This is my first fic so be nice! This is loosely based on a nightmare and I'd really appreciate some reviews so that I don't shrivel up and die. Please? Disclaimer: I don't own Maximum Ride (wish I did. Dylan would have died a long time ago...)
June 15. God that date again. It's the second anniversary of her death. And that hurt, the one that blossomed the second her eyes closed and the monitor went silent, it's stronger than ever today.
I finally pull myself out of bed and head to the bookshelf. Heading for The Book. The one that holds the photos of us. The photos of her.
When I first met her, she was just another girl in my photography class, But I soon learned how wrong that description was. She shocked me. Whenever she was in front of the camera, she lit up the world. And then she lit up my world.
I look at the first couple of pictures. They're the one's that fit the project description. Surprise your partner at unexpected moments. There's one of her, sprawled on the floor with a bowl of ice cream, the spoon halfway to her mouth as some BBC show plays on the T.V. In the next she's asleep at her kitchen table, her math book open under her head. those were when we were just beginning to know each other.
Turning the page, I wipe my eyes, putting a stop to the tears threatening to spill over. This is the page where the pictures of us start. A long strip of goofy photos from the photo booth at the mall, one where she's hugging me and the huge teddy bear at the carnival, another of us from the back, walking hand in hand at the Halloween Festival. Those were the happier times. The next page only has one picture. She's smiling at the camera, dozens of wires and tubes connected to her, keeping her alive.
She got sick November 3.
We thought it was a bug or a cold. But then she started coughing blood and we knew it was much worse. The doctors said she'd contracted a rare disease, some long word I couldn't pronounce. they said she still had a chance of surviving.
The next few pages are of her in the hospital, walking down the halls, asleep in bed, typing, reading, playing with the kids in the children's ward. She was tired all the time and could barely keep any food down because of the medicine they had her on, but she was happy. She had hope that she would live and she never let me lose that hope.
For a while it was looking like she was getting better. But then they took the tests that would let her go home for a while. And they found the cancer. Pancreatic Cancer. It only had a three percent survival rate if you were healthy and they caught it in time. But she was weak and it had already spread too far.
The only picture on the next page is crooked and horrible, going perfectly with the moment it captures.
I'd taken it on my phone, hoping to catch the smile on her face when the doctor said she could go home. Instead he told her that she probably only had a few more months to live. I had dropped the phone and it took its picture on the way down, capturing the look on her face in one blurry second. She was sad, but she still had hope. Because even if she wasn't the most religious person in the world, she believed in miracles. I grabbed onto that bit of hope that she guided me to and held on for dear life.
But it was just too late.
She died June 15. I was holding her hand at the time and the last words she uttered were meant for me alone.
"I love you Fang."
We buried her under a willow tree, beside a pond. I know she would have liked it because she loved willows. Her casket was a beautiful ebony that her sister picked out and everyone brought white orchids, her favorite flower. He headstone was an angel that looked like her and the epitaph was very much her.
She lived her life through a camera lens, but etched her story in our hearts.
It was sappy and beautiful and perfect. I know she would have loved it. It was fitting that the minute everyone was gone, the clouds overhead broke and drenched the world. I stood in front of her grave, staring at the sopping wet flowers and wishing that I had met her sooner, that I had more with her. Wishing that I could turn back time and bring her back to me. Wishing that I could be with her.
Tears roll down my cheeks and splatter on the page. The last picture is one that her friend J.J. sent me in the mail a few days after the funeral. She's smiling at the camera, standing in front of her house with her hair blowing around her face. She looks so pleased with herself, like she owns the world. A thought comes to me, one that brings a small, sad smile to my tear streaked face.
She may not own the world, but she's everything to mine.