Disclaimer: Don't own. The definitions are taken from dictionary . com.
Notes: Yes, the format was intended.
Interpolate
- to make insertions
It's been two months since the Carnival.
Frankly, it's an awful name for something that involves that much gore.
Carnivals are supposed to be ridiculously flooded with popcorn, cotton
candy, ice cream, and most of all, games. In a sense, the Carnival really
is a game. It was the worst game I ever played.
Every time I look at her, I'm still afraid.
Afraid of what she could do to me, afraid of her bloody eyes, afraid of
her tarnished hands, afraid of her fake smile, afraid of her vacant stare,
afraid of her murders, afraid of her. Not that I'd ever admit it straight in
her face, though. That's why I write these letters.
Letters that I never intend to send.
I'll keep them in the wardrobe, in the lowest drawer, beside the bed.
Nobody would think of looking in there. Not even her. I hide it under
the stacks of neatly folded clothing, slipping it in between two leather
pants. I know that she'll never find them.
That's good, isn't it? She said that I should express my emotions through
writing instead of against others, or they would expel me. They already
know of my history, and they're not too happy about it. There isn't any
positive evidence yet, but she said that they'd find out sooner or later.
Any little slip-up and I'd be kicked out.
She is proficient in masking her own slip-ups, so she probably doesn't
need to worry. I wonder, though, when they would uncover the link
between her and the disappearance of hundreds of people in a single
night, would the great Kaichou be able to cover up her greatest flaw?
Does it matter to me? Why – why do I still care about her even after
the Carnival?
I remember she said that my eyes were beautiful once.
"And that is why I love green." She had finished off, going back to her
cup of tea. "Green … is a beautiful colour."
Funny, how she was the only one who actually cared about me. Fuuka
probably thought that I was just a rebel kid, perhaps bordering on the
darker side of the line of morality. But she – the most popular, revered
student of Fuuka Academy – befriended me when no one else would.
In a sense, I'm really grateful to her for that. She saved me, when I
thought I was beyond salvation. She fixed me, when I thought I was
beyond repair. She made me happy, and for a moment, I would forget
about my mother, about my past, about my life.
She loved me.
I've never been so confused in my life.
I can still feel the sting of betrayal. How could she? I wanted … no,
needed to know. At first, I didn't believe it. I didn't believe that my
only friend turned against me. But my eyes told otherwise, when
I fought with her in the Carnival.
Were my eyes deceiving me? Never; she said that they were
beautiful, and something so beautiful would never lie. Then, why
was she there? Was our friendship just a fantasy? I didn't know;
and I needed answers.
"I love you."
I … don't know. Do I love you?
-- db --
I'm not sure. The idea of committing to something as … strong as love scares me. It scares me almost as much as she does.
"I love you." She says.
"I know. You told me." I reply, growing edgier.
Her eyes soften.
"I'll always love you." She pulls me into a firm, but gentle embrace.
"I know. You told me." I answer, voice muffled through her warmth.
I feel her smile, and she strokes my red hair.
Why? Did you think I was someone else?
That damn Kuga can't match up to my awesome writing skills!
There is a reason why this was listed under both Angst and Humor.
By the way, Interpolate also means
to alter or corrupt (a book or text) by the insertion of a new or foreign matter.
Which is exactly what I did.
So shoot me.