A/N: Sorry it's taken sooo long for me to update! I'll try to update more consistently in the future, but no promises, unfortunately. Read and enjoy, and don't forget to review!
Tom
The dream came again. That dream, that mix of memory and imagination, of happiness and sadness and helplessness. That dream I wish would just go away.
It always starts the same.
The smell of cheap alcohol, loud music, people dancing. A party. A girl, a nameless girl, bringing her face closer and closer to mine until I catch a glimpse of pale skin and brown hair out of the corner of my eye.
And I run after her and the party is gone and I'm grinning and running, faster and faster, and I know that if I can just find her it will be all right. And I hear her laughing, see flashes of her smile, and I know she's near and (where is she) the sounds are changing and she's not laughing anymore, she's crying, deep heartbreaking sobs and (where is she) my arms ache to hold her, to soothe her, and the sounds are getting fainter and (where is she) suddenly she's right in front of me.
And I look down into her clear, bright eyes, tears streaming down her cheeks and I try and try to reach out, to wipe away the tears, to pull her into my arms and hold her but I can't move, I can't speak. All I can do is stand there, frozen, as she turns and walks away. Further and further until I can't hear her crying anymore, can only watch.
And then someone else appears and holds out his arms for her and she walks into them. And something terrible is happening inside me and I want to run and stomp and shout and hit something (someone) but I still can't move and then she looks up and he looks down and their lips almost touch and I have to move before I explode—
And then I wake up.
I wish I never had that dream. I wish I didn't have those memories or those feelings or anything. Usually I am very good at controlling my memories. Usually I take the ones I don't like and pack them away into a little box at the back of my mind and throw away the key.
Problem is, my subconscious is very good at finding things like thrown away keys. And my subconscious is particularly sadistic, always creating my dreams out of the memories it know will hurt me most. Damn subconscious.
After having that dream, I can't help but relive the real memories. Looking up a second too late, watching her dash away from me, unable to run after her. Finding her in someone else's arms, someone else's life.
Unbearable.
Sometimes, I have to wonder. Will I ever forget? Will I ever be able to completely move on?
I try to put her out of my mind. I try not to think about herm but every day, every hour, something reminds me of her.
No. No, no, no, I'm not going to get pulled into this again. This well-trodden path leads nowhere good.
But I'm up in the middle of the night with nothing else to do. Very well, I'll keep writing. But not about her.
I'm twenty-five now, and still have no idea what I'm going to do with my life. I finished college two years ago, taking extra time to decide on my major (Engineering), and I've been mostly working gigs with my guitar since then. I live in my own apartment, painted excruciatingly monochromatic white, practically begging fro someone to come along and paint bright, vibrant pictures…
No. Change the subject.
My friends think I'm crazy. A degree in engineering, a musical talent, this nice, big apartment… They say I'm wasting it all. I don't have a job, I never throw parties, I rarely have people over. That's because my apartment is furnished with just the bare necessities, no personal touches. And I've had a few job offers from engineering firms, but I've turned them all down for one reason or another. Anyway, my friends think something's wrong with me. They say it's like I'm waiting for something to happen, like my life here is impermanent. Can't they see that all I want is something permanent?
No. Change the subject.
I met my friends in college. They're Charlie, Davis, and Alec, and I use "friends" as a loose term. I don't have much in common with them, but I don't want to meet anyone else. All they think about is beer, girls, sports, and their jobs, in that order. One or the other of them is always trying to set me up with "some totally hot chick." Having learned my lesson, I turn them down every time.
The one time I didn't was a disaster.
The girl's name was Linnea, or Lina, or Lia, or something like that, anyway. I don't remember. Anyway, we went to a bar and had a few drinks, at which point I invited her home with me. She was a blond, or maybe a redhead, and she was an artist: I remember noticing bits of color on her hands. We slept together, and everything was fine.
Until the next morning, that is.
I woke up with the smell of oil paints and pastels surrounding me. I was not fully awake, so when soft lips touched mine, my subconscious made a logical conclusion. My hand reached out and stroked a warm cheek, pulling her face back to mine. "Rose," I whispered against her lips. "My Permanent Rose. I love you."
She jerked away from me.
At that point I entered full consciousness and realized what I had done. I put on a placating expression and made soothing noises, but she jumped off the bed and—
Well, lets just say, it got ugly.
Needless to say, I have not gone on a blind date since.
Linnea/Lina/Lia told my friends about what happened, and they have not let up on me about Rose. If she could hear some of the things they've said—
No. Change the subject.
But I can't. Pictures of her are filling my head, memories are about to explode out of my ears—
All right. Fine. I give up.
I'll talk about Rose.