Fact:
1) This story was written during the 7 hours I spent at the beach fishing with my dad and brother.
2) This story happens to be a Red Goth/Stan oneshot and it's creation is all thanks to Zoshi the Confused for making me a fan.
3) This story is also written in 2nd person and features the lyrics of Chasing Cars from Snow Patrol that I added as an after thought.
4) This story was not only influenced (not inspired) by Chasing Cars, but also by Rainbow Veins by Owl City, Sorrow
by Flyleaf, and Her Diamonds by Rob Thomas.
5) Reviews/feedback/constructive criticisms are absolutely fabulous. Feel free to tell me what you think about this one, I always
appreciate it.
Roots
We'll do it all
Everything on our own
"Hey Red, your roots are showing." He says from the dark corner he's holed up in. Your lips part just enough to let a thin trail of smoke escape as you flick your long bangs nonchalantly to the side. You act like nothing matters, just like the rest of them, but somewhere inside you're shaking. An uncomfortable feeling of exposure trips up your spine and you feel like you could curl up and die.
"Are they?" You ask numbly, reaching a hand to gently touch your hair. You flinch lightly and shut your eyes angrily at yourself. You hate it when they show. You hate it unconditionally and you can't help but wonder why. Nothing makes sense anymore.
"Yeah. They are. You know, it's totally conformist to let it show."
"I know," You murmur taking a long drag on your cigarette. Beams of light fall in patches on the cold snow your situated on, cropped out by the bleachers above you. It's dark you think to yourself bleakly. It's so fucking dark. You gaze outside and see the sun hanging low in the sky above the football field teeming with players and you can't help wondering how it can possibly be shining when everything's so dark here in the shadows.
We don't need
Anything
Or anyone
"So you should redye it." It used to be that that drawling voice comforted and drove you, but now it just grinds and churns your stomach like really bad Christian rock. You hate him.
"I will," You answer in the standard goth monotone you've perfected over the years and watch as the dark mass of curls bobs up and down slightly in approval. It's his fault this is happening, you're thinking. He's changed--all of them have changed. They wouldn't know it but you do because things just aren't the same anymore. Nothing's the same anymore. You've never felt this bitter and alone before. Everything's different and it's all their fault.
Because you haven't changed, no that's not the case at all. You've never changed even when you started wearing different clothes and dying your hair. For a time you thought you had, you were sure something was different, that something had changed, but now on days like these you realize it's been the same you all along. Nothing is different, nothing has changed and it fucking sucks because you hate the real you.
The kid with red hair and pockmarks all over his face. That's what they called you. There was never any names and it was always with an air of unimportance, like you were nothing. You think that maybe they were right.
I don't quite know
How to say
How I feel
Soon enough, disdain has you glaring at the three other uncaring faces poked out of the surrounding darkness and without knowing you blame them for what happened.
You blame them for icy roads and cell phones, for stupid Nazi conformist cheerleader moms who care too much and teenagers.
You blame them for teaching you to take everything for granted and for letting things slip like water through your fingers.
And most of all you blame them for barring you from saying those three simple and stupidly cliche words.
Those three words
Are said too much
They're not enough
You never said them enough did you? They were so stupid, so pointless, so simple. How could they have ever been enough to begin with? But you know they would have sufficed. They were still wanted, still needed. That's what you're thinking in the back of your mind. You may have thought them, but you never got to say what needed to be confirmed. You wish you were able to say them, just so she would know you didn't mean it, you never really meant it, but now it's too late. You're suffering and it's all their fault.
Your hazel eyes are open and glaring at the puffs of smoke billowing up from your mouth, while you wish you could see something other than gray and black and horrible red, the three colors you once revered like the God's of the color palette. They must have changed on you too because at the thought of red, you flinch and feel sick, a painful nauseous feeling rushing straight to your insides. Breathing becomes harder and panic begins to creep up on you, filling you up until you're drowning, and there's no one there to save you.
And yet, just then, a football lands by your feet, snapping you out of your silent panic attack. As you breathe heavily through your nose, voices shout from the field before you and the sound of crunching snow fills the silence as footsteps draw closer and closer until they come to a stop in front of you.
"Hey dude, can you pass the football?", says a familiar voice that immediately has your breath quickening.
It's him. Your heart begins to pick up as well although you're really not sure why. It seems that there's a lot of things you're not sure about lately. You remember how you're supposed to hate him after he ditched and called you faggy goth kids...but now you can't help but sympathize with him.
His blue eyes fall on you and you note the honest softness to them that has you trembling in the mid-December chill, but instead of unpleasant like the other's cold gazes it almost feels nice. Like you want them on you. Like you need them on you. You watch as he pushes a few natural black bangs from his eyes and gives you an small, earnest smile gesturing with his hand. You look him over and decide that he's the luckiest boy on Earth. He doesn't have to dye his hair. He doesn't have to hide anything. He's got a nice family, he's got normal friends, he's athletic and he has decent enough grades--he's set for life. He can't possibly understand the pain you've felt over the past year. His life is simple, mundane and everything you supposedly stand against--and you want it. Bad.
Your heart starts to race as you wordlessly reach down and gather the leathery football in your pale hands, watching in awe as he takes it from you. Even better, a small stretch of lightly tanned skin along the side of his palm brushes against yours. You have no idea, but you're blushing and he's noticed it.
"...Thanks." The dark haired boy says awkwardly, not quite sure what to say towards your strange behavior. He wouldn't know it but his cheeks are flushed as well.
"God, what a douchey Britney Spears/Justin Timberlake wannabe," the chubby girl to your right mutters in the darkness as he disappears back into the light.
If I lay here
If I just lay here
Would you lie with me and just forget the world?
--
You hate being home. You can't stand how your dad and older brother can walk around and act like there's nothing wrong when it's as obvious as the empty seat beside you that everything's fucked up. The vacant seat is too empty and silently, you swear to yourself that if it's ever filled again you'll kill them. The thought surprises you because you never realized you were this fragile, that you could care so much. You never cared that much when you think back to the old days, so why now? Or was it that you always did and you just didn' t know how to show it?
You don't understand, and you want to, but you can't. Not when that chair's right beside you, so close and so fucking empty. Not now, and maybe, you think to yourself feeling frightened, not ever.
"Hey Red can you pass the salad?" Your brother asks through a mouthful of chicken parmesan. You hate it when people call you that. You wish they'd call you something else, anything but that, but as it's been proved, no matter how much you think you can change, how much you want others to forget, nothing works out.
"Whatever" You mutter, handing him the salad bowl. Your eyes dart down to the empty chair and to your brother's tired face, before you stand abruptly and leave without another word.
You don't look back at the sounds of silverware clinking against china or the defeated sighs that follow after you like ghosts of the past.
--
Forget what we're told
Before we get too old
Show me a garden that's bursting into life
You stare at your reflection in the mirror. The spare bottle of black hair dye is waiting there unopened on the sink like it has for the past week, but like the other days you have no interest in using it. Instead you're caught on how your face has grown thinner, how your eyes are a shadowy hazel rather than their usual catty green, and most of all you're entranced by the fiery red roots bleeding through the black. A feeling that you're on the verge of understanding something overcomes you, and a thought comes to mind; a thought that maybe you're no better than your dad or your stupid brother, always covering up the truth with a dark veil of ignorance and denial---that maybe you're just as bad as the rest of them, that you're just as guilty and it scares you.
You turn your face away sharply and walk away from your own reflection, but the sight of red has burned it's way into your memory. You enter your room and stand motionlessly as you take in the black on black interior and the thousands of posters lining the walls before running to window. You stay there like that for a moment, your forehead pressing up against the glass, looking desperately out at the snow flurries whipping around outside because like everything else, you can't stand your room anymore. And beside that, you can't take thinking anymore, you can't take feeling anymore. You want to run. You want to run away and forget everything. So you grab your black jacket, pull on your boots and push open the window.
The next second you're running through the snow and icy wind, the small square of light from the dining room cutting through the night as you run. You have no idea where you're going until you find yourself collapsing onto the snowy bank of Stark's Pond. Your breath is cold and quick in your throat and when you reach a hand to wipe your face it comes back warm and wet.
Let's waste time
Chasing cars
Around our heads
You don't understand what's happening, but you find yourself crying harder, because that's what's happening to you--you're crying and your knees are slowly numbing as the cold snow seeps through your jeans, but you don't care. You sniffle and sob loudly like you used to when you were a little boy except there's no one there to comfort you, not anymore. You think of the three uncaring faces you've grown to hate, of the empty seat, the sighs and clinking of silverware on china and most of all, you think of your exposed roots, the memory of them too bright and too familiar, burning it's way deeper into you. It's all so frustrating that you block them from your mind and try to focus on the warm wetness covering your cheeks and the bite of the winter winds.
Sniffling you draw yourself together, your lanky arms crossing across your legs as you huddle in the snow. It's too damn cold and as your tears plop on the snowy sand they freeze on contact. Quieting, you pick one up and stare at the tiny crystalline tear, like a diamond glittering in the moonlight. You think back to what that kid Butters said so many years ago about 'a beautiful sadness' and imagine this must be what it's like. You always thought he was full of bullshit, but now you're thinking that he's got something special in his naivety, like a wisdom you only wish you had. Sooner than later, the memory fades and you just sit there in the snow, staring up at the sky until it feels like you're going to fall into it.
"I can't stand this anymore." You murmur to the bruised sky like a secret for the stars, feeling bruised yourself. Your body's worn out, and your cheeks are frozen from crying, and you're so tired. But you can't sleep yet because then a voice breaks through your thoughts.
"Can't stand what anymore?"
You visibly jump and fall backwards into the snow and as you scramble back up, you try your best to look apathetic but it's just not working this time because you've forgotten that you have tears freezing on your cheeks and your eyeliner is smeared. You inwardly curse your existence and gently thump your forehead against your knees. This isn't fair. Why did it have to be him? Of all people, why him?
His eyes widen as he takes in the bloodshot eyes and tear stained scowl.
"Red?" He asks worriedly, quickly taking a step forward, "Dude are you okay?"
You look up at him, the snow flurrying around him and decide he looks like an angel. You've never seen anyone like that before and until right now you never believed you ever would. But tonight things are different.
I need your grace
To remind me
To find my own
"No," You answer solemnly, not bothering to make any eye contact.
"Oh," Clearly that's not the answer he was expecting but he doesn't push it. After a few moments of listening to the sound of your breathing return to normal, the dark haired boy sits down beside you to look out at the snow falling over the icy waters. The moonlight makes his skin glow and the blues of his eyes are twinkling. He looks incredible.
"You know I was thinking," He begins quietly his eyes flitting up to the stars, "maybe you shouldn't dye your hair again."
You lift your chin off your knees to stare at him and for a moment you don't know what to say. "What?"
"I heard that guy wanted you to redye your hair. I just thought that maybe you shouldn't." He shrugs his shoulders casually.
"...Why?" You ask honestly.
He smiles and answers simply, "I just like your natural color better."
"Oh."
If I lay here
If I just lay here
Would you lie with me and just forget the world?
For a while the two of you sit there in a serene silence staring at the reflection of the moon on the lake. Time flies by and each quiet second eats away at you, until you have to talk, ready to say anything to break the silence.
"It's all their fault you know," You say quickly, a burst of nervous energy rushing through you. He doesn't say anything and just looks at you in a way that makes you shiver in that good way again. You're babbling and both of you know it.
"They changed," you continue bitterly in your rush, "They're different now." A hysteria has broken your voice and it hurts--it hurts to speak.
He just smiles knowingly and reaches out to lay a hand on your shoulder. You wonder how he could possibly understand you. You barely understand you. But somehow he does. "No. No they haven't changed at all."
You stop and your eyes flash, "What? No, you're wrong. I know they've changed. I can't stand them anymore--they don't know what they're talking about. They always complain about their lives, they're always complaining. They don't even know how fucking retarded they sound. I can't stand it---I can't stand them."
"Red, they've always been like that. You didn't notice?"
"No...no they haven't," You stop and think, shaking your head fitfully before lifting your scared sartruce eyes to wise blue ones, "Have they?"
"Red, if anyones changed it's you, not them," he says quietly, "and for the better."
"No I haven't changed." You laugh bitterly to the night, a brine stinging your eyes, "I never change. I'm the same as ever. Even when I dye my hair or wear black or drink coffee I'm still the same. I can't change. I'm stuck."
Forget what we're told
Before we get too old
Show me a garden that's bursting into life
"Dude...are you crying?"
"No," you say, not realizing that yes, yes you are.
"You are.."
"Stan I don't wanna dye my hair again," you say suddenly through the tears that have started up again on their own, "I don't want to forget anymore. I don't want to forget like them." The image of the empty chair sticks out in your mind and a few more diamonds fall to the floor.
"Then don't," He answers simply. Your eyes don't leave his, searching them for an answer, but you only find that simple honesty he's always had and a humanity you've come to respect. And as you consider what he says, a veil lifts itself off your shoulders. The world is big all around you and you can see it, you can see all of it. You can see every single star dotting the sky, every tear you couldn't cry, and as you close your eyes, instead of cigarette smoke and darkness, you can see the sun, powerful and unshakable, rising over the bleak horizon of your mind like the God Himself. Light pours through you like a warmth you haven't felt in so long and your head is spinning, everything's spinning, but now you understand what you knew all along. Things begin to make sense again. Not complete sense, but some sense which is better than none.
You find yourself believing in angels named Stanley Marsh and it's like you can finally remember your mother as she used to be--smiling with bright, fiery plumes of red hair just like your own and smelling of her favorite vanilla perfume--not the pale frame hooked up to too many unidentifiable wires and tubes. You forget about blood and empty chairs and you focus on who she was before the accident. As you remember, a sadness falls over you, a sadness that breaks your heart and the forgotten heart beating subtly beside you. You miss her so much. You'd do anything to hit a rewind button so you could tell her how much you love her, how much she means to you and that you didn't mean it when you told her you hated her. You want her to hold you like she did when you were a child, and tell you everything'll be alright even though you know it'd be a lie. It's too much and you tuck your head into your knees and begin to cry, drifting far away from South Park and sorrow and bratty kids and comatose mothers to somewhere in the night sky that's waiting to suck you up into it's endless depths. You're half past Venus when a passing star catches your hand and pulls you back home, to Earth and her moon. You're more thankful than you ever thought possible.
All that I am
All that I ever was
Is here in your perfect eyes, they're all I can see
"Red, Red it's okay, it's okay. Why are you crying?" Stan is saying over and over again somewhere beside you, but you don't say anything. You just hold onto his hand tighter until you're pulling it against your chest and hugging it to your neck. It's so warm and comforting; you can even feel his pulse alive and wild beneath his skin . You wonder if it's because of you and pray that that's the case.
"I won't," You murmur against the back of his hand after a few moments. Your eyes slip shut as the tears begin to ebb away.
"Won't what?" You hear him ask in confusion.
"I'm not dying my hair. I'm not going to forget anymore."
"Oh," Stan smiles unsurely at you and you feel yourself smiling. You haven't smiled in ages. You'd forgotten how good it feels,"Okay."
"Thanks...for being here", You say and you mean it.
Stan looks surprised again but nods anyways, "Sure, I'm glad I found you."
"Yeah. Me too," You smile again weakly, thinking how true that is. Somehow, someway, he found you before you could find yourself. Maybe you're just a nobody who doesn't know a thing, but things like that, you think forgetting what you've been told, are miracles.
I don't know where
Confused about how as well
Just know that these things will never change for us at all
To this day you wear your hair a natural bright shade of red. You burned all the remnants of your goth days and repainted your room, opting for regular 'comformist' styles. You still drink coffee at ungodly hours of the night and smoke the occasional cigarette to piss your dad off but for the most part you've kept away from the dark side of the moon after the angel showed you the sun. Even though your mom finally passed away two years ago, you held strong and didn't slip away again to the shadows and it's blacks and grays. Instead of hate, death and anarchy you've discovered love, life and friendship and that's enough for you. You've had your share of bitterness, you've known death and you've walked with pain and hate, and now you simply can't find it in you to return to what you once proudly called the dark side. And now, as you look out at the frozen waters of Stark's Pond on the anniversary of your rebirth, you feel a sense of pride at how far you've come and (you smile at the thought of this) of the intense coppery roots, now grown out, reflecting in the water before you like the lay lines of your life. And you can't help but smile, because with them showing you know that no matter how far you drift, no matter how hard you try to forget, your roots will always bring you running back home and back to the black haired angel waiting for you in the snow.
If I lay here
If I just lay here
Would you lie with me and just forget the world?
-End-
End Note:
I just wanted to say that I love the goths. Seriously, they're amazing, so I'm not dissing them or anything if that's what you were thinking. It just works for the story. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this to some sort of an extent. I put some thought and effort into this and I hope it shows. Like I said, reviews are appreciated. They mean people read this, which believe me, is always cool. So hopefully you'll do your part and tell me what you thought, if you did or didn't get it, and anything else that comes to mind.
-uncmeister :)