Disclaimer: I don't own FLCL or anything of the sort…wish I did but I don't….I also wish I had a cookie….and I got that so I guess its ok…sorta. huggles Haruko and Mamimi plushies
The Wasp and the Cigarette
There are words that forever ring in the ears of history, many from those people who have made a standing in their lifetimes. But yet there are those, whose words will forever ring in the ears of a young boy, said by the women who would forever impact this young life insignificant in the eyes of society.
Takkun, that's what she called me even when I told her not to, that was many years ago, when the roar of a Vespa engine was fresh in my mind, when I could still spend hours upon hours under that bridge. Everything is still there, still standing where they used to be, but it has never been the same as those fateful days that completely changed my way of thinking.
That day the wasp woman left…there was that picture from the eye of a photographer that would stand seared into the wrinkles of my brain. A lone boy standing with a bass guitar atop a pile of rubbish staring up into the sky, as if to see some force that was only visible to his eye. That was the day she left, that was the day they both left. Everything I had ever truly loved had been stripped from me and taken to some far off place without me.
After that day the guitar had been put in my room against the wall, and to this day it stands unmoved, undisturbed as if to keep her memory alive even as time passed by. I have dared to touch the instrument a few times, yet it seems as if my body tells me to leave it be, and not to touch it, for fear of the dissipation of memories. Memories, that's all I have now.
Sometimes as I walk by the bridge I swear I feel a slight pain on my neck and the familiar smell of a certain brand of cigarette being smoked. Yet I always raise my hand to my neck only feeling the warmth of my own skin against the palm, and the smell quickly disappears from nostrils as swiftly as it came. Like a phantom that would only look for but a moment then turn its back and leave.
Since those days I've tried to pick up that horrible habit, but I can't stand the smell or the taste. It simply has never been the same as those days where I could sit down, then watch her swing my bat over and over again making stupid sound effects or comments. How I used to hate those words that came from her mouth, now I don't know what I wouldn't give to hear that voice again.
As I lay in my bed sometimes things come back to me, the smell of curry cooking downstairs, even a familiar smell comes back to me once in awhile, it seems to be coming from the top bunk, but whenever I check, it's simply nothing. That's the funny thing about love, it makes you think of certain things, and it activates your senses to something that's not there.
I never did decide who I wanted to be with for the rest of my life…the alien psychopath, or the dreamer who has taught me so much. I'm not shure if I want to spend my life with just one or the other, but I just want someone to come back, anyone, I've been here all alone just thinking about what could have been and what I should have done. But that wont change my situation now, because I messed up, I let my love be taken too much to one way. This leading itself to the pit of emptiness that I now dwell in, the town where nothing happens, nothing anymore that is.
This is the dedication I make to both the woman of the Vespa, and to the woman who always smelled of "Never Knows Best."