I'm trying something new here: I didn't use any names. And while that works well when we're talking about a boy and a girl, it's a bit harder to do when talking about two girls. So I hope you don't get confused or anything by it. This might be a one-shot or more- you never know (that means review!). And if I do end up writing an actual story, it won't all be in this no-name format.
There is a breeze sweeping through the carnival. There is a breeze twisting through the brightly colored midway, weaving through the cars of the rickety wooden roller coaster, snaking across the grass and the dirt and the gravel and pushing to the girl. The one lonely girl sitting on a wooden bench, half disappeared in the darkness. The girl didn't mind the darkness; she was too far gone to mind much of anything.
Never mind the happy people floating by with their balloons and cotton candy and tired old laughs. God, if the girl could find just one thing to make her laugh. Really laugh, instead of cry. Crying, crying, crying; it was all she did anymore. That, and press her lips against a bottle that was always dirty and far too often empty. No, she hadn't done much. Not since that lousy- the girl forced herself not to go there. It was a carnival, after all. Fucking happiness and joy or something to that effect.
Her friends had forced her to come, forced her against her will. Nearly dragged her out of her little cellar, somewhere she was perfectly content to stay. But they had thrown her here into this lively world full of things the girl could no longer understand, because she no longer wanted them. The carnival had lost its delights; the midway no longer sparkling, the deep fried treats no longer tantalizing, the fun houses no longer mysterious. Everything became an unchanging blur, all filled with pretty colored swirls and pictures of her. Nothing but her filled the girl's mind, everything that had happened when she had left years ago.
And where was the girl now? Twenty years old, barely kissed anyone since she was sixteen, spending most of her life with a bottle by her side and a distinctly empty breeze in her bed. And where was she, that beautiful girl who had left her four years ago, practically handed her the bottle she now depended on, now despised? Probably out fucking a couple of lads in Cyprus or Spain or wherever the hell she'd ended up. Or having fun. Or doing anything besides sitting on a bench in tiny little carnival, listening to tinkling music and watching dancing lights move on the night sky's black canvas. Because that was all there was: the girl, the music, the lights, the sky, and the bottle. Can't forget the fucking bottle.
She missed the girl like hell, like the way a small child misses her parents when there are monsters hidden under her bed. There are still monsters hidden under her bed- or, more appropriately, in her closet. It was almost a bizarre routine that she had established in her little flat in Amsterdam, something that bordered on an obsession.
Every night, she would come home. It would generally be late, for she would've been out doing something political or artsy or something generally non-conformist, and non-conformists didn't have 8:00 bed times. But whenever she would get home, she would toss her keys somewhere- anywhere- and tell herself she'd worry about finding them in the morning. Then she would eat some terribly trashy food and watch whatever late night program that happened to be on. She wasn't watching it; not really. It just provided a background noise, because her own thoughts were too scary to confront. She left the telly on as she moved through the motions of living- and they were just that: motions and nothing more. No feeling was involved as she brushed her teeth, slipped into the same pajamas she'd had since she was sixteen. They still felt as comfortable and worn-in as they had four years ago and, if she pulled them tightly to herself in a such a way that is appeared she'd never let go and took a long deep breath, she could almost feel her adolescence creeping up on her again. The gentle touch, the soft kisses, the aggressive breath, the fingers, the legs, the stomach, the chest, the thighs, the hair, the eyes, the face-
And she always stopped there. Because if she pictured the girl's face, it would be too much. Just too damn much for her. And so she would slowly drag her feet along the floorboards out of her room, down the darkened hallway and into the still living room, switch off the television, and collapse onto the couch because she couldn't bear to sleep in a bed. Alone. In truth, her bed had only been used a grand total of seven times since she'd moved in.
Because she couldn't stand the thought of sleeping alone in the bed without the girl. She couldn't stand the thought of sleeping with the breeze.
The girl trudged through the outskirts of the carnival, out onto one of Bristol's lonely dirt roads. The bottle swung from her tiny, delicate fingers, threatening to slip out and smash into a million little pieces on the ground. But it never would, for the girl needed it too much. And besides: after a certain number of chugs (and the girl was certain she was nearing that amount now), a certain memory always popped up. Always. It was something that couldn't quite be fought, a crimson tide of soldiers assaulting her peace world of nothingness.
She tossed and turned on the rough couch. It hadn't been very comfortable to begin with, and the years had squashed the stuffing, pulled it out and dumped it on the ground. She could barely sleep under the thin blanket next to the window fogging up with the cold. And whenever she couldn't quite make the sleep she so desperately needed overtake her, her mind- her fucking one track mind- always, always landed on one memory.
She watched the girl read the letters carved on the tree over and over again, the girl clearly not believing what had been written. The girl would never believe that this was good-bye, she knew. But she had to go. She really did, for reasons beyond her comprehension. And if she herself couldn't understand why, then neither could the girl.
So, with that thought in her mind, she cast one more glance back to what she had scratched into the bark and the lovely girl- who might even be her one true love, the love of her life- staring it down.
Naomi
Emily
Love is not smothered by distance or time
Love does not disappear because of good-byes