The End of the Beginning
Since I obviously haven't updated anything in months, I am going to test my abilities as an author in a small one shot. I'm sorry for the extended wait on all my stories but I've been very busy. One, I broke a toe (doesn't sound like much) four days ago and it's Thanksgiving break...finally. Two, I've been in and out of depression every week--I even cut myself this school year. Three, I've been grounded for the past three weeks because of "bad behavior" when all I did was not smile at a friend of my mother's. Four, My teachers feel like giving us freshman the most work humanly possible every night. Five, I just broke up with my (now) ex over trust issues that have been going on now since I dating him the first time right before summer. I'm still getting over him and I don't think it's working much. Six, I just found out over the course of last week that three of my friends like me. I've finally turned two of them down and I told the last one to give me a while to figure out my feelings, which was incredibly wrong to do and it's another thing I'd like to kill myself for doing. Seven, I just realized that overdose is an extremely tantalizing and breathtaking way to die, however I can''t kill myself just yet (no matter how much I'd love to) since I'd already made a promise to one of my other suicidal friends that we wouldn't kill ourselves unless we were either with other dying friends or participating in a mass suicide. There was another reason: I completely forgot about fanfiction.
And now, without further ado, I bring you the epitome of my hard work and sighs.
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To write a good story, Kagome typed the text into her computer, one has to start at the beginning just as all others have done before, but to write a truly great story, one that can never be put down, a page turner if you will, one doesn't have to start at the beginning. One may start in the middle and work it's way backward to the beginning before taking the noon train to the end or even ride to the end from the middle before heading back to the beginning. Then there is the occasion where one starts the story at the end and works it's way back. The latter is what I am going to write, a story starting at the end and ending at the beginning.
It ended not too long ago in a small temple dedicated to the Buddhist religion. I loved to write and I loved to read even more. The walls were stacked to the ceiling with books of every size and shape and color that could be imagined, none of which I wrote. I never kept my latest books I wrote nor did I want to. Unlike the many people who have praised them, I hated my later books. The reason: they were so depressing, characters dying and crying, the unlucky ones sighing hoping to be one of the dead.
The reason these books were so melancholic ended on a crisp late October day. I don't remember crying ever since, I haven't cried since that day years ago. I was walking up the stairs of my temple to my boyfriend, it felt different (not bad) to call him that, Miroku. I remembered Miroku was making Lemon Curry that day, I loved his cooking. As I reached the top of the stairs, I heard something that shouldn't have been heard, a loud piercing bang, a gunshot. I dropped my bag and ran as fast as I could inside. Before I realized it, I had started to cry. Laying on the bloody floor, was my dear, dear Miroku with the gun in his hand in the kitchen.
Writing it like that reminds me of the mystery game, Clue. Rolling a pair of dice, di, on a board and moving pieces around the board to get into certain rooms, ruling out different characters and weapons and rooms with each entrance into one. I loved that game, too. I didn't think of it like that as I cried onto his cold chest before the paramedics arrived. I don't know who called them because I sure didn't and I don't think I ever will.
I truly loved the bastard, his eyes, his smile, his laugh, the way he'd grasp my hand when he thought I wouldn't notice. Even to this day, I can't figure out why he did it except he wasn't happy. It irked me back then, when the investigators say they found a note in his breast pocket, a suicide note.
"It didn't work out, I'm sorry. Love, Miroku."
It was on a warm spring day earlier a year prior. I bought ice cream and was standing in line for the people to fix it up. When it was all done and ready, Miroku came up and snatched it out of the worker's hand. I remember yelling at him and his clever smile. He laughed, licked my frozen treat and handed it back to me. Unfortunately, that's all I can remember from so long ago. Everything passed by in a blur, days in weeks, weeks into months. All, that is, except for the fact that he liked my books. Once he found out I was the Higurashi Kagome, the author that sat on his beloved pedestal, he showed me his collection of my works. All of them were his favorite, he said.
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I'm sorry but I must leave it off here, for now. My mother's getting cranky at me being up on the computer so late. It's only 9:35 at night though. As I look back, I still have a long way to go.
Thank you and good night,
Trap.