night. Nothing about this was perfect. And it was wonderful. Everything he represents. He's not perfectly still in a graceful position. He's cold and grey and limp and scrawny and his auburn hair doesn't bounce anymore and he will never open those sparkling emerald eyes again.
She's dying. Everyone's dying. We live for the moments of life others bring.
She had a choice. He didn't. She's not dead. He is.
She'll keep fighting, keep dying. For him.
Welp. What to say..
I blame coffee. I realise I do that a lot. I think coffee only exists to keep my brain functioning and so I can blame it for all the shit my brain spews out. You're welcome.