Lost and Found
This story, for reasons that will become clear, exists in that gray area between original fiction and fan fiction. The characters of 7th Heaven belong, as I understand it, to Brenda Hampton and the WB. The other characters, and the story itself, belong to me.
Like my first attempts at 7th Heaven fanfiction roughly a year ago, this story was inspired by an episode of the show itself. There are times when one simply cannot be silent about something harmful and still face one's reflection in the mirror the next day, and this, for me, is one of those times, just as it was a year ago. Hopefully this will all make sense to you, gentle reader, when you have finished this story. Be warned that the ending, when it comes, will be intense, and if you are easily upset, you should turn back now.
I feel it is only proper to dedicate this piece to all the many fans of 7th Heaven. Though you may not think so sometimes, Ol' Hans is pulling for you. Hence this little tale.
Finally, this is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of these characters to any person, living or dead, is strictly coincidence. It is (c) 2002 by Hans the bold. All rights reserved.
ONE
* * *
It isn't supposed to be this way.
Maybe if I keep telling myself this, It'll come true. Because it has to. It has to be true, don't you see? Things can't be this way, they just can't.
It can't be her, lying there. It can't be her.
It can't be him.
It just can't.
You're here now. All of you, talking quietly, doing your jobs. I'm sitting on a chair in the kitchen and I just can't stop shaking. I want to stop, want it to all go away, want it to all just be over, want to wake up screaming because this all has to be just be a nightmare.
Because it isn't supposed to be this way.
#
You want me to talk. You want me to tell you what happened. You want to know.
My name?
Michelle.
That's my name. I'm nineteen, and that's my name.
Michelle.
I'm sorry. It's my fault. It has to be all my fault, because that's the way these things always go. It has to be something I did, something I said that wasn't right. You tell me that you don't think that's true, but it is. If I hadn't done it, if I hadn't been wrong, it never would have happened.
Stop telling me it isn't my fault!
#
Time. Here, now. Where I am. Everyone's come again, with their questions. You're with them and you have your questions too. I feel funny, though, like I'm a little lightheaded, like none of this is real.
Because maybe it isn't. Maybe I'm not really Michelle and you're not really you. Maybe the whole world isn't real, and we're all just playing a game, a big game.
It was always such a game, wasn't it?
You want to know who she is?
My best friend: Abby. We've known each other for ten years, since her family moved here to St. Louis and we met in school. We were in the second grade then and we were friends right away. And we did stuff together, too; we went to camp when we were ten and sang songs around the campfire, and we both tried out for speech club in junior high and we both like the same TV shows. We watched boys in the hallways and giggled together about them after school, and we gossiped with the other girls in school and we always stood up for each other when they gossiped about us. And when things were hard because we weren't popular or we weren't pretty enough in those days we had each other, and we helped each other, and she is my best friend.
My best friend.
She came over a lot, and I went to her house a lot. It isn't far; I could ride it on my bike in less than ten minutes. We had sleepovers and we would watch TV together.
TV. That was fun. We loved TV. We would eat popcorn and watch. A lot of it was pretty bad and gross and there was always sex and violence on it and people not respecting each other. I remember when we were younger our moms wouldn't let us watch a lot of shows because they were about drugs and stuff like that. Instead they would rent a movie and tell us to watch that, but the movies got lame after a while and so we would go back to the TV. Our parents were always tired from working too much and so they never checked on us and we could watch what we wanted, even when it was bad.
I'm sorry. This is isn't what you want to hear about, is it? You don't want to hear about how hard school is and how I wanted to be a cheerleader but I didn't make the squad and how hard it is to hear about terrorists and anthrax and gangs and drugs all the time. You don't want to hear about how much it hurts when they boys call you blobby butt and when the other girls giggle at you and your teachers don't even remember your name. But that's my life, and Abby's life too, and it sucks sometimes, you know?
This story, for reasons that will become clear, exists in that gray area between original fiction and fan fiction. The characters of 7th Heaven belong, as I understand it, to Brenda Hampton and the WB. The other characters, and the story itself, belong to me.
Like my first attempts at 7th Heaven fanfiction roughly a year ago, this story was inspired by an episode of the show itself. There are times when one simply cannot be silent about something harmful and still face one's reflection in the mirror the next day, and this, for me, is one of those times, just as it was a year ago. Hopefully this will all make sense to you, gentle reader, when you have finished this story. Be warned that the ending, when it comes, will be intense, and if you are easily upset, you should turn back now.
I feel it is only proper to dedicate this piece to all the many fans of 7th Heaven. Though you may not think so sometimes, Ol' Hans is pulling for you. Hence this little tale.
Finally, this is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of these characters to any person, living or dead, is strictly coincidence. It is (c) 2002 by Hans the bold. All rights reserved.
ONE
* * *
It isn't supposed to be this way.
Maybe if I keep telling myself this, It'll come true. Because it has to. It has to be true, don't you see? Things can't be this way, they just can't.
It can't be her, lying there. It can't be her.
It can't be him.
It just can't.
You're here now. All of you, talking quietly, doing your jobs. I'm sitting on a chair in the kitchen and I just can't stop shaking. I want to stop, want it to all go away, want it to all just be over, want to wake up screaming because this all has to be just be a nightmare.
Because it isn't supposed to be this way.
#
You want me to talk. You want me to tell you what happened. You want to know.
My name?
Michelle.
That's my name. I'm nineteen, and that's my name.
Michelle.
I'm sorry. It's my fault. It has to be all my fault, because that's the way these things always go. It has to be something I did, something I said that wasn't right. You tell me that you don't think that's true, but it is. If I hadn't done it, if I hadn't been wrong, it never would have happened.
Stop telling me it isn't my fault!
#
Time. Here, now. Where I am. Everyone's come again, with their questions. You're with them and you have your questions too. I feel funny, though, like I'm a little lightheaded, like none of this is real.
Because maybe it isn't. Maybe I'm not really Michelle and you're not really you. Maybe the whole world isn't real, and we're all just playing a game, a big game.
It was always such a game, wasn't it?
You want to know who she is?
My best friend: Abby. We've known each other for ten years, since her family moved here to St. Louis and we met in school. We were in the second grade then and we were friends right away. And we did stuff together, too; we went to camp when we were ten and sang songs around the campfire, and we both tried out for speech club in junior high and we both like the same TV shows. We watched boys in the hallways and giggled together about them after school, and we gossiped with the other girls in school and we always stood up for each other when they gossiped about us. And when things were hard because we weren't popular or we weren't pretty enough in those days we had each other, and we helped each other, and she is my best friend.
My best friend.
She came over a lot, and I went to her house a lot. It isn't far; I could ride it on my bike in less than ten minutes. We had sleepovers and we would watch TV together.
TV. That was fun. We loved TV. We would eat popcorn and watch. A lot of it was pretty bad and gross and there was always sex and violence on it and people not respecting each other. I remember when we were younger our moms wouldn't let us watch a lot of shows because they were about drugs and stuff like that. Instead they would rent a movie and tell us to watch that, but the movies got lame after a while and so we would go back to the TV. Our parents were always tired from working too much and so they never checked on us and we could watch what we wanted, even when it was bad.
I'm sorry. This is isn't what you want to hear about, is it? You don't want to hear about how hard school is and how I wanted to be a cheerleader but I didn't make the squad and how hard it is to hear about terrorists and anthrax and gangs and drugs all the time. You don't want to hear about how much it hurts when they boys call you blobby butt and when the other girls giggle at you and your teachers don't even remember your name. But that's my life, and Abby's life too, and it sucks sometimes, you know?