this was written without being corrected by my beta, who is currently out of town. Sorry for the mistakes
Holy eyes, I never knew I'd beg down at your feet
Hold on tight, I never knew I'd know much more than this
Open sky, the wave of pain, the scent of you is bliss
Hungry eyes, they stare at me
I know, I know
Don't Go . . .
Days, weeks, months passed. Time continued to lull on, dragging his weary and broken body through a seemingly endless cycle of nothingness. No significant events to distract him, he spent most of his time thinking about her.
When Sara was still in Vegas, he knew that no matter how tragic a day was or what demons from his past had tracked him down, she would still be there. With one sweeping glance in her direction, life didn't seem as bad as it had a few seconds earlier. But now, as he thought back on the night before she left the first time, how she had acted- - her hungry sidelong glance peeking through dark lashes- - she was taunting him. It was so blatantly obvious; Sara knew she was leaving the next morning. He fell right into that "I never meant to hurt you" bullshit she had tried so hard to sell that he overlooked the undeniable.
Summertime, the taste, the scent secretes a perfume mist
Console the mind, I take it in the lips of pink I kiss
Lonely sky, the more you take the more that I give in
Holy eyes, I never knew I know, I know
Don't Go . . .
This nostalgic state that he was in happened to be occurring at 3:14; he had to get up in two hours. He knew exactly what time it was from the goddamn alarm clock beside his bed, the flashing red lights were the only light in his room. Yet again, they were the only thing he could use as an excuse for his lack of sleep and also the only distraction from his thoughts. But his recent hatred for all things electronic took over and he threw it against the wall, like the coffee pot. The device spat out all of its contents, sending gears flying across the room like a mini explosion in a last ditch effort to piss him off, mimicking the coffee pot again.
Hold on to the memory
Yeah, it's all you got
I know you'll be there to soak up blood lost
He could blame Sara all he wanted for what happened, he could try to force himself to hate her, but that wouldn't stop him from missing her. Since it was apparent that he would no longer be sleeping that night, Greg threw on a faded Judas Priest t-shirt and walked out of his bedroom. Before he knew it, he was in his guest room, which he would now always refer to as her room. The room still smelled like her. The grey-blue walls cornered him in, cloudy skies exploding with memories, forcing him to remember. He sat on the bed and leaned back, but quickly jolted upright when something poked him in the back. He looked back at the misshapen pillowcase and peered inside. Once he discovered the contents, he couldn't help but laugh- - steak knives and shoelaces. His negative thoughts about Sara's motives immediately vanished; even though he hated to admit it, she had cared. He hated thinking she cared- - it gave him hope.
That's the thing about hope; it is often an ugly, taunting monster, rearing its deceitful head at the idea of dreams crushed. Hope keeps you waiting, waiting for an oppertunity that will never come. Because with hope, there is always another chance. You spend your time thinking about that last chance until you are sure that chance will come. Guess what, kids? It never comes. Hope is just one of the world's greatest ironies: having it reassures you for so long until it festers, like a sore, and the thought that you believed in something so minuscule makes you feel like the biggest fool. Greg was now realizing that he was a fool.
Hold on to the memory
Yeah, it's all you got
I know you'll be there to soak up blood lost
Blood lost, blood loss . . .
I miss you
Countdown: one hour before he left for work. He poured himself a glass of orange juice and sat at his bar, leafing through yesterday's mail. Bills, bills, "you could win ten million dollars", and more bills. But at the bottom of his stack was an old, yellowed envelope. Looking back, he would be suprised something so seemingly harmless could deliver the news it did. He glanced at the return address, if you could call it that. John Sanders, Mexico. That was a name he hadn't heard in a very, very long time. He dropped the letter, unopened, on his counter as he rinsed out his now empty glass, dried it out and set it in the cabinet. He then headed towards the shower, but glanced over his shoulder at the letter en route to the bathroom, it glared back at him menacingly.
An hour later, he was completely dressed and ready for work when the temptation of the letter finally destroyed his willpower with the strength of a silent voice screaming from the past, wishing he would beg for forgiveness. Dear old Dad begging for mercy. But, no, he did not ask to be forgiven, he didn't throw excuses at Greg, he just spoke of a single term- - cancer.
"Good fucking riddance," Greg quietly muttered as he went back to the letter.
"Let the world know what I've done," Greg read aloud with the letter, as if speaking for his father. "Let everyone see the horror I struck on my own family.Don't let the truth die with me."
After finishing it, Greg ripped it up, trying his hardest to quash the memories rising up in him. He found it ironic that the truth was the only thing his dad wouldn't let die. He swallowed the anger, the pain that the letter brought and walked out the door to work.
Twelve hours later, his apartment was empty. The early morning light streamed through the windows, catching dust particles as they fell down, gathering on every surface. The sound of a key turning in the lock broke the peaceful silence as Greg entered and walked to his bedroom, his footsteps scattering the dust piles that took twelve hours to develop. Unable to sleep, he emerged from his bedroom at noon. As week-old pasta was nuking in the microwave, he collapsed onto his couch. Her voice was echoing in his head.
"I'm ordering Chinese, you want any?" Sara questioned as she picked up Greg's phone.
"Uh, yeah, I'll get whatever you're getting," he looked up at her from his couch.
She nodded and smiled in his direction as she placed the phone up to her ear.
"Yes, I'd like two orders of the chicken and broccoli delivered to 109 Serenity Street, apartment 314. Thanks, Bye". She turned and faced him. "He said it will be about ten minutes,"she said as she walked toward her room, leaving Greg to think how perfect she was and just how much he hated broccoli.
So, so you think you can tell
Heaven from Hell,
Blue skys from pain.
Can you tell a green field
From a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?
He turned on the TV and began flipping through the channels in search of something to drown out her voice. He stopped it on ESPN when the familiar face of former Dallas Mavericks basketball player Dirk Nowitzki, whose career had ended on that night so long ago, was staring back at him.
"I knew my life was over," the man began, his German accent thick as he was describing the events that happened over two years ago. "I honestly knew the second we hit one another that my career was over. Over the next few months, I tried to do something to myself, I tried to die. But for some reason, I was spared. I was given a second chance and I was sure as hell I wasn't going to waste it. I wasn't going to be the sad, pathetic excuse for a person I had been before, I was going to take a few risks to get back what I loved. And I did." His blue eyes danced as he continued. "The doctors say I will be able to play again very, very soon."
Greg turned off the TV. He felt sorry for the basketball player because he too, was believing in this false hope. If he really ever played again, he would never be as good as he was before, he would never be the same. Greg knew he sounded cynical, but it was the truth. The only way he would ever be back to normal was by a medical miracle. And we all know how often those occur.
But still, the words of the German stuck with him. He had been given a second chance, and, until now, Greg had been wasting his. He knew he was meant to be with Sara; he knew they needed to work out their many issues together. They were both too screwed up to live without the other.
And did they get you to trade
Your heros for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees?
Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?
And did you exchangeA walk on part in the war
For a lead role in a cage?
I guess you could say he was inspired by the basketball player, however cheesy it may sound. Because Greg would wake up early one morning the next week and buy a plane ticket to San Francisco. He would take a taxi from the airport to her apartment. He would show up at her doorstep at midnight, soaked by the rain that was pouring down. Sara would answer her door, glance down at his suitcase and grin while telling him that the spare bedroom was the last door on the left. And later that night, after the two finally said everything they had kept bottled up for so long, Greg would turn on the TV and see that the Mavericks had beaten the Lakers, thanks to forty points scored by the German All Star on his first night back.
Maybe hope wasn't complete bullshit after all.
How I wish, how I wish you were here.
We're just two lost souls
Swimming in a fish bowl,
Year after year,
Running over the same old ground.
What have we found?
The same old fears.
Wish you were here.
AN: Well, it's finally finished. I couldn't decide which song to use in this chapter, so I used both "The Hunger" by the Distillers and "Wish You Were Here" by Pink Floyd. I hope the ending wasn't too sappy, but there are enough completely angst-y stories out there. Plus, real life has enough angst.
For You: Unfortunately, our ending wasn't as happy as Sara and Greg's, but it was one hell of a ride, wasn't it? I'm hoping one day you'll stumble onto this story, read it, and find out everything I felt but never said, impossible as that may be. Most of this story is straight diary entry shit right here. But, you know, as I sit here writing this, I realize that I am finally letting go. Sorry it took so long.
Readers: I know that, one day, I'll reach my goal, I'm not worried. Thanks for sticking with me and this story.
Also, I want to thank Rainbowsnstars for beta-ing the last few chapters of this story. If only you had been doing it all along!
And Krazy, you can definitely post this on your site. And, if you want, you can have full access to my stay home series, also. But not as he slowly fell apart because that's way too bad; I'm about to delete it off of this site.