Bright Lights
By Carolyn, Carolyn984@aol.com
Disclaimer: Only the story is mine.
"Baby baby baby when all your love is gone
who will save me
From all I'm up against out in this world
Maybe maybe maybe you'll find something
thats enough to keep you
And if the bright lights don't receive you,
Would you turn yourself around and come on home?"-Matchbox twenty
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- --- Who would've guessed it would come so soon?
I figured it would be months, at least, before that dreadful day would come.
I guess I was wrong. As usual.
And you know what hurts the most? This time, there's absolutely nothing I can do about it. Nothing. At. All.
That's what I hate the most. Feeling helpless, I mean. Every other time a dilemma has come up, there has always been something I could do about it. All I had to do was think hard enough, and bam, there's the solution. All I had to do from there was just steel myself up for whatever it was, and be ready to risk my life and kick some ghostly ass. I would be victorious, somehow, every time. Someway, I would pull through. The forces of good would outweigh those of evil, and everything would be okay in the end.
Not this time, though. This time was different.
This time, everything wouldn't be okay in the end. This time, my goodwill would have absolutely no effect on the outcome.
This time, you see, you're not coming back.
I sit here on the window seat like you used to do, my thoughts completely lost in you. The sun is setting over Carmel, California, casting the landscape in a warm shade of orange. The dome of the Mission, in the distance, looks red in the fading sunlight.
Red, as if it were bleeding.
At least, that's my take on the situation. Any other night, it would be just ruby-toned to act as a beacon for, you know, lost souls or something. Beckoning them to come to the Junipero Serra Mission Academy for guidance from either Father Dominic or myself.
Not tonight, though. Tonight, the firey glow looked, to me, distinctly of blood. How ironic.
I wish I had that problem. I'd much rather be bleeding from multiple wounds and be trapped in the hospital all summer than what I feel right now. This pain is so much worse than anything anyone could physically do to me.
I can smell the pungent scent of the pine tree outside my window, but I don't really smell it at all. Everything is numb. That's why, when I climb out my window onto the porch roof, and jump off, I don't even wince as the sharp pain shoots up my ankles. I hardly even noticed it. That's also why, when I bypass the garage and the bikes I know are inside and begin to run, it doesn't bother me that my blistered feet are screaming at me from within my New Balance sneakers, screaming for me to stop. It doesn't bother me, for the two miles from my house to the mission, that the pollen and salty air causes my eyes to tear miserably, leaving my face streaked with damp rivulets.
Yeah, the salty air and pollen. Who am I kidding.
I'm sobbing by the time I get to the mission, overlooking the Pacific Ocean, aglow in deep reds and oranges in the sunset. I stop for a minute, just staring at the water, winking at me in the dusk air.
You know what would be fantastic? If you would come back.
But you won't. Not ever.
Oh, how I wish I could do something about it. But I can't. And I hate it, hate it, hate it. People like me, women of action, can't just sit idly by as their hearts get torn out of their chest and stomped on by inevitability.
Because it was just that. Inevitable. Only I never wanted to admit it.
I doubt it would be any easier if I had. All that would have done was have me start crying earlier. And I hate crying.
Although you never would've guess that by looking at me now. I never knew I had so many tears in me, to be honest with you. But there they were, tears and more tears, falling from my emerald eyes to the toffee-colored ground in front of your eternal resting place, where I am standing now.
It's funny. You were never dead to me, until now. I mean, sure, I always *knew* you were dead. . . but you were never actually dead. Not to me. To me, you were just as alive as anyone else. Now, though, you've really died. One hundred-fifty years later, you've finally died.
I should be happy for you. Really, I should. But how can I? How can I honestly smile for you, knowing that you've found your everlasting peace or whatever, when all I want to do is curl up and die right here, right next to you?
Who is going to help me now? You've always been there, saving my life more times than I can count, and for what?
I don't know if I can do this without you. . .
I'm slumped up against your headstone now. Everything hurts. It hasn't even been one day yet. You were *here*, just a few hours ago. *Here*. With me.
That makes me angry. Furious. How could you? How could you leave me like that?
Deep down, though, I know I can't be angry. Not with you. I could never be angry with you.
Only with myself. For falling in love with you.
The sun has set now, leaving me in the shadows, and I find myself scared. So scared. I'm terrified.
This is going to be my first night without you. And tomorrow, my first day. The first time since I moved here that you will not be in my life.
And I don't know what to do.
Suddenly, a figure approaches in the darkness, and even though I know it would defy all logic, my first instinct was that it was you.
It wasn't, though. Father Dominic was who it was. He walked over to me, looking down at me with understanding sadness. I jumped to my feet and threw my arms around him, sobbing helplessly into his shoulder. He let me stay there for a few moments, stroking my long hair and shushing me quietly, trying his best to comfort a pain that could never be soothed.
Finally, he broke apart. I looked into his soulful blue eyes, and I swear I saw tears in them, too.
"Come, Susannah. Let me take you home."
I wasn't in any state to argue. So I let him guide me to his car. He opened the passenger side for me, and walked around to get to the driver's side. I took a final glance at the cemetery, my whole body shaking uncontrollably, and put my hand in the pocket of my hooded sweatshirt.
Something else was in there. Something soft.
My breath caught in my throat as I drew out the white piece of cloth. How. . . how did that get there. . .?
You never gave me your handkerchief. How did it get in my pocket?
Suddenly I knew. I don't know how I knew, but I knew. And it didn't matter.
"Oh, Susannah, don't you cry for me. . ."
I could've sworn I heard you say that. I swear it. But I knew it was just my imagination. Still, I looked around anyway.
Not seeing anyone, I got into Father Dominic's car. Looking down at the cloth in my hands, I couldn't help smiling, just a little.
Because now you could really watch over me. Not just by sitting in my window seat while I slept, but really watch over me. You would always be there for me. Always.
"Thank you, Jesse. . ."
------------------------------------------------------------
©2004 by Carolyn
Carolyn984@aol.com
By Carolyn, Carolyn984@aol.com
Disclaimer: Only the story is mine.
"Baby baby baby when all your love is gone
who will save me
From all I'm up against out in this world
Maybe maybe maybe you'll find something
thats enough to keep you
And if the bright lights don't receive you,
Would you turn yourself around and come on home?"-Matchbox twenty
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- --- Who would've guessed it would come so soon?
I figured it would be months, at least, before that dreadful day would come.
I guess I was wrong. As usual.
And you know what hurts the most? This time, there's absolutely nothing I can do about it. Nothing. At. All.
That's what I hate the most. Feeling helpless, I mean. Every other time a dilemma has come up, there has always been something I could do about it. All I had to do was think hard enough, and bam, there's the solution. All I had to do from there was just steel myself up for whatever it was, and be ready to risk my life and kick some ghostly ass. I would be victorious, somehow, every time. Someway, I would pull through. The forces of good would outweigh those of evil, and everything would be okay in the end.
Not this time, though. This time was different.
This time, everything wouldn't be okay in the end. This time, my goodwill would have absolutely no effect on the outcome.
This time, you see, you're not coming back.
I sit here on the window seat like you used to do, my thoughts completely lost in you. The sun is setting over Carmel, California, casting the landscape in a warm shade of orange. The dome of the Mission, in the distance, looks red in the fading sunlight.
Red, as if it were bleeding.
At least, that's my take on the situation. Any other night, it would be just ruby-toned to act as a beacon for, you know, lost souls or something. Beckoning them to come to the Junipero Serra Mission Academy for guidance from either Father Dominic or myself.
Not tonight, though. Tonight, the firey glow looked, to me, distinctly of blood. How ironic.
I wish I had that problem. I'd much rather be bleeding from multiple wounds and be trapped in the hospital all summer than what I feel right now. This pain is so much worse than anything anyone could physically do to me.
I can smell the pungent scent of the pine tree outside my window, but I don't really smell it at all. Everything is numb. That's why, when I climb out my window onto the porch roof, and jump off, I don't even wince as the sharp pain shoots up my ankles. I hardly even noticed it. That's also why, when I bypass the garage and the bikes I know are inside and begin to run, it doesn't bother me that my blistered feet are screaming at me from within my New Balance sneakers, screaming for me to stop. It doesn't bother me, for the two miles from my house to the mission, that the pollen and salty air causes my eyes to tear miserably, leaving my face streaked with damp rivulets.
Yeah, the salty air and pollen. Who am I kidding.
I'm sobbing by the time I get to the mission, overlooking the Pacific Ocean, aglow in deep reds and oranges in the sunset. I stop for a minute, just staring at the water, winking at me in the dusk air.
You know what would be fantastic? If you would come back.
But you won't. Not ever.
Oh, how I wish I could do something about it. But I can't. And I hate it, hate it, hate it. People like me, women of action, can't just sit idly by as their hearts get torn out of their chest and stomped on by inevitability.
Because it was just that. Inevitable. Only I never wanted to admit it.
I doubt it would be any easier if I had. All that would have done was have me start crying earlier. And I hate crying.
Although you never would've guess that by looking at me now. I never knew I had so many tears in me, to be honest with you. But there they were, tears and more tears, falling from my emerald eyes to the toffee-colored ground in front of your eternal resting place, where I am standing now.
It's funny. You were never dead to me, until now. I mean, sure, I always *knew* you were dead. . . but you were never actually dead. Not to me. To me, you were just as alive as anyone else. Now, though, you've really died. One hundred-fifty years later, you've finally died.
I should be happy for you. Really, I should. But how can I? How can I honestly smile for you, knowing that you've found your everlasting peace or whatever, when all I want to do is curl up and die right here, right next to you?
Who is going to help me now? You've always been there, saving my life more times than I can count, and for what?
I don't know if I can do this without you. . .
I'm slumped up against your headstone now. Everything hurts. It hasn't even been one day yet. You were *here*, just a few hours ago. *Here*. With me.
That makes me angry. Furious. How could you? How could you leave me like that?
Deep down, though, I know I can't be angry. Not with you. I could never be angry with you.
Only with myself. For falling in love with you.
The sun has set now, leaving me in the shadows, and I find myself scared. So scared. I'm terrified.
This is going to be my first night without you. And tomorrow, my first day. The first time since I moved here that you will not be in my life.
And I don't know what to do.
Suddenly, a figure approaches in the darkness, and even though I know it would defy all logic, my first instinct was that it was you.
It wasn't, though. Father Dominic was who it was. He walked over to me, looking down at me with understanding sadness. I jumped to my feet and threw my arms around him, sobbing helplessly into his shoulder. He let me stay there for a few moments, stroking my long hair and shushing me quietly, trying his best to comfort a pain that could never be soothed.
Finally, he broke apart. I looked into his soulful blue eyes, and I swear I saw tears in them, too.
"Come, Susannah. Let me take you home."
I wasn't in any state to argue. So I let him guide me to his car. He opened the passenger side for me, and walked around to get to the driver's side. I took a final glance at the cemetery, my whole body shaking uncontrollably, and put my hand in the pocket of my hooded sweatshirt.
Something else was in there. Something soft.
My breath caught in my throat as I drew out the white piece of cloth. How. . . how did that get there. . .?
You never gave me your handkerchief. How did it get in my pocket?
Suddenly I knew. I don't know how I knew, but I knew. And it didn't matter.
"Oh, Susannah, don't you cry for me. . ."
I could've sworn I heard you say that. I swear it. But I knew it was just my imagination. Still, I looked around anyway.
Not seeing anyone, I got into Father Dominic's car. Looking down at the cloth in my hands, I couldn't help smiling, just a little.
Because now you could really watch over me. Not just by sitting in my window seat while I slept, but really watch over me. You would always be there for me. Always.
"Thank you, Jesse. . ."
------------------------------------------------------------
©2004 by Carolyn
Carolyn984@aol.com