The Meaning of Life

By: Stella

Prologue

A/N: Welcome to my story.

When one grows older, life supposedly becomes more clear. For Peyton Sawyer, life goes by and she feels left in the dark. One letter manages to change that all. With the help of a old hometown, a grandmother, and a sandy colored 'mutt', Peyton begins to see the meaning of life.

This is a future fiction, most ages approximate between twenty four and twenty five for the younger, in the fifties for the adults. Some couples are undetermined and whether they should remain a couple if they are determined are still a matter at hand. You can never be sure.

Enjoy.

Disclaimer: One Tree Hill does not belong to me, nor will it ever belong to me.

Remembering never use to be a forced action. Never. The activity use to be as simple as eating pie would be, which was pretty easy for every person except those of diabetic or was against sugar. But not for Peyton Sawyer. She was the diabetic of memories. Some people could just sit there and remember the first time they got the guts to rid themselves of those stupid tricycles and go to the big kid bike. Or the first time they shinned their knees roller blading. Or the time they entered into middle school or high school, or when they got married, or when they had their first child or met their first grandchild... but memories were never simple for Peyton Sawyer. The twenty four year old woman could sit there and try with all her might, but the only thing that would flash up in her mind were plain words with no emotions attached to them.

'Tree Hill'.

Nothing but a blurry image would come to head when her ancient hometown's name came up. A town that had caused more heartache and trouble then anything else could possibly do, and it was just a simple town. But nothing twinged inside the young blonde when she tried to think about the town, absolutely nothing. The facts came up. The opinions stayed down. It was just a town she lived in and she lost in. Whenever Peyton would sit down and try to recall anything at all, it was like her television's cable cord broke off and snapped in her head. All she got were blurry staticy images. Maybe some shapeless figures as well, but nothing else. Remembering was forced and it hurt to do it. It hurt her soul and her mind and her head. She had even gotten sick one time. Just like in the past. So instead, they were just words in her head, floating around with the facts, nothing more and nothing less. 'Tree Hill', 'Jake', 'Brooke', 'Tric', 'Coke', 'Abuse', 'Jenny'.... 'Lucas'. 'Mom'.

All of it were just words. They were never memories. They would never be more then just wor--

"SAWYER!"

Peyton Sawyer jumped in her computer chair, swiveling dangerously from behind her desk that was littered with papers and a small flat screen computer. She took a heavy breath as she eyed her boss who had magically appeared from no where. Damnit. She really had to control the thinking, but she had a decent excuse this time. Specifically the pile of mail she had thrown aside quickly as her boss approached. But Mr.Stabile didn't believe in excuses, excuses did not exist in his world. She watched him as the stumpy man peered at her with a rodent like gaze above her cubicle walls. Enough about remembering. She couldn't remember and that was that Thinking of memories was just too much for her anyways. "Um.. yes, Mr.Stabile?"

"I called your name three times, Sawyer and no response! La-la land is not a daily thing here, missy! I want that links page up pronto and no more of these random visits or I am going to have to fire your scrawny little ass and send you back to the ditch you crawled from!" Mr.Stabile's rough voice grated her ears and Peyton painted on her polite smile and shrugged her thinning shoulders. No one said anything against Mr.Stabile's insults. He never spoke anything other then insults, so it gave the employees numerous times to practice on their self control. It still didn't stop from most of them hating him. Peyton was a soul believer in dispeasing the stumpy boss. "Yes, Mr.Stabile. It'll be up pronto" She turned as if to work straight away on the links page as she had promised, fingers trailing to her keyboard. Her miraculous job as a web designer was perfect for her. It kept her mind busy, far away from anything that resembled a broken television. It stopped her from thinking of things that should be left alone.

Her job was good for her. Unlike the pile of mail that she had thrown alongside her weathered keyboard.

Without even thinking, Peyton swerved in her chair, away from the keyboard as soon as she heard Mr.Stabile's loud footfalls thump down another cubicle to spread his hellish joy. As much as she enjoyed her job in computer graphics, it was hell on her mental mind. What was left of it anyways. With the lack of proper people in the job, tearing away at her, it just almost drove her into insanity. Almost. And she never got paid the right amount because her education had gone down the drain and she had only managed to achieve this rank by pure talent and luck... she had ran away after all and... her mind fuzzed out as she tried to remember about running away and just took a deep breath again. All she had to know was that her situation now was so much better then before. Even if she couldn't really remember the situation before. But she did recall being sick a lot. Peyton never got sick anymore. And being sick was bad. As well as thinking about the past.

Yet, her eyes softly turned to the roll of mail she had pulled from her mailbox outside her apartment building. It had been weird. Peyton recalled awakening in her measly little home, her stray cat, Vincent, curled into his little runt ball beside her. The apartment was quaint and small, the perfect size for her and her thinning self and her runt of a cat, Vincent. It had been hell to find, but when she did, Peyton hardly ever left it. It was perfect really, even if it was sort of pathetic for a almost thirty year old woman. She had a steady job, she had a steady life, she could have gotten a better home. It was just this home of hers just never seemed permanent, no matter how perfect it was. But for now it was the best thing compared to anything else she could have and she had to enjoy it because it was her choice. Peyton was the one who ran away. She had chickened out. She was the one who gave herself the small apartment, the limited wardrobe, and the Boston life. par par Peyton remembered, with thankful clarity, waking up in her mattress, curled in her only sin, her yellow chenille blanket and wandering out to snatch the roll of mail. On top was the thick and hideous envelope. She could remember simple things from this morning or a few months after her run away when things slowly became more realistic and more humane. But the envelope was the thing that forced the fuzzy memories of the past that were beyond normality and made her ill.

She wished she could have remembered something from her past like it had happened yesterday though, as dreadful as it may seem. But all that came to mind were those amazingly fuzzy images and fear, the fear of being alone, the fear of being touched, the fear of losing love... it had been horrible. But she'd rather have the memories, then a blank mind, even if they were horrible memories. Peyton had known she had packed up whatever she had owned at only the tender age of eighteen and ran from Tree Hill, that beloved hometown of hers, to what she hoped would be better places. But even after she had ran away, her memories were hard to build up. She couldn't recall anything when she had come into the Boston train station with nothing but a duffel bag of random assortments and a few hundred dollars in her pockets. She could only recall a certain favor for computers and that the thumb ring, the one on her right hand that had one diamond star and random swirls, was important to her. Otherwise, Peyton felt like she was entirely different person.

But there were certain things that nudged the then eighteen year old to recall of a life she had ran from. Like drawing or certain colors. Peyton had this feeling, in the tips of her fingers, that she could draw, but she wouldn't dare touch a pencil to a paper to do that. Just the thought of it made her stomach turn and her throat tighten. She grew sick every time she thought of looking at artwork, or of having to do anything with artwork that wasn't computer created. Even that one time when she had walked leisurely through a department store and the wretched smell of paint filled her senses. She had thrown up all night because of that. She had figured that drawing had been a big part of a life she couldn't remember well.

Or like listening to oldies music. Rock 'n' Roll especially. Peyton never listened to music anymore. Or watching basketball. For some frightening reasoning, basketball was the devil to her. She avoided it like the black plague and she had this inconvenient shudder every time she'd come across it. She clicked basketball with the names 'Lucas' and 'Nathan', those pesky words floating in her head instead of memories, but just the words in her head did no good. Seeing was what killed her. Peyton saw basketball and she flinched. She watched a artist do his job and she shuddered. She'd walk into a vintage shop, see a stack of records, and want to sob. It hurt.

And it hurt young Peyton when she looked at the stack of letters, positioned just askew beside her keyboard.

Peyton took another heaving breath, crossing her jean clad legs. Her wardrobe had decreased since her run away from Tree Hill, having only taken stupidly what she could carry in one duffel bag. Everything else in her closet she had bought of her own paycheck, and that left her with very old and vintage clothes. Good Will was a lot better then many people thought. A few faded and thin jeans and maybe a scatter of old band shirts from the past and her comforting jean jacket were good enough for her now a days. Today it was a pair of faded black jeans, a tank top with the sex pistols over the chest and her old and ratted jean jacket, hugging her with comfort. She needed the hugs, especially with the glare of the mail starring up at her. Especially at the first letter at the top.

Brushing aside some unruly blonde curls, Peyton felt her hands wander of their own accord to the pile. Right on top of the pile was a thick brown envelope, the ugliest kind that can possibly be made. It had some stains on it, she saw, and about four different stamps, all of them famous singers. Elvis, John Lennon, Billy Joel, and Barry Manilow. The row of singers, just starring at her. Demanding her. She could hear Elvis southern accent commanding her to open it. Her fingers wavered. She really didn't want to. Peyton wanted to pick it up, rip it to shreds and throw it away, laughing in the great singers shredded faces. But something inside her clutched at her senses and that evil Peyton that lived inside her and she didn't throw it away. She was scared, but she couldn't throw it away.

But those stamps, the hideous envelope... that wasn't what scared Peyton. Without even thinking, the twenty four year old woman unwrapped the thick envelope from the pile of other useless mail and looked down, her heart suddenly thumping wildly against her ribcage. It hadn't been the row of artists that scared the hell out of Peyton Sawyer. It wasn't the ugly envelope that ruined her day. Not even the addressed part, her name scribbled out in rushed green ink, frightened her. It was the return address that made her gulp deeply and want to cry.

'Minnie Sawyer.'

The name sent goosebumps through her. Right beneath it, the address gleamed evilly, as if taunting her throbbing head. 'Tree Hill, North Carolina'. Peyton turned the envelope in her hand, trying to rip her eyes from it. She starred at her thin fingers, at the simple ring on her pinky that she couldn't remember, but it was all a lost cause. Her eyes skimmed right back up to the envelope and her blue eyes pierced it. This would have been a great time to be Superman. X-ray vision might have been helpful.

There could have been a lot of things in this letter. Things about those words in her head. Things to make her sick again. Peyton hated being sick. 'Tree Hill', her old hometown, could be in this envelope. 'Brooke', a best friend, could be locked in this brown wrapped paper. 'Lucas' and 'Nathan' , old and forgotten flames, could be buried deep in there. 'Karen', 'Keith', 'Dan', 'Jake', 'Rick', 'Coke', 'Anna'... they could all be stuck in this letter. But Peyton had this deepening sense inside her, one that churned her stomach and made her want to never see the sunlight again, that told her that it wasn't about those useless words. There could be something else in that envelope.

Her grandmother could be in this envelope.

If this story made no sense to you, then to be put very simply, Peyton ran away from Tree Hill and everything within that town to California. Why or how, she can not recall because her memory is scarred with her mental being. The letter she received is from a grandmother.

Please read and review, so I am aware whether this idea is worth continuing or not. Thank you! The next chapter shall be up shortly.

Stella