In the beginning, I didn't understand. She opened up to me, for which I was glad, but she did more than that. She told me everything, starting at the beginning of her life. Her whole story. I asked her why, because it was a different kind of intimacy than I'd ever had; knowing every detail of her life. She told me, "Someday, I won't be able to remember. I won't be able to recall what I did on my thirteenth birthday, or who I roomed with in college. I may not even remember how much of an ass House was, though I doubt anyone could forget that. I'll need someone to do it for me."
From that day on, we recorded everything. At the end of the day, we wrote down everything she'd done that day, and every memory Remy could recall. We wrote in plain, brown journals. They were nothing spectacular, but they were cheep, which was good, since we filled up a ton of them. Over the next few years, we filled up a closet's worth of boxes of journals.
We were in the hospital, PPTH, of course. I was sitting in one of those horrible, uncomfortable chairs, right beside Remy's bed. I was gripping her hand to keep it from jerking, and she was lying there, looking up at the ceiling. I pulled one of the journals from my purse; one of the ones with memories from Remy's earlyish years. I started to read, and about a quarter of the way through, Remy interrupted me. "Hey Ally? Whose story is this? It's so disconnected, and there's no real plot."
My heart broke, right then and there. "It's your story Rem," I croaked out, squeezing her hand tighter. "It's your life."
"Oh. Well…it's a pretty fucked up life," she told me. With that, she closed her eyes, and fell into a drug-induced sleep.
"Don't worry, Rem," I whispered, stroking her hair. "It gets better." I climbed into the cot with her, curling around her, and trying to keep her body from shaking, and jerking.
A/N Yeah, so this is kind of tragic and depressing.
Also, *GASP* I used a curse word! :o