Locked away in the attic of a three story colonial, I sat and cried. I could see out of the window, I could see the funeral precession driving past, I could see the passenger of one of the cars, look, and look at my house and then I cried harder.
Locked away in the attic, I watched the cars drive past, the cars to your funeral, my sweet Stiles, drive on, without me, because the Mother didn't like my tears, forbid them and locked me away, so she wouldn't have to see her child's heartbreak.
I felt like opening that dusty window and jumping down, three stories, dropping like a cat, on all fours I'd land, and on all fours I'd be fine, and I'd pump my legs and catch up, and be there, however wrongly dressed, however sweaty, I'd be there, watching them put your casket into the ground, hearing the priest of our small town recite bible verses, letting my tears drip on your soil, to tell you I was there, nothing would stop me.
The reality was, I was stuck, the door triple locked, the window three stories up, and no way to get out. The reality, too normal, no magic, not realistic, too normal to be realistic, it couldn't be reality, reality, I'd do something, other than cry, and sit, and wish I could die too, just so I could be there, as a ghost watching from the shadows, just so I could be there, with you.
Reality, I jump from the window. Reality, I die. Reality, I don't know what happens. Normal, not realistic, I sit and cry, and wish I were there, with you, my lover of many years.
"Lydia," You once said, days before your death, "I love you, and I just wanted to tell you…before." There we laid, on your bed, next to each other, your arms around me, our hands intertwined.
"Before what?" and I had looked up, and there, your brown eyes were scared, and I didn't know what to think, and it scared me.
"Nothing, I just wanted to tell you, that I love you, and you're beautiful, and I'm glad I got to live my life with you." And you kissed me sweetly, with more passion than ever, and there, we made love, until the sun came up, and our night together ended, and then you ended.
And so I stood, and opened the window, and looked, and was scared, almost too scared, and I stumbled back, knocked boxes of ancient things over, and landed on the floor, and hurt, and was scared. Normal was reality, no way jumping would be reality, and there was no way reality wasn't normal. And yet, the Mother had locked me in an attic, you had died, and nobody but you knows how, or why, and jumping from a window isn't realistic, or maybe it was.
Stood again, and imagined you at the bottom of the fall, waiting for me, you would catch me in your arms. An embrace to last a million years, arms around me, soft skin, your soft skin brushing against mine, and there your lips would be, on my face, cold tears dripping on my face, a wet cheek against mine, and I'd be there with you.
One leg out, then two, holding on with all my might, fingers pressed to the cold seal, digging into my hands, the edge of my feet, pressed to the small ledge beneath me, and I looked down, and there, there you were, waiting with open arms, ready to spill your tears, and press your lips to my face, and give me breath again, and together we'd be, me with you, me and you.
One hand at a time, flipping over, my back to the street, and inside, the door opened, and there, the Mother appeared, and sullen, she walked, sullen, she stopped in front of me, her cold dark eyes on me, her soft wrinkled hands clasped at her front, a beautiful, a beautiful dark dress, flowing from her body, so perfect her hair was, golden hair twisted, and perfect lips opened, closed, and those eyes turned warm, and there, a tear dripped down her smooth pink cheek, curved around her chin, dripped to the dusty floor.
And I turned my head, and looked down, at you, waiting, tears flowing and back, to the Mother, holding out her arms, for me to come back in, to say she was wrong, and drive quickly, and there, at the funeral we'd be, and yet you'd be here, waiting with open arms to catch me, and let your tears give me breath.
She spoke, the Mother, and I didn't hear, time was too slow, hard brick pressed to my front, my foot on the ledge, calves tight, cramping to stay on, fingers purple, and I turned again, and my hand slipped, and the Mother screamed, reached out, and grabbed my other arm, and there I dangled, you at the bottom, waiting, with tears, and the Mother holding on with all her might, because she knew she was wrong, and I closed my eyes, my arm hurt, the shoulder coming out of socket.
And again, the Mother spoke, telling me to put my other arm up, so she could grab it, and so she could pull me up, and I'd be at the funeral, and this is reality, and sitting, crying isn't, dying, that would be reality, and so I let go, and she screamed, the Mother, and there I landed in your arms, so you could kiss my tears, and the world went black, and there, I heard, there I saw, stars, the blue sky turning dark, spots of red, green yellow, the edges of the clouds glowing, blades of grass at my side glowing white.
I should've held on, because you weren't really there, and I fell to my death, and that was reality, and the Mother fled down the stairs, two at a time, tripped and tumbling down and standing at the landing and again taking them two at a time, before she was at the ground floor, limping, running out the door, to me, and there she cried, and understood, and blamed herself, cradling a broken arm, holding me with the other.
There she screamed for help, that didn't come, because they were all at the funeral, with you, because that's where you really were, in that casket being lowered into the ground, but reality took over, and reality says we die, and get hurt, and sitting and crying in a dark attic was not.
AN: I must have a thing for death or something. Death just seems so...real compared to happy endings and awkward girls who get the hot guy and vampires and romance. That's just me, what about you? I also discovered the usage of second person in Fiction, I kind of like it. Kind of seems more personal, but again that's what I think.