A/N: It kind of
happened like this...
-write write write-
-e-mail to Ali (CaideSin)-
CaideSin: that was
depressing you slut D:
great and depressing
-beats you.-
if I don't see that on
immediately I will kill you.
you played my hormones!
bitch.
So I was like, "... OKAY."
-
-
It was the dawn of a new millennium.
"I'm going to be thirty," Sarah mumbled dismally. One of her her co-workers put a hand on her shoulder.
"C'mon Sarah. S'New Years, cheer up. 'Sides, you're not going to be thirty for a few months, right?" his breath, smelling of alcohol and devilled eggs, overwhelmed her and she disentangled herself from his arm, and gave him a wan smile.
"You're right," she replied, a false smile on her face. "I should cheer up. You know, I think I'm going to go home and watch a movie or something, that'll make me feel better." The man seemed to buy this explanation, and wandered back over to the refreshment table, where a secretary in a short skirt was clinging to a wineglass and laughing. Once Sarah had ditched any 'concerned' co-workers, she snuck out the back door and quickly made her way to her car.
She got home about eleven thirty. Looked around her apartment dully. It was... nice. There was a nice kitchen set, nice furniture, everything was neat and in it's proper place.
Sarah wanted to turn it all upside down and walk on the walls.
Sighing, she flopped down onto her couch, coat slung over the seat beside her. She lifted her hips somewhat so she could fit her hand in her pocket and began rummaging through it, until her fingers closed over the crisp paper. She drew it out carefully, and unfolded it.
This was what had ruined her day so thoroughly.
Many years ago, when Sarah was fifteen - not long after she'd been through the Labyrinth - her English teacher had had an excellent idea. They would all writer letters to their future selves, to be received on New Years, 2000. Sarah had, at the time, thought the idea was positively brilliant. Now, she cursed the damn teacher.
Dear Future-Sarah,
Hello from the year 1985! Right now, I'm fifteen. I live with Dad, Karen, and Toby. My best friends are Hoggle, Ludo, Sir Didymus, and Miranda Goshawk. Do you still talk with Hoggle through the mirror?
Sarah hadn't, actually, in several years.
I'm sure you do - I hope everyone is alright!
What kind of job do you have? Are you an actress? Have you gotten any big roles, yet? I got the female lead in the school play a few days ago! But I bet you remember that. Do reporters ask you about it sometimes?
No, actually. Reporters never asked her anything. After all, reporters aren't interested in yet another office drone.
What happened when you apologised to Jareth? Was he very angry? Did he say anything? Are you still enemies?
Sarah had never apologised to him. Oh, she'd meant to, a thousand times, she'd always do it 'soon'. However, nowadays, she felt that fifteen years later just really didn't count as much.
Or do you get along now?
She smirked at that last line, still recalling how she'd blushed when she'd penned it, fifteen years ago. 'Are you dating? Is he your boyfriend?' had been what was really on fifteen-year-old Sarah's mind when she'd written it. After all, he did like her, didn't he? That's what she had thought then. And she liked him, too. So the obvious progression was...
Sarah laughed mirthlessly. "Oh, how the mighty have fallen, Sarah. Fearless enough to make it through 'dangers untold and hardships unnumbered', but you still can't summon up the courage to talk to a man." She frowned, and kicked at the coffee table in front of her, frowning when she actually knocked a decorative wooden bit off. Oh well, she'd just pick up some super glue tomorrow.
Sarah skimmed through the letter, the rest of it was just typical teenage dirvel. What sort of clothes did she wear in the future? Were there flying cars? Did she ever get to go to a Pat Benatar concert?
No, she hadn't. Huh.
Vaguely, she wondered if Pat Benatar still toured. Maybe. Didn't really matter, though.
She glared at the letter, and folded it up, stuffing it back in her pocket.
Bloody hell, it was New Years. Who cared if she'd never done anything she'd wanted to in her whole damn life and was doomed to a life of normalcy.
She had wine, and ice cream. And The Breakfast Club on VHS. She was fine. She didn't need anything else.
---
At three am on New Year's day, Sarah finally dragged her self to bed, rather drunkenly. The idea of mixing ice cream and wine had not been an excellent idea, perhaps? She'd sobbed most of the way through The Breakfast Club - funny, she didn't remember it being quite so sad all the other times she'd watched it. Must have been the wine. Or the ice cream. Or hormones. Or something.
She didn't really care, crashed out on top of the comforter. All she really wanted was.. what? Something. Something warm. The new millennium was so cold.
She frowned. That didn't make any sense. She was just wearing a tank top and pajama pants now, and she was still uncomfortably hot. Maybe she'd caught something at that office party. Damned thing. Damned people.
Her face felt like it was burning, on fire, but her arms - they were freezing. She struggled with the comforter for a bit, and managed to drape it across her shoulders. Her teeth chattered and she huddled under the comforter for several minutes. Or maybe they were hours. Yes, then, she did have something. Some illness. Lovely. Everyone would think she was just hungover when she called in sick tomorrow, too. Maybe she'd just go anyways, give whatever she had to everyone else.
She stayed there for several more minutes, contemplating this, before she darted out of the bed like a rocket, making it to the toilet just in time. After nearly twenty minutes, she was just dry heaving, and finally, it was over. She fell to the floor, shaking for a moment, before she regained enough strength to crawl back into bed. She lay there for a while. It was dawn outside.
"The dawn of a new millennium," she whispered to herself.
Then she laughed. She laughed until she cried.