Written while listening to "Addicted" by Kelly Clarkson. I obviously do not own the characters, but I hope you enjoy this little one-shot. Sorry for not updating another story; I'm working on it. I just was feeling in the mood to produce something on a darker, sadder note. Probably not that good; done in all of five minutes, lol. Anyway, now that that urge is gone, I can focus on my other stuff. Here ya are; I hope you enjoy it! :)


~*You Got Your Wish*~

Are you happy, so far away? So out of my reach; so gone? Are you enjoying yourself, doing whatever it is you do when without me? Are you really so much better off than I am?

Of course you are.

You are perfect. You are indescribable. You're the smartest man I know; witty and humorous. Your intelligence is unbeatable; not to mention that you're quick on your feet to use it. And then that beautiful humor. In all your long life; have you never dabbled in comedy?

Probably not.

A bunch of drunken idiots spitting all over themselves because of your wonderful talents just doesn't seem to be your style. No. You're just much too perfect.

But why me, might I ask? If you had to choose someone—anyone—to rip apart and leave in the dust, why not the girl with friends and reliable family to fall back on? But you chose me—a girl with a crazy, childish mother, too caught up in herself, a father that was just completely baffled and ignorant, and no friends to speak of. You chose me to break.

Did you have to go and do that?

Of course you did.

Is this what you meant? You know; when you said that we were better off staying away from each other. I forget what you said exactly; something about heroes and bad guys. Everything from that time is so blurry in my memory; yet too sharp at the same time. Those memories—sweet, sweet memories—were like shards of glass. I held them tight in my grip, unyielding; I just was not willing to let them go and forget—but they cut me deep and caused me pain. I could let go of them and let the cuts heal, left with angry red scars that haunted me everywhere. Or I could hold on and grit through the pain; hoping that one day, no matter how absurd, the shards would just rearrange and became that perfect, intricate glass sculpture again.

Remember how I said that my dreams were very vivid; very detailed, and often held an underlying meaning? Well, maybe; I'm not sure if I told you that or not. I may not have had the chance.

But anyway, my dreams are often strange and abstract; but they hold meanings so beautiful and deadly. Like the one, where I was holding a sharp, sharp glass sculpture of a heart—my heart, our love; if you were wondering—and I accidently cut my finger on the end of it. Now, this wasn't so much a reenactment of the fatal cut back in September but more of a representation for my clumsiness in general.

Anyway, with my blood dripping all over—you bet, it was a bleeder—it became all the harder to hold on. And soon enough, I slipped; the object was just too wet, slippery and heavy. It fell, so gracefully; rainbows bouncing out of it as it was propelled downward by gravity—the very same force that seems to hate me and wish me dead—and smashed to the floor. But it didn't hurt my ears as much as soothe them. It was like your voice, that crash—soft and velvety. Rich and reassuring and beautiful.

But then fragments of jagged glass were all over. Piece by piece it broke, shattering and scattering. And I bent on my hands and knees, trying my hardest to ignore the cuts each time I tried to pick up my mess. It was like me at this moment; I was struggling to pick up the pieces that I held dear and try to put them together, when it was so excruciating to do so.

And I got numerous scars and reminders while trying and trying. I questioned if it was best to give up; to vanish and forget; or to waste away here, trying and failing to reassemble a lost cause. I felt like Sisyphus. I kept trying to roll this heavy, heavy boulder up this steep, steep hill. And when I finally got to the top, I watched it roll down again. And with tears in my eyes I started over; exerting myself in my insistent, idiotic efforts to get the boulder up the hill when it just wouldn't work.

But I couldn't accept that.

I needed some kind of hope. I needed something. That was why I tortured myself by staying where the memories were freshest. That was why I made sure I let go once in a while—like now, for example—thinking of you, only to regret it horribly, later. I needed to remember; I needed some kind of false belief that you would come back; that everything would be fixed and I would get my happily ever after.

My shattered heart and my broken mind warred with each other—one wanted relief and one wanted hope. I was stuck in the crossfire.

But in the end, no matter who won for the moment, all it earned me was more cracks in this carelessly composed mask. All it did was break me further; shattering the particles of dust I had become. It only made me cry.

So I have to ask you; are you happy without me; with this situation? Are you glad I'm gone; hoping that I'm as broken as I seemed to be? Surely you are; someone as perfect—as despicable, I tell myself—as you, would.

Well then…be happy. Pat yourself on the back, cheer; celebrate with your damned distractions. Because you know what? It pained me greatly to say it; to think it. It did. It just stepped on those shattering particles of dust and caused me pain. But Jesus, it was so true. If you really did want to break me, you got your wish.