My results are coming out any moment now. I wrote this while worrying about it so I don't know how it is (the story, not results). I wrote and I wrote. I hope MS Word checked my spellings and mistakes for me. I don't have the patience to check.
Disclaimer: I don't own Life With Derek.
P.S. This is my longest yet! I'm proud of writing more than just two pages. :)
Every year, on this particular day, the 29th of November, it rained. Not just the drizzling kind either, more like the raging storm, the kind she had hated since she had been five and alone in the house.
Fierce fiery warriors fought upon the clouds,
In ranks and squadrons and right from of war,
Which drizzled blood upon the Capitol.
It figured that even the Gods were crying, the angels were weeping and the demons were creating havoc over this day. It figured that it rained so heavily, nothing could be seen outside except a misty grey that was thick and despairing. It also figured that the tears that were flowing out of her eyes were paining her, stinging her.
It figured because he would never allow anyone to forget even after he had left.
When beggars die, there are no comets seen;
The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes.
On this day, every year, she didn't go to church. She didn't visit the cemetery that lay behind it and nor did she lay flowers, lilies, like she did every day. She didn't sit near the tombstone and read the inscription even though it lay memorized somewhere in the corner of her heart. She didn't sit there for exactly an hour, right in the morning, at 5 o'clock sharp, and touch the grass that was wet from the morning dew and was strangely sharp. She didn't question his untimely death and nor did she hit the ground hard, hoping he'd feel that. She didn't go anywhere except sit at home and eat his favourite cereals.
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
She knew she needed help; maybe professional help even, that could help her get rid of this terrible habit. But it was something she couldn't break off. And she knew he didn't want her to.
She'd mentally prepare herself from the start of the year; discouraging herself from giving into the ritual, egging herself to take a holiday. A holiday would be fun. Somewhere sunny and warm and she'd buy herself a hat. A large, pretty straw hat. She'd like that.
But she'd wake up that morning to be greeted by a dreadful grey storm and she'd be forced to sit at home and eat cereals and cry.
(And she'd secretly be happy.)
She dreamt tonight she saw my statue,
Which, like a fountain with an hundred spouts,
Did run pure blood.
Before she'd wake up to that morning, she'd always have a dream. It was strange because she only had this dream once a year, and it was also different from others because it was the only dream that didn't feature him perfectly, down to the last detail. It was the only dream when his face wasn't clear, the memories were smudgy and the feeling was grey.
It was as if, he momentarily disappeared from her memories, her head to enter real life, for just a day, to will the clouds to let out rain, to make the angels fly and make the world a lot less sunnier, and make it a lot more rainier.
She never doubted it was him that made the earth shake with such tremendous force. She never doubted it.
Because-
Well, because, it was always him.
Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils,
Shrunk to this little measure?
She remembered, years ago, when he was still there and she was still living among the living, that it wasn't always such a perfect little picture. But it wasn't necessarily something grey (she had come to associate grey with everything opposite to the good stuff) either. She had been such a naïve little girl. Had been such a silly, silly little girl.
Because then, everything else had been important. The clichéd stuff; the good grades, the pretty looks, the right manners, the perfect weather; everything but him.
She'd come to realize along the years that it was actually him that really mattered. That now, he was the only important thing to her.
But it wasn't too late, you see. Because even though, he didn't breathe, she felt his breath. Even though, he didn't speak, she heard his voice. That even though he didn't appear, she felt him laughing at her.
She remembered, years ago, when she had been combing her hair (She remembered the lesser important memories. Important memories were overrated) and being angry at him for spoiling something. He had appeared in her mirror suddenly, laughing loudly at her anger. She had turned around and thrown the brush at him. He had ducked and the brush had hit the wall with a loud crack. She remembered wincing and shouting at him. He hadn't been afraid to show himself then, hadn't been teasing her with little-little memories.
She suddenly wished, while combing her hair now, that she had kept the comb. It was a pretty silver one she had found in a thrift shop when she had gone with him to buy a present for someone. The brush she was holding now was a worn brown. But it didn't matter now and she kept combing her hair, all the while feeling a little uneasy.
It was there suddenly.
The feeling. She shivered.
And then she felt him near. She wished she could throw her comb again. He was such a bastard. He was afraid to show himself now, something he had never been when he was still…there.
"I know you're there. You can't scare me." She said loudly. The room had gone quiet, outside the rain was still pouring. The bedroom was dark, the blinds drawn, her heart racing; it was the perfect setting for him to appear.
"You can't." She said again, feeling Goosebumps travel down her arm. And suddenly, slowly, piercingly, it began.
His laughter. It was growing louder every second, echoing and she shut her eyes, feeling haunted and scared and exhilarated at the same time.
It was a deep laughter, and it was also coming from behind her. She spun around and - nothing. He wasn't there. But she felt him, and heard him.
She turned back to her mirror and froze. For a moment, she had caught a glimpse of someone. Someone that wasn't her, someone who had stared back at her with a cynical, conceited smile for just a moment before disappearing.
Derek.
She screamed and fell.
Liberty! Freedom! Tyranny is dead!
Run hence, proclaim, cry it about the streets!
She wanted to sleep. Sleep. It was tugging her into darkness and she was mindlessly eager to follow it. But something was holding her back and she willed it to go away.
White light fell on her closed lids and warmed her skin. Slowly, it dawned that she was laying somewhere. She opened her eyes weakly-
Bright light.
Her eyes snapped shut, almost blinded by the brightness. Dizziness made her nauseas but she tried again. The light hit her with lessse intensity this time and she was finally able to take in her surroundings. Her wall was replaced with a clean, whitewashed wall with a picture of a boat hanging. She tilted her head a little and came face to face with a man's face. She couldn't place him but she was too weak to worry. He smiled, wearing a lab coat, and felt her forehead.
"Water." She whispered.
He nodded. From the side table, he picked up a glass and helped her up, holding the glass while she drank.
"I'm Dr. Raymond. It's good to see you back in the living." He said, slowly, as if she was a five year old kid. An old but familiar feeling of indignation washed her but she smiled anyway. Weakly.
"Your family's been very worried. Would you like to see your sister?" He asked. She focused on his smile, a perfect white smile. She remembered knowing someone with a similar perfect smile but she couldn't remember whom.
He walked out before sending her a wary glance. She didn't even notice, just feeling numb and out of her body.
She heard the door open and Lizzie walked in. She smiled happily. It was so good to see her younger sister.
"How are you feeling Casey?" Lizzie asked, holding her hand. She smiled again in answer. (It was the only part that was reacting.) "We have been so worried." Her sister continued, squeezing her hand reassuringly.
"I am fine, Lizzie. Just a little weak." She finally said, her voice feeling rusty and so, so weak. "Is everything okay at home?"
Lizzie nodded. "But we've all been really worried. Edwin wanted to come along but he's babysitting Marti and Steph. Mom and George are out of town but they'll be back soon. They wanted to come back as soon as they heard but I told them I'll stay near." Lizzie ended with a soft giggle. "Marti hates being babysat now that she's in college but Edwin wouldn't allow her to come. You know how she gets when she sees a hospi-"
Her sister stopped, suddenly realising what she was saying. "-I mean, she's not very well…"
She nodded sadly, her mind slowly filling in the details it had forgotten during the blackout. Her eyes drifted towards the window, her eyes gazing at nothing in particular.
"Will it ever end?" She asked softly. Lizzie brushed her hair away from her face, feeling helpless. "I don't know Casey." She said quietly. "It's been so long and we've all managed to survive. But you never moved on."
"Why?" Casey turned her sad, broken blue eyes to meet her sister. "Why is it so hard for me? Why is it so hard for me to move on?" (She was still waiting for an explanation other than the obvious one which included three words.)
Feeling uncomfortable, Lizzie looked downwards. "You know why."
"Look up Lizzie. And tell me, please."
Hesitatingly, she faced Casey. "Mom noticed how you hated him, how you couldn't stand him. Edwin noticed how you fought him, how you felt better fighting him. I noticed how you couldn't stop talking to him, how you couldn't stop touching him."
Casey stared at her sister, taken aback but really not surprised that Lizzie had noticed. "I need to move on. But I just don't know how." Her voice was hollow and Lizzie noticed.
"You have to let people in, Casey. You can't shut yourself up and hope it'll go away because it won't. It'll never go away that way. You have to let people talk to you."
Lizzie drew a breath. "And most importantly, you need to tell yourself that you love him. Denial isn't going to work. It never did then and it isn't going to now."
Her interest waned thin. (She already knew what she had to do). She had heard enough of this from almost everyone she knew. She preferred being a psychotic case than being open. She preferred being wrapped up so in memories, she was going insane. She preferred being in a bubble where she dreamt of him and blamed hatred for the dreams.
But she loved him. She loved him so much; it broke her away from the strings of reality. She missed him so much, she imagined he was near and alive and well.
He wasn't Derek Venturi – the sweet, loving, handsome man people appeared to remember. He was De-rek – her stepbrother that had taunted her, teased her, mocked her, the one she loved so much it destroyed her, the one she hated because every moment, she was falling deeper and deeper into the thick, fathomless hole people marked, 'love'.
(Even when he was rotting away six feet under.)
She didn't need anything other than memories because in the end, it was what kept her energetic. It kept her alone and hoping.
(She hoped she'd see him again in her mirror. There was something important she had to do.)
She was taken back to her apartment (It's too small, he had said, years ago) a day later and left alone. It was messy and unkempt but she hardly noticed, running towards her bedroom. She rushed to her mirror, smiling. Her run had weakened her further, but she ignored it.
"Derek." She called. "Derek, I have to talk to you."
A whispery wind blew on her neck. She didn't turn, gazing straight at the mirror. She knew he was near. She could feel him. But she didn't move, staring straight ahead at herself.
"I have to tell you." She paused. "I love you Derek. I do." There was a haunting silence but she wasn't discouraged. She knew he was listening.
"But it's over." She continued. "You are gone and I'm still here." She imagined she heard a snort at her dramatic manner.
But damn, she was feeling good. And it was coming out. Her boxed up emotions were out and he was listening. She was allowing herself to be happy.
"It's too late now. You have to leave." She said, picking up her hair brush but not using it. She was waiting for something, but she wasn't sure what.
"You should go." She said awkwardly. The room was compellingly silent. She wondered how he felt.
A crystal vase fell.
She stifled the urge to cry out in shock. "You should go." She repeated. A second later, her mirror cracked. This time, she let out a shriek. She clamped her mouth with a hand but she remained where she was.
She was shaking, she realized dimly. Her body was responding to fear and she couldn't stop. "Go." She ordered, quivering.
Her book shelf fell down, her fan fell from the ceiling, and her T.V began to switch on and off. She was screaming now. "Stop! Stop it, Derek! Stop!" She was crying; her little moment of happiness evaporated.
"I hate you! Stop it! I hate you! Please!" Sobs shook her frame but she stayed rooted to her place, legs paralyzed with fear.
You love me, Casey. You can't send me away.
She heard him. "Oh my god." She sobbed, tears pouring out in a thick stream. "Stop it!"
And suddenly, it stopped.
She rubbed her tears away and found herself staring straight into his eyes. She leaned against the wall, recoiling with fear. He looked the same, like he had before he had left her.
Brown hair, the brown eyes, that green shirt, the black leather jacket, the same cocky expression. "Surprised?" He asked silkily.
She shut her eyes tightly. "I'm going insane. I need help. I am going insane" She chanted feverishly, her wits scattering. She couldn't believe him. Years and years of playing with her, he finally appeared after scaring her to hell. She couldn't believe herself. There was something really wrong with her. She should have noticed when she started noticing his presence.
Oh my god, she was speaking to a ghost.
"I'm still here." He drawled. "You bore me. You say you love me and now you can't look at me."
The arrogance in his voice snapped her eyes open. For a moment, she stood staring at him. He was the same. He hadn't changed. They were still the same. Slowly, fury replaced fear. He had made her go through hell. She wished she had her silver comb. (And briefly wondered if it would go through him.)
She straightened up, and walked towards him, gaining confidence from her growing boiling anger.
He seemed to enjoy it, her anger, while standing in the centre of the room, looking (so) alive and well.
"You bastard." She spat. "You son of a bitch, arsehole, stinking bastard!" Her tone went up an octave as he smirked at her language.
"How dare you?"
Derek looked around. "Oh you were talking to me?"
"Yes!" She screamed loudly.
"Sorry" He apologized mockingly. "Being dead has really killed my brain."
At that, she burst into tears.
He stood shocked at her outburst. She glared at him through her fresh tears. "You really are the most obnoxious pig I've ever known!"
He ginned, and she turned her head away. She had missed that so much. She wasn't ready to let this go. But she had to.
"You have to go, Derek. I'm serious." She said it slowly.
His grin turned into a frown. She could read the hurt in his eyes. "I thought you loved me." He whispered.
It was leaving her breathless to see him so alive. He looked so in place. It was also painfully heartbreaking to realize that this wasn't real. This wasn't supposed to happen.
She didn't want to admit it to him that she loved him. Even under the circumstances.
"I don't." She mumbled.
"You do. I see you put flowers on my grave everyday." He said fiercely, as if convincing himself. "You cry before going to sleep. I see you."
"You're dead and I am breathing." She answered back. "You don't exist anymore. You don't."
"But you still love me." He said arrogantly.
She stared at him silently. She had never admitted it to him when he was in visual distance. Never. She wondered why because it was really hopeless to be in denial.
She nodded slowly. "I do."
A smile appeared on his face.
"But you have to go." She stated. She looked up and to her surprise, he was still smiling.
"You finally admitted it to me, Spacey." He said, using her old pet name. "You finally said it!" He repeated delightedly.
"I can let you go now." She said it more to herself. She looked at Derek. "I can." She said with a half smile.
She woke up with start. Dr. Raymond stood beside the bed, concerned. "Are you feeling okay?"
She nodded. She looked around. Was he near?
"Do you want your sister?..." He asked uncertainly.
"No. I'll just like to be alone for some time now." She said, feeling a little groggy. "What time is it?"
"It's just past twelve." He said, smiling.
"When will I be discharged, Dr Raymond?" She settled back, feeling free. He was gone now. She knew it. She couldn't feel him.
And she was glad.
The doctor turned to look at her in astonishment. "How did you know my name?"
There! My longest yet!
You might not like the idea of Casey feeling happy, and then scared. and then weirdly happy again and then bursting into tears. I know, very random. I'm going with, 'The death of Derek really damaged her senses.'
My inspirations: I Heart You, You Haunt Me by Lisa Schroeder (Yes, I copied the title and also the gist.), the death anniversary of a relative, rainy day, a whole lot of sadness and some cynical humor.
Love
Fadetonoir.
P.S. Borrowed the pretty paragraphs in italics from Julius Caesar.