Authors Note- So yes, I have decided to start up a fic, but this one is on my own. Something I haven't done in a long time. Anyways this takes place around the end of last season. Africa, and season ten do not apply. The Carby relationship is still the same... Meaning how it started, all the happenings in it. Anyways here is the prologue. Please read and review, tell me if I should continue or not. Thanks.
What if there really is only one person, one person for every one? One person to love, hold, call your own. One true love, the one you pledge your heart, soul, life too. Worse of all what if you let them go. What if you made the stupidest mistake of your life and cut them loose. Figuring you were better off without them, only to want them back the second they step over the thresh hold. You've come to realise that they are the one for you. They are your soul mate, your other half, cut from the same cloth. All the cliches you heard while growing up are coming true. But for someone you can't have because you realised it too late. You let them go over something stupid, something that seems so miniscule now. Something you can't even recall. A broken heart is the worst kind of pain, I speak from experience. No matter how many times you get walked all over, how many knives are stabbed in your back, by supposed 'friends.' A broken heart tops it all. I had experienced one before him. He was one of the many, but for some reason he held a different part in my heart, he meant something different. Something special. He was unique, quirky, clumsy, beautiful. Not all his traits could be seen at first look, but getting to know him you could tell how deep, lovely, spectacular he really is. Realising who he really was, what he really thought and felt was the best experience of my life. It wasn't long lived, but I loved every minute of it. Well at least I do now that it is gone. I didn't when I had. I abused him in a sense, used him. Hurt him as well. We hurt each other, it was a game we played. One neither of us enjoyed, yet we kept it going for over a year. Now here we stand completely alone, broken hearted. Neither of us knowing what happens next. I know I love him, he loves me. But is the love honestly worth all the pain and heart ache we cause each other. The night we spend arguing over trivial matters. Or apart because neither one wants to be the one to call the unthinkable. It would be easier to forget about him, to move on. Find someone new. The relationship would be different, as would the history. Maybe that is a good thing, a clean slate.
I slam my book closed, turning my head towards the clock. Ten hours till my shift. County general, somewhere I would rather not go. I haven't seen him since it ended. All of a six hours ago. It feels much longer, it feels as though I have been sitting here forever. I haven't been able to move since he left, I can still hear the echo of the slamming door. The glasses in my cupboards shaking. I bit my bottom lip not wanting to cry, refusing to show how weak I am. I lasted all of ten minutes. I didn't cry while he was around. I replaced my pain with hate, hate for a man that I really love. I look back down at my book, thinking I should go to bed, before my night shift starts. I did after all spend all night fighting with him. Draining my self of every ounce of energy. Now I sit here, barley moving watching the clock tick the hours away.
Who knows what we would have become if I had just given it a chance, but I didn't. He didn't either. I do feel partly responsible for the ending of 'us.' I know he had a rather big role as well. He was the one who lost hope in me, wanting me to change who I was for him. He didn't like who I was, who I had become. He wanted me to be a different, sorry buddy, what you see if what you get. I am not perfect. I know that much, but neither is he. He would shout at me how I was making all this up, how he really loves me for me. His words were not falling on deaf ears. They were heard. But needlessly, no matter what he said, I could see through him. The problem is, he did not realise that he truly does not love me until a few hours ago. He had made up his own 'Abby' in his mind. A perfect, sober, beautiful Abby. Hell, that women wouldn't even be Abby. That would be a whole new person. He needs perfect, because his expectations are set at perfect. I sigh, leaning my head back against the couch. Its time I get up from my misery retreat, that is my couch. I have probably made butt grooves in the cushions. I walk towards the door locking it, then picking up the keys he discarded on the side table. I finger them lightly. Remembering the clank they made on the table as he tossed them on, shouting some sort of cuss, I don't remember right now, at me. I blocked the whole fight out of mind. Knowing that if I think about it I will break down once again. I set the keys back on the table and head for the fridge, not really hungry, but its something to do. The door opens with a creak, and I search through, seeing only reminders of him. Why do I date guys that can't accept me for me? That is the one million dollar question, answer that Regis Philman. I shut the fridge door, all of this is hopeless. I am not going to be able to forget him. At least not tonight. Or ever probably, I mean we do work together. I saunter over to my bedroom, what was at one point our bedroom. Yup, the room we made love in, talked in, argued in, sat in eerie silences in. The room we fucked in. The room we fucked it all up in coincidentally. I lean against the battered door frame. There is a story about us in every inch of this apartment. Even one about the door frame. That one is too recent and painful to recite. I push my tattered hair out of my face. Wishing this day would end already. I would try to sleep, but that would just be hopeless. My dreams would be haunted with memories of him. Of us. The nights we spent together, the days we bantered over tiny things. Eventually collapsing in fits of giggles. At the beginning we loved spending time together. Hell that's all we did. We made love all the time. Every where. Endless minutes were spent making love in the shower, on top of the bathroom counter, the kitchen counter, the couch, against the television. Against the wall, that supported the television until. On the floor in the living room. Actually just any where we could. Things became to deepen, become much more serious. Not that that was a bad thing, it just meant making love, having sex, fucking, whatever you want to call it, didn't fix everything. It couldn't. It became an act, an act that we loved, enjoyed. But something we turned to for comfort when things got tough. It had lost its original meaning, and was replaced by a new hurtful one. One that tore us by the seams. I walk into my bedroom, sitting down on the bed. His side of the bed incidentally. The smell of him still present. The crinkle of the sheets from yesterday morning, still there. Everything seems normal. The way it always is, the way it always was. But it will be different. From this day forward, I can no longer run to his arms for comfort. Its over, we are through. The worst thing about all this is I have to see him in nine hours and forty-five minutes. This won't be good for either of us. I can tell already. I will just have to be ready and prepared.
What if there really is only one person, one person for every one? One person to love, hold, call your own. One true love, the one you pledge your heart, soul, life too. Worse of all what if you let them go. What if you made the stupidest mistake of your life and cut them loose. Figuring you were better off without them, only to want them back the second they step over the thresh hold. You've come to realise that they are the one for you. They are your soul mate, your other half, cut from the same cloth. All the cliches you heard while growing up are coming true. But for someone you can't have because you realised it too late. You let them go over something stupid, something that seems so miniscule now. Something you can't even recall. A broken heart is the worst kind of pain, I speak from experience. No matter how many times you get walked all over, how many knives are stabbed in your back, by supposed 'friends.' A broken heart tops it all. I had experienced one before him. He was one of the many, but for some reason he held a different part in my heart, he meant something different. Something special. He was unique, quirky, clumsy, beautiful. Not all his traits could be seen at first look, but getting to know him you could tell how deep, lovely, spectacular he really is. Realising who he really was, what he really thought and felt was the best experience of my life. It wasn't long lived, but I loved every minute of it. Well at least I do now that it is gone. I didn't when I had. I abused him in a sense, used him. Hurt him as well. We hurt each other, it was a game we played. One neither of us enjoyed, yet we kept it going for over a year. Now here we stand completely alone, broken hearted. Neither of us knowing what happens next. I know I love him, he loves me. But is the love honestly worth all the pain and heart ache we cause each other. The night we spend arguing over trivial matters. Or apart because neither one wants to be the one to call the unthinkable. It would be easier to forget about him, to move on. Find someone new. The relationship would be different, as would the history. Maybe that is a good thing, a clean slate.
I slam my book closed, turning my head towards the clock. Ten hours till my shift. County general, somewhere I would rather not go. I haven't seen him since it ended. All of a six hours ago. It feels much longer, it feels as though I have been sitting here forever. I haven't been able to move since he left, I can still hear the echo of the slamming door. The glasses in my cupboards shaking. I bit my bottom lip not wanting to cry, refusing to show how weak I am. I lasted all of ten minutes. I didn't cry while he was around. I replaced my pain with hate, hate for a man that I really love. I look back down at my book, thinking I should go to bed, before my night shift starts. I did after all spend all night fighting with him. Draining my self of every ounce of energy. Now I sit here, barley moving watching the clock tick the hours away.
Who knows what we would have become if I had just given it a chance, but I didn't. He didn't either. I do feel partly responsible for the ending of 'us.' I know he had a rather big role as well. He was the one who lost hope in me, wanting me to change who I was for him. He didn't like who I was, who I had become. He wanted me to be a different, sorry buddy, what you see if what you get. I am not perfect. I know that much, but neither is he. He would shout at me how I was making all this up, how he really loves me for me. His words were not falling on deaf ears. They were heard. But needlessly, no matter what he said, I could see through him. The problem is, he did not realise that he truly does not love me until a few hours ago. He had made up his own 'Abby' in his mind. A perfect, sober, beautiful Abby. Hell, that women wouldn't even be Abby. That would be a whole new person. He needs perfect, because his expectations are set at perfect. I sigh, leaning my head back against the couch. Its time I get up from my misery retreat, that is my couch. I have probably made butt grooves in the cushions. I walk towards the door locking it, then picking up the keys he discarded on the side table. I finger them lightly. Remembering the clank they made on the table as he tossed them on, shouting some sort of cuss, I don't remember right now, at me. I blocked the whole fight out of mind. Knowing that if I think about it I will break down once again. I set the keys back on the table and head for the fridge, not really hungry, but its something to do. The door opens with a creak, and I search through, seeing only reminders of him. Why do I date guys that can't accept me for me? That is the one million dollar question, answer that Regis Philman. I shut the fridge door, all of this is hopeless. I am not going to be able to forget him. At least not tonight. Or ever probably, I mean we do work together. I saunter over to my bedroom, what was at one point our bedroom. Yup, the room we made love in, talked in, argued in, sat in eerie silences in. The room we fucked in. The room we fucked it all up in coincidentally. I lean against the battered door frame. There is a story about us in every inch of this apartment. Even one about the door frame. That one is too recent and painful to recite. I push my tattered hair out of my face. Wishing this day would end already. I would try to sleep, but that would just be hopeless. My dreams would be haunted with memories of him. Of us. The nights we spent together, the days we bantered over tiny things. Eventually collapsing in fits of giggles. At the beginning we loved spending time together. Hell that's all we did. We made love all the time. Every where. Endless minutes were spent making love in the shower, on top of the bathroom counter, the kitchen counter, the couch, against the television. Against the wall, that supported the television until. On the floor in the living room. Actually just any where we could. Things became to deepen, become much more serious. Not that that was a bad thing, it just meant making love, having sex, fucking, whatever you want to call it, didn't fix everything. It couldn't. It became an act, an act that we loved, enjoyed. But something we turned to for comfort when things got tough. It had lost its original meaning, and was replaced by a new hurtful one. One that tore us by the seams. I walk into my bedroom, sitting down on the bed. His side of the bed incidentally. The smell of him still present. The crinkle of the sheets from yesterday morning, still there. Everything seems normal. The way it always is, the way it always was. But it will be different. From this day forward, I can no longer run to his arms for comfort. Its over, we are through. The worst thing about all this is I have to see him in nine hours and forty-five minutes. This won't be good for either of us. I can tell already. I will just have to be ready and prepared.
