I really like this story guys, its currently one of my distinguished pride and joys. I promise you it will need some patience and maybe its not your thing but I certainly enjoy this genre and I think it puts a great twist on the normal "fancified" and "untragic" love between the two best friends we love so much. So hopefully you give this the time of day like with YLIEW and plz plz plz review and tell me if this is worth your time and my putting it up! THANK YOU SO MUCH!
Thinking. That's what Lily spent many a morning indulging herself in, swallowing her thoughts with mugs of coffee and browsing the expanses of her barren landscape. She rocked back in her porch chair, rocking, breathing, and sipping in time with the wind. Sometimes, when deep contemplation became lost in the nostalgia of her memories, she was forced to endure her self-inflicted punishment of past-life. Memory was the haunting reminder that life could never be perfect. And the world made it clear she was never meant to forget.
The way the gentle breeze caressed her face in the manner of just affection and how the birds called his name in the mocking tones of their joyousness. The dirt beneath the yellowing grass was identical to the chocolate of his eyes, and the unkempt curl of her mangled garden was the state of his uncombed locks. And the sun's beating shine that poured fervent warmth on her face gave the same glow of his smile when his heart fluttered in happiness.
No, she was never allowed the satisfaction of forgetting. Instead, she mourned in the embrace of her favorite tree. It held her at night when she was restless, it held her at day when she was hurt, and it held her whenever she needed comfort, just as he had. And if she dreamed hard enough of him, the great Oak took in his rugged scent. The branches grew soft like his sturdy arms. And in its deepest heart- which she refused to admit was fictitious- it bloomed an even greater love for her. But never more than his.
She sighed, unfolded her legs, and journeyed into her house. There was no panacea for the illness she suffered. There was hardly a substance bold enough to douse the flames that engulfed her stinging heart. She sighed, pointedly, and reached for her bottle of Anti-Depressants. Today would be a difficult day to overcome fatal temptations. She had forecasted the sadness of the day when she awoke with discomfort in her bones, and had confirmed this notion by dwelling on wrong memories.
Everything was reminding her of him. It was as though the icy limbs of death were determined to pull her under the lines of consciousness. Even as she swallowed the heavy tablets, she could remember a time when she couldn't recall the feelings of sadness. Now, she needed the temporary buzz of artificial happiness, just to keep herself alive. With a roll of her eyes she took her daily cocktail of numbing meds, and began to occupy herself with the duties of home and work.
Her house was not unpleasant, but neither did it boast an exaggeration of color or design. It looked lived in by its accessories, but uninviting to company. The walls were frameless, without wall paper, and in the sobering color of a dull white. Most of the furniture was effortlessly picked, therefore mismatching, and served only the purpose of necessity.
The outside of her home was sickly. The brick was battered and weathered and chipped in many places. She paid little to no attention to any greenery on her lot, save the precious beauty of her sole Oak tree. Squeezed in a hidden corner, there was a small garden packed with withering roses. In a pleasant past, she once grew roses near perfect. But when her heart was broken, her green thumb for love was retired. Yet, as she couldn't bring her heart to rid of him, she couldn't bring her hands to rid of the dying flora. So they remained as another tangible memory.
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The rain tapped impatiently on the windows. The lightning ripped through dark seams of sky, its fingers white with fury. An earsplitting crack of thunder shook through the house, a last futile attempt to wake the thrashing blonde. With the screams of heaven she bolted upright, wide-eyed, finally freed from her drug-induced slumber.
She tried, in the deliriousness of rising, to shake the remains of her dream. He had been in sight, dressed as handsome as the day she fell for him, and yet he was simply a silhouette that could not be reached or attained. She ran and ran for him, and cried and cried and woke tear-stained and whimpering. With every tear came the feeling of being pathetic and weak. It aggravated her and she focused her gaze on the window for distraction.
The winds seemed to slow, and they gently rocked the house, singing lullabies in their whistles. The storm had come to awaken her, like a mother to wake her sleepless child mid-nightmare. Just in time it saved her from venturing into the details of her past. Nature cared for her like no one else. After all, no one had even contacted her since the loss of his heart.
After willing her legs to move, she showered, ate, and took her daily position before her lot. She was unashamed to claim ownership for the uncared-for mess of a lawn. It was her way of saying stay away from my yard. And as she sat, coffee in hand, rocking in her chair, she knew that her subtle alluding had fulfilled its purpose. That is, before two little shaggy headed boys ran onto her lot, mashing hearty holes in her unstable grass.