ᴀᴜɢᴜsᴛɪɴᴇ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍ⁞×
[skate park]
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I don't own Hetalia.
This is drabble number one for the LJ comm hetachallenge's May drabble/doodle challenge.
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It's piercing, the high-pitched electric guitar that weaves its melodies with those of the synthesiser, each trying to outdo the other in tugging at the growing ache in my chest until I'm a nostalgic mess on this wooden bench. The parking lot is empty, not that people frequent the back lot of a suburban Walmart anyway.
It's a little windy and my near-black hair gets everywhere—annoying, to say the least, but I ignore it to remember high school lunches spent running from geese and lighting small fires in places we weren't supposed to (which was anywhere, I guess).
We blasted alternative rock with lyrics full of teenaged angst on cheap speakers and threw rocks into the ponds, revealing our pasts little by little until it seemed like we had lived both lives.
Fifteen or sixteen, we thought life existed either between the McDonald's across the road and my home ten minutes away or else someplace we had yet to discover.
Everything—stupid arguments and crazy laughter—comes back with a few familiar notes.
"'Chelle? You're late," I sing to the figure approaching.
My best friend rolls her eyes. "I was working a bit later than usual."
The song changes from something metalcore to a pop rock piece about heroes and heroines and she smiles softly past the metal railings and takes a seat next to me.
"Haven't heard this in a while. Thinking?"
"Remembering."
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dedicated to my sister-figure. for all the good times we had with vitaminwater in tunnels by the ponds we admired near the school we hated with the people we loved.