as always, disclaimed. thanks to lisa for attempting to beta it.
Completely and totally, permanently and without hope, forever and ever I love you.
And that's enough.
- Chuck Palahniuk, Invisible Monsters
,
.Once upon a time, she had a lot to fight for. Now, she's just the paper-frail girl who disappears in hallways. She's broken her own heart so many times she doesn't remember what it feels like to be whole. So when she shows up at your house in the middle of a thunderstorm on a Tuesday night, her matchstick Levis and a white sweatshirt clinging to her like a second skin, shocked is an understatement for the flurry of emotions seeping through your skin. Your lips move like you're trying to think of something, but the syllables refuse to leave the tip of your tongue.
It's cold outside, the weather dark, clouds filling the sky with raindrops that are her tears. Maybe you should add that they're about to fall. In literature, it's called foreshadowing.
But maybe this time it's okay.
.
.
"What the hell is that?"
They're the first words she'd ever uttered to you. The lightly painted silhouettes of freckles dancing on her nose as confusion etches itself onto her delicate features; she points at what you're holding, and her lips part as the words tumble past them. The sound of her voice? You can't even describe it, that's how far gone you are. And after that, her bluntness never fails to make your lips break into an over-widened grin, and this one's promptly followed by your oh-so-eloquent reply to her question,—
"It's, um, mayonnaise. Slathered over cheese."
And then you falter, running a hand through your hair, suddenly sheepish because your gaze is raking over her, from her hair, twirled up in a messy fishtail braid, the wind splaying absconding honey-hued strands across her cheeks like spider webs, to her lips, tinted blue from the cold, her teeth biting down into them almost hard enough to draw blood. But mostly just her amber-dusted eyes, copiously ringed by a hint of kohl eyeliner; they're the most fucking beautiful things you've ever seen.
Just for the record, every single detail of that night is imprinted into your memory. You lean a little closer,—she smells like strawberries and coffee and mint. And honestly? You can't help the smile that leaks onto your face.
.
.
Right now, —(See also: forever. See also: always.)—you're standing in front of her, a mop of disheveled dark hair falling into a pair of mismatching eyes, dressed in a sea green Tomahawks sweater and some scuffed jeans, and she's wearing a dress, even though it's fucking February. The wind scrapes past her cheeks as she fingers the frayed edge of the daisy perched in the spaces between her fingers—the same daisy you've given her barely five minutes ago—, the sun warming up her skin, her bones.
You, you're saying some bullshit about the date,—which, for the record, up until now you've been trying to ignore,—and its affiliated fuckers. Her fingers lace around the twinkling heart-shaped Christmas light hanging around her neck on a thin unfurling string as he talks and gestures, her thumb running along the cracks in the vibrantly opaque glass as she leans against the wall, rocking her heels on the cobblestone path.
You must have said something funny because she laughs, the sound exuding pure innocence in its elemental form, and any doubt that's been eating away at you dissipates, and you feel a little guilty because you used to think that perhaps she was just like everyone else, just maybe a little skinnier, a little wittier, with a little bit more of that je ne sais quoi. Just for the record, you were wrong.
But then her lips quirk into a soft smile, surprising both herself and you—because it's been so fucking long since she's last genuinely smiled, and it's not even that funny—, then was surprised even more—no, shocked— when you smile back, (a heartbreaker's smile, she silently notes) and for a second you're just caught in the moment:
You and Massie, surrounded by all those leaves, in the sunshine, on a Monday. Nothing else.
.
.
She blinks, breaking the moment, confusion pirouetting across her features, pausing on the dusted glass skin stretched across her cheekbones. Her almond-shaped eyes linger on your face for another moment, some brief, undistinguishable emotion entering its shadows, and she says something before she turns around and walks away, deserting you on that achromatic crimson cloud of unknowing.
But in that half-second of that something passing through you, all the darkness and the shadows didn't matter anymore, because there was just something so fucking alive about her, that dimpled smile under her rusty halo highlighting the joie de vivre lacing itself with her skeleton, an impossible contrast against the broken marionette strings that just barely held her up, freezing the raw glitter of acrimony running through her veins and maybe, just maybe, (she loathes how there are so many possibilities) thawing her out.
And maybe none of it made any fucking sense to her whatsoever, but as of now, she didn't care. And, for all it was worth, neither did you, because Massie Block, she saved you. She knitted some excitement into the drab fabric of your life, and when she runs, she leaved footprints in the sand, innocuous breadcrumbs for your stone heart to follow. She pulled you out of your fire, gave you your world back. She gave you what you were never brave enough to do on your own: yourself. And you were forever indebted to her for it.
.
.
happy single awareness day, world. i think this might be a little over the 1000-word limit, and less than cohorent, but review/concrit? :)