He's never hated the color black as much as he does in this single moment. It's everywhere, adorning everything and he knows (because he knew her better than she ever did) that she would hate this. She would hate the black and the sad faces. She was always happiest when things were moving, pulsing, alive (but now she's dead and what she wants just doesn't seem to matter anymore).
He searches for her best friend and when he finally spots her, he's not surprised to see that her cheeks remain pale and unsalted. She seems to be in denial but he thinks she cries at night (because he can see the pain in her eyes and so he knows that she knows) and by the way she's clenching her fists he knows she's fighting to stay strong. He looks away (because he doesn't know how to handle her like this) and looks up.
The sky is grey and it hasn't rained yet but he knows it will (and somehow he just thinks that this would make her laugh) and he wishes it would just come down and wash away the black (because he just can't seem to make the connection between her and death) and because he needs to forget. The preacher starts to talk and he wants to scream because he doesn't (didn't) know her and he's got her all wrong. She was more than a daughter, a sister, a friend (she was his friend and somehow it makes it all different) but he chokes back his words and closes his eyes a little bit tighter.
Finally it's done and everybody's walking away but he can't. Can't stop staring at the bright white coffin surrounded by all that muddy earth (and it looks so wrong and he knows, knows this isn't where she's supposed to be) and if feels as if the air in his lungs is slowly being sucked out and he's just left with this giant gaping hole.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a flash of blond hair and he immediately whips his head towards her. She looks startled for a second but then her face settles back into an indifferent mask and he hates her (hates her for living and breathing when she isn't) then the guilt begins to tear at his gut but he welcomes it (anything to relieve him from remembering).
He takes a step towards her and she seems to flinch and he's not sure what to do (she was what connected them and now she's gone) and his mouth opens before it closes again. She doesn't say anything and instead she just stares (with those blue eyes that he knows so well but they're all wrong now) straight ahead, almost past him. "She loved you, you know? In her own way, she loved you," her whisper is broken but firm and it throws him off. He simply nods.
"I'm, I'm uh, sorry," he tries to comfort her but he's angry (because she didn't deserve her but she got her anyways) and he thinks that it's not fair how he's focusing all of his hurt on the poor blond in front of him that really has nothing to do with it. It starts to drizzle now and her long blond curls seem to glow in the sea of blackness and grey. It looks like a halo (and isn't that ironic? Or maybe just cruel) but it's like seeing light after years (or hours) of darkness.
His lips are crashing on hers and her hands are in his hair. He's shoving her against a tree and she's tugging just a little too hard (but they're both so broken and this pain hurts so much less than the other one) and there's nothing right about this (it's so very wrong wrong wrong) but for once in his life, he doesn't give a shit.
She pulls away gasping and she won't meet her eyes. He wants to slam her back into the tree and take what he so desperately needs but he's never been that guy. He tries to control his ragged breaths but his head is spinning and he no longer knows up from down.
"Not here," she whispers (and he doesn't think he'll ever get used to such a soft voice coming from her) and then she's dragging him away. They stumble all the way back to his apartment (his mother won't be home because she's still at the funeral, where he's supposed to be) and as he trips in front of his door he looks at the one across from it.
He can see her there, on the couch, in the kitchen, random dancing and he's choking all over again. She follows his gaze and she must see it too because suddenly her hands are desperately clutching onto his face and they're being melded together. They fall into his apartment and then through his room and finally on his bed.
They're rough and unforgiving (and it's so harsh and it somehow feels right that way). He pretends not to notice as tears slip down her cheeks and she pretends not hear the name he utters. It's sweaty and her nails dig into his skin until blood seeps from underneath them (it's not beautiful or loving and all he can hear is skin breaking skin). Then she's pulling on her clothes and slipping out the door. And he knows that it's wrong and he shouldn't have done that.
(but he'll do anything to hold onto a piece of her)
His mother lets him skip a week of school before she finally drags him out of bed. He doesn't want to move (doesn't want to breath, doesn't want to live) and for one full week she didn't make him. She set food by his bed and bit her lip in a way that lets him know his pain is written clearly across his face. She doesn't talk and she doesn't pry and she doesn't insist that he do more than scramble the food in front of her. For a week anyways.
But then she's back to her pushing, prodding self. She tells him that he needs to move on and there are words but they seem to melt around him and never make it to the part where he actually processes the meaning of noises she's making. He lets himself fall out of bed and get ready (because he knows that this is what he's supposed to do and somehow that makes it right).
He can feel himself crawling through the motions and he's not entirely sure what he's doing (its automatic but it still seems to hurt all the same). His mother is looking at him with worried eyes and visions of needles and colorful pills swim in front of him (but it just doesn't seem to matter anymore, nothing seems to matter anymore) and he manages a weak smile. She smiles back and the effort seems to be enough for her.
Then he's stumbling through the giant school doors. Everybody goes quiet and it just seems to make it all louder (she used to always say silence was the loudest sound and he never really understood until now) and there are so many eyes on him. He wonders if he should smile and wave and act just fucking dandy or if he's supposed to burst into tears and he wonders what his best friends would do. (but then he remembers that one of them is dead and suddenly he can't seem to breathe)
Then he spots it. It's her locker, only it's not. There are pictures and drawings and notes. It's like a fucking shrine and he hates them (because they didn't know her like he did and they can't possibly understand) and his fists clench and his vision spins. He stands completely still for a moment, trying to regain control but it's slipping and he's crumbling and he just wants her back (but she's never coming back and this is all utterly wrong).
He stumbles towards the lockers and pretends that he's not tripping on himself and that his breathing isn't so ragged and rough. He can see concerned eyes peering from every corner and he knows they mean well but he wants to scream at them to back the fuck off please but he doesn't think making a scene will help his cause.
He reaches her locker and he gently peels off the pictures and the letters (because they didn't know her and this is all just so wrong wrong wrong). He can feel eyes widening and mouths dropping but he's not quite sure why because he's doing it gently enough not to rip anything. He finally collects all the letters and the pictures and he contemplates throwing it all away but then there's a flash of red beside him.
"Freddie," its Wendy. Her voice is gentle, as if she's afraid of breaking him (but you can't break what's already broken, now can you?) and her hand gently grabs his arm. He looks down and their eyes meet and she's searching for something (but he can't remember what).
"Hey," he says it casually. As if the last time they met wasn't at her funeral (as if everything is okay). He realizes that she's trembling. Her nails are digging into his skin and he can see little drops of blood ooze out around her fingers but she doesn't seem to notice. Her hand is shaking so badly that his arm is beginning to vibrate. He waits for her to say something, anything to make this real (to keep the tears from falling from her eyes).
"Don't," tears slip out of her eyes as she says this and she's taking all the pictures and letters from his hands (wrote and taken by those people that didn't know her) and he can tell that she's choking back her sobs, "Don't do this. Not to yourself. Or anybody else. Just don't."
He's confused, she's talking in riddles, and he just doesn't have the energy to figure out girl-speak right now. He watches as she angrily begins smacking the pictures and letters back on the locker but she doesn't have any tape and she bursts into tears as they fall around her feet. She sinks down to the ground and he doesn't know what to do. He thinks he should comfort her (but he feels so empty and hallow and there's no words pretty enough to chase away these truths) so he simply sits next to her.
She clutches onto him once again and the letters and pictures surround him and taunt him (because they didn't know her but in the end that doesn't really matter, does it?). People loved her, (even if they didn't know her) she was like a flame and people drew to her like moths (and now she's gone but he's still burning and it doesn't make sense) and now they're left here to go on without her.
And really this is just so fucking typical. She creates this mess and he's left to clean it up and deal with the consequences and it's just not fair. Wendy sobs and whimpers and he listens and tries not to suffocate from the overpowering smell of her that seems to linger. She finally starts to breath at a normal pace and they sit in their wreckage.
"I'm sorry, I should be comforting you," she sniffles in an attempt at a laugh because she's trying to clear the air (but her smell is still here and he just can't let go) and he can feel her eyes on him again but he refuses to look over, "I'm sorry," she repeats. He knows that she's waiting for him to say something. Anything really. To make it better and right (but nothing will ever be right again) so he lets the silence engulf them, "I know, I mean everybody knew, you know. That you, uh, that you loved her. And we were waiting. You know, for her to realize she loved you too and… and now you'll never get that, will you? You'll never get that and she'll never get that and it's just, it's just not fair."
At that she breaks into a fresh round of tears. And he thinks it was the least comforting speech he's gotten since her death (but it's the most real and because of that he knows it would've been her favorite) and it's his favorite because he doesn't have to pretend that it meant anything and that it makes anything better (because nothing ever does).
He realizes the hallway has been empty for quite some time, but he waits for Wendy to finish again before getting up and floating to his class. He walks in and all eyes are on him and the teacher doesn't say anything (he's thirty minutes late and they don't care and he knows that she'd use this to her advantage). He continues on with the lesson and eventually the students follow suit.
He, however, is in a daze. The teachers don't call him out on it and it wouldn't matter if they would (because for the first time in forever he doesn't give a shit) and he focuses on avoiding her (because they were best friends but now one of them is dead and it just seems wrong for them to be together without her).
It's finally time to go home but he doesn't rush to get out (because it's the same thing with just a different background) and when he finally is opening the door to his home, he avoids the door across from him (he can't bear to remember, not right now). His mother is waiting and she's questioning him and he's answering. When she's finally done he slips into his room. He crawls into his bed and let's his eyes wander across the ceiling and it's like he never even left. He pushes down the lump in his throat because it won't help to cry.
(because crying doesn't change anything and it's never going to be okay again)
It's late when she comes. The sun has set (he watches as the room turns red and all he can see is the blood sputtering from her pretty pink lips) and night has fallen upon them. He never was a night person. Never took comfort in the way that the blackness swallowed him whole. He'd always found it a little scary, a little empty. But now it's like a security blanket, coming to take away all the dirty things the light shows and it's the only time he ever really feels at peace anymore.
He hears her on the fire escape and then she's gracefully perched on his windowsill. The moonlight hits her hair and it glows again and he's immediately reminded of the funeral and he's beginning to think that maybe she is his angel (his second chance) because she knew her better than anybody and that has to count for something.
The scene is a little too familiar and he begins to chuckle at the absurdity of it all when it hits him that she's here because she's dead and then the laugh turns into a sob. He chokes on the way it bubbles up so quickly, looking for release, and her eyebrows raise in alarm as a strangled whimper escapes. But he can't cry, not with her, never with her and it's all wrong all over again.
She moves from the windowsill to the edge of his bed and it's a little awkward because he's never seen her this timid before. She's playing with the strands of her silky blond hair and he pushes himself up a little farther.
"Hey," his voice sounds weary and he's immediately struck with how old he feels. It's as if he's lived a hundred years in every moment that she's been gone (but it makes sense because he lived for her and now time stretches endlessly with no purpose).
"Hi," her voice is quiet too and she absentmindedly begins to pick and unravel a thread from his sheet. He watches as her slender fingers delicately destroy the woven material until all that's left is string. They're silent and the moon washes over them and he knows why she's here. It's the same reason he lets her stay.
It's wrong and immoral and it's about forgetting and remembering. It doesn't make sense, but it doesn't need to because there is nothing logical in these moments, it's all about feeling (and he thinks that she would be proud and he wants to stop remembering but he can't bear to forget). It's like a limbo for them. If they forget they lose her but if they remember they're only haunted by what they've lost.
He's not sure who made the first move, just that they were suddenly joined. She's small beneath him and he knows he's crushing her but he doesn't stop (because this all so very wrong) and her nails break into his skin and leave crescent shaped scars all over his back. He doesn't dare close his eyes (because then he'll feel and then he'll know how this is all wrong wrong wrong) and she doesn't dare look into them. He knows that this should be different. He knows that somehow the eyes and hair and everything are wrong (because she's not her) and he doesn't know how to fix it.
She smells all wrong. She smells like vanilla and its so cliché and unoriginal and it's not at all what he expected (he expected to her smell like coconuts and lime, he expected her to smell alive, he expected her to smell like the girl buried six feet under). She doesn't cry but on several occasions she whimpers, he doesn't stop because he knows it's not about him. He whispers another name again because that's what this is all really about.
Then she's slipping away and pulling on her clothes. She doesn't smile and neither does he and she slithers out with a simple nod and a graceful hop out to the window and onto the fire escape. He realizes that she'll have to walk all the way to her house but he can't summon the energy to feel worried (he realizes that all of this emptiness is turning him into a little bit of a prick and then he knows why all the bad boys have such colorful pasts).
(They break each other a little more each time but it's really the only way to feel whole)
It's a week later when he sees Spencer for the first time. He's walking up the stairs when he spots the older man clumsily clumping down them and for a moment he feels the overwhelming urge to flee but then their eyes lock and he's paralyzed. The air seems to tighten around them and it's so heavy that his lungs feel ready to give in.
He looks older. Older and sadder. His hair flops around his face and the fringe covers his eyes (and he gets it because nothing matters anymore and trivial things like hair just don't mean anything). There's little frown lines around his mouth and stubble covers his whole jaw. His clothes are wrinkly and it's as if he hasn't changed in a while. But most of all it's his eyes. They look a little emptier (there's no room for childlike innocence in the face of tragedy) and they're haunted by the same thing that Freddie knows only all too well.
"Hey Freddie," his voice is falsely cheerful (and he remembers the funeral and how Spencer cried but how he never really broke and he wonders if he's trying to pretend the mess away). Spencer's lips stretch in a way that's supposed to be a smile but Freddie knows him and this, this is all wrong. There's no joy in his eyes anymore. Spencer's lips crack at the effort and blood spills out. His hand reaches up and touches it, as if surprised. Freddie pretends it's not happening because it seems to be the way things are done here.
"Hey Spence. How are you?" and it's a stupid question and he knows it (he knows because every time somebody asked him, he had to resist the urge to pummel their face in). He lets out a chuckle that sounds too bitter for somebody so young but he can't stop it (the hate and anger seep into his veins and poison his entire body).
"I'm fine," Spencer says it so automatically that Freddie knows it's a lie but he'd know anyways because it's the same one he tells himself, "Do you, uh, would you like to come over? It's weird, you know, not uh, having you around all the time anymore."
Freddie nods and follows him back up the stairs but the words not mentioned hang between them. Neither of them mention that it's not just him not there anymore (they're not strong enough to remember out loud). He follows him through the door and his brain seems to completely shut at the sight before him.
It's all the same. Completely and utterly the same as the last time he was there. Only the last time he was here, so was she. She was sitting on the couch in front of him, laughing her ass off because it was one of her favorite things to do. But it seems all wrong now. It looks exactly like it has all this time but there's a bitter taste to the air, like its held devastation and in so many ways it has.
He wonders why he's so surprised, he's not quite sure what he expected. Only not this, not something so normal. It throws him off and sucks him in and all he can see is her. See her, feel her, hear her (and he can't breathe because it's like he's losing her all over again) and he can't handle it.
"I've got to go," he practically screams and his control is crumbling down right before his eyes. He's slipping and falling and once he hits bottom, he's not quite sure if he'll be able to pull himself back up. He's tripping over himself, trying to escape (to forget, to remember, and everything is blurring now).
Then there's a hand gripping his arm, "Freddie, wait. Please," and its Spencer and he sounds so broken (he is broken, it's written in his eyes) and he can't handle it. Can't watch as everything falls to pieces. Can't stand there as the chaos tears him apart and the destruction seeps into his veins. He rips his arms away from Spencer's strong grasp and flings himself back into the hall.
He bursts into his own apartment and the wall shakes as the door slams. The please echoes in his head and pulses through his blood (and it's just one more thing that haunts him). His mother is looking at him with concerned eyes and she's reaching for him (he thinks he'll crumble if she touches him) and he darts away from her fingertips. He closes his bedroom door and lets him sink underneath the sheets on his bed. His shoes are still on and he remembers how at one time his mother would have had a complete mental meltdown about it but now he can hear her hover at his door until she gives in and her footsteps fade away.
(he always pushes away the people he needs)
She comes again at sunset. He hates seeing her sit on the fire escape because it's just a reminder of how everything is the same even as his whole world crumbles into pieces. She's quiet because they're always quiet when they're together now (and he remembers when he used to run from her screaming).
She's wearing a pretty skirt but the torn hoodie doesn't match and he knows it's not hers. She picks at the sleeves and he watches as she slowly tears the hole bigger one thread at a time. He can tell by her eyes that she knows about what happened with him and Spencer earlier and he waits for her to say something, anything about it.
"So I, uh, I heard about what happened with Spencer today," she says it as nonchalant as she can manage and continues unraveling her sleeve (and it seems to be the only thing she's good at, unraveling fabric, unraveling his life). He wants to laugh (really he wants to cry but he refuses to acknowledge that) but it dies somewhere in his throat.
"Shay tell you?" and the name feels so foreign on his lips because they never really were on a last name basis. But everything is different now and it's just one more thing to add to the ever growing list of changes.
"Yeah, Shay told me," she spits the word out like venom and her eyes are flashing. He can feel the anger radiating off her small frame and she's angry so very angry (and he knows why but he's going to pretend he doesn't) and it's the most familiar feeling in the world.
It's more familiar than her sitting on the fire escape or than Spencer or than his mother's sterile house. He's suddenly being thrown back to a different time where this kind of rage was commonplace (when she was alive) and just like that, he needs to have her.
He's crushing her into him and in a way it's all new. His lips are frantic and he's smothering her but somehow he's being a little gentler all at the same time. It's a little bit more raw and real than it's ever been before (and he can almost feel her) and she's clutching onto him a little bit tighter.
It's different this time. Somehow harder and softer and faster and slower (and it's a little bit more real) and the touches are frantic and desperate and seeking (they can feel her now). There is want and need and love (because they loved her and somehow it strings them together).
She cries harder and he whispers the wrong name frantically and repetitively because this is the closest they're ever going to be able to get to her. When it's over she doesn't get up right away and he lets her snuggle into his arm. They both know that this is the last time. Neither of them sleep or talk and the moon washes over them and they don't move because they need this to last as long as possible.
When the sun begins to peek in, she gathers her clothes and slowly puts them back on. When she's fully dressed she stands over him and their eyes meet. This is goodbye and there's nothing left after this. She smiles and he smiles back but doesn't dare say anything as the tears fall from her eyes. Then she's turning around and out the fire escape and just like that, she's gone (and isn't that oh so familiar?).
He can feel a little more of himself break before it all goes numb again. Because they're done and she's gone (and she's gone) and it was never supposed to end like this. He wants the night back because maybe than he can pretend a little longer (but he knows they can't). He can never go back to her.
(because that was the closest they'd ever get to her and now she's gone for good)
It's drizzling again (and he can see blond halos surrounding him) and he wonders if the whole world is crying for her or just him. Her grave is filled with pretty flowers but they're all wrong (because they didn't know her). The roses are too cliché, the daisies too ordinary, the lilies too pure. He doesn't bring flowers because she knows that she'd never really appreciate them and in the end it was always about what she wanted.
He's tracing the elegant script on the cold stone when he finally sees her. He wants to flee (he's been avoiding her for so long) but he knows that than she'd know that he'd been avoiding her (as if she hasn't figured it out) and he thinks that maybe it's time to face her.
"Hi Freddie," she sits next to him quietly and for a moment it's easy to pretend that everything is back to normal (but there's too much sadness in her voice and a third of their trio is missing so it's still all wrong).
"Hey," its one word but it's the first one he's said to her since the funeral and it seems to unlock whatever she'd been holding back. Tears flow heavily down her cheeks and her mascara comes with it. Her porcelain skin is being smeared with black and his chest feels so very hallow.
"Why do you keep avoiding me?" her voice is so desperate and hurt (and when he looks at her it's as if he's looking at someone so much younger than himself, somebody who he should be protecting) and guilt gnaws at his stomach (and it's the most human thing he's felt since that night).
"Because you make it real," it's simple but true and he wishes that he could lie to her to save her from cruel truths. But he's so tired and he can't protect her anymore than he can save himself. She nods like she understands.
"I get that, but I need you," their eyes meet and he knows that this is the most vulnerable she's ever been and he hates himself for shattering her this way.
"I'm sorry. I'm kind of a mess right now, I don't think I'd be much help," he tries to laugh but it comes out too hard and bitter. It's just one more good intention put to waste and it's like he's letting her down all over again. He wants to make things better but the more he seems to try the messier it seems to get.
"I'm kind of a mess too. I didn't need you to be strong, I needed you to be there," her soft voice is full of conviction and emotion and he realizes that maybe she's stronger than he is. Maybe he was the one that needed her and he was just too scared to go down that road.
"I'm sorry," the unspoken words seem to suspend into the air but then she nods and everything seems to get a little bit lighter. He feels like he's finally breathing again for the first time since she died and he wonders why he didn't do this sooner. But then again he knows that he just wasn't really ready (he wasn't ready to heal, wasn't ready to let go) and in so many ways he knows that he's still not ready.
"It's okay. You're not supposed to be perfect. Just be there for me now, okay?" she looks over at him again and he nods, so she continues, "I want to be there for you too, you know. And what you're doing, it's not healthy."
"What's not healthy?" because she could be talking about so many different things. She could be talking about his late nights or the way he doesn't seem to breathe or feel. She could be talking about how he lets his life slip through his fingers or how all he can think about is her.
"The, the thing with Melanie," her face scrunches up as she spits out the word thing and he wants to laugh at how she can't say sex (she would have laughed, laughed and teased her about it). Then it hits him that he wants to laugh, really honestly laugh, and he's a little shocked. Shocked that he wants to laugh, shocked about the fact that he's surprised by wanting to laugh and it's all just so messed up.
"That's done," he tells her and he watches as a smile slowly stretches her face, "Jealous?" he teases because at one point in time that would've been the natural thing to do (but at that point in time none of this would've been happening). She rolls her eyes but her smile widens.
"Not a chance," she nudges him playfully but then her doe eyes land on the grave and her voice turns somber, "I miss her."
"So do I," and he thinks that she's the only one who may even come close to how he feels. The deep ache and burning desire to have her back. The need to see her face, hear her voice, touch her skin just one last time.
"It's not your fault," her eyes are doing the frantic searching of his face that has become so familiar lately and he wonders if girls are taught how to do that sort of thing in preschool, "but you're not going to listen to me, are you? I could tell you that till I'm blue in the face but it won't make a difference, will it? You need the lie. You need to blame yourself because it's easier than blaming her."
"It's not her fault," and he'd be startled at the malice in his voice if it weren't for the rage bubbling over, "It's not her fucking fault and don't you dare say it is."
"But it was her fault!" her face comes closer to his and her voice rises until she's screaming, "She was the one that accepted the drugs! She was the one that took them! She was the one that overdosed! It was her fault and it sucks. Because we are the ones left to deal with it. Always. We always were the ones left to deal with her messes and why should her death be any fucking different?"
She screams the curse word and then the anger seems to drain from her face. Her eyes fill with tears and she crawls into his arms. He holds her and she sobs, "Why did she leave us Freddie? I need her. I need her. And I hate her. I hate her for leaving. I need her. I love her. I miss her." He clutches onto her because it's like she's reading his mind. He gets it because he lives it.
She stops crying but she doesn't move out of his arms. The sun begins to disappear but they still don't move. They don't talk for a very long time but he knows he needs to tell her. Tell her what happened that last night.
"I went to her house," he looks down at the girl in his arms and her eyes are staring back up at him. He can tell that she knows what he's going to tell her so he continues, "and I knew something was a little off right away. But I didn't really think about it because I was just so damn mad. I mean I put myself on the line and she just pushed me away and it hurt, you know? And so we started to fight. I told her that she was a slut and that nobody but me would ever have her and she said that I was pathetic if I thought she'd ever settle for me. And it was getting so heated and I was about to kiss her because well, we could never seem to keep away from each other when we'd get so riled up but then she dropped to the floor and she was, she was shaking."
He stopped to take a breath as the images of the girl he loved dying floated through his eyes, "I tried grabbing her but she was spitting up all this blood, and I was just so confused. I mean, I knew that she was high the whole time I was talking to her but she was always high. But before it was always just pot and it never occurred to me that she'd go for harder drugs. I was so terrified. I called the cops and I was holding her but she wouldn't stop coughing. She was trying to say something but she kept choking on her own blood. And then, and then she told me she loved me and I knew. I knew that she was going to die because there was no way she'd ever say that otherwise. And I felt her die. I watched her die. I let her die in my arms," tears slip down his cheeks onto hers but she doesn't even bother wiping them off.
"It's not your fault. And she wouldn't want you to blame yourself. Don't you get it? She loved you. She loved you enough to push you away and she loved you enough to tell you. She loved you," she's turned around in his arms and her hands are grasping his shoulders and shaking him lightly.
"I know, I know but it's too hard. I need her and she's dead and nothing is ever going to be okay again," he watches as the light drains from her eyes.
"She loved you Freddie. Don't let it go to waste. She'd never forgive herself if you never moved on. She wanted you to be happy. That's why she pushed you away. She loved you," her voice is getting higher, begging him to listen.
"Well look at what good that did," he snarls and pushes her away. She falls onto her back and he hastily gets up. The cemetery is glowing in the moonlight and her tears sparkle as he walks away. But he's sick of false halos and empty arms. He knows that nothing is ever going to be the same. He knows that Carly will never really forgive him. He knows that Sam loved him.
(and he knows that nothing is going to be okay ever again)
Wow, that was super long. It kind of took on a life of its own so honestly, not even my fault. :) I personally see this as a sequel to iSurrender to our Tragedy and why yes, I am pimping out my story shamelessly yet again. :D. Also this is my way of apologizing to everybody for being so suckish at replying to PMs but I have yet another excuse, it was my birthday and I'm still partying like a legal adult lmao. Which is a lot more fun than it sounds. Oh and my English class is kicking my ass. :) Now, review darlings!