Author's Note: I had to wrap this up. I figured now or never. Thanks to every single one of you who stuck with me through this whole should'veendalongtimeago fics. Originally it was written for my deceased friend but now all I can say is I wrote what I felt and what Sasuke must've felt, if you will. This epilogue made me cry writing it.
A song that brought me to tears as I wrote this was King Park by La Dispute.
I'm standing in front of it. It's been over a year. I'm off pills. I'm over them. Every fake figment of my imagination of her left my thoughts and escaped my mind. I wasn't tied down by guilt anymore. No one told me to go here now. Many told me, no, forced me, to come to my senses, to see the light, and to get out of bed and off my ass and visit her. But it took a year. Not a week like everyone else for the funeral. Not a month afterwards. A year.
Three hundred and sixty five days.
Today's the anniversary.
I'm holding the letter tightly in my grasp, the scarf around my throat is tied tightly. I brought a stool.
No one's here.
I tied the ends on the branch above me. I feel suffocated. I feel like the cold, breezy air isn't enough. I don't feel it enter my lungs; I just feel it slapping me across the face. My hair's moving in different directions. I'm hovering about the graves. I can see the cement chipping off, every stone, old and brand new, underneath me.
I can feel my hands shaking. My eyes are watery. I can feel myself tempted to kick the stool away so I can just get it over with. But I can't. Not at this second. I'm not done yet.
"I'm here." I say. But I know I won't get a reply. But I know she sees me. I just know that.
"I'm sorry I took so long." I mutter. I know she's probably smiling at me, and laughing. So I laugh back. she liked my laugh.
I wish I could hear hers.
"I bought you a new vinyl. Because I broke the other one." I send the vinyl container flying underneath me, and it hits the stone lightly. It didn't break.
But I did.
"I still don't like them." I said. I knew she loved them, but that's why I hated them. She should only be able to love me.
And she does. She'll be smiling in a good ten minutes once I'm done with this shit.
I flex my fingers, and my hands are shaking violently. I don't know why. I swung off my gloves so much earlier, and the breeze slaps my bruised knuckles softly, and it hurts.
I brought the note. I'm about to finally open it. My heart's pounding. She's probably eager to see me read her words. The words that apparently traumatized the people who went to the funeral. They probably were crying when they read it out loud.
It wasn't even addressed to them.
But once I flip it open, once I read it, I can imagine her voice softly saying them. I can imagine her standing on her toes and hugging me, whatever the words may be, she did that a lot.
I hope she does that soon when I see her again.
"I don't know what this says, but no matter what, I love you." I say quietly. She can hear me, I know it. I have a feeling she knew I'd be here.
I lift the paper open and I feel my chest aching. I can't hold back, my onyx eyes, now red and puffy, are overflowing with blurriness as the tears take over. I can't breathe. It's not the noose I created, not yet.
It's her words. Not an 'I love you', because I got to see her say them that day a year ago. But two other ones.
"You're welcome." I read out loud. I drop the paper. I feel like smashing the vinyl all over again. I feel like tugging the strands on my scalp off. I feel like shit.
But now, now I don't have to. I'm still crying silently, my mouth is tightly shut, my eyes are blinking fast. I need this air for now. I need it.
I take deep breathes. And I tug the noose tighter. And tighter. I feel light-headed. Suffocating. I can barely see anything.
Everything is moving. She's probably smiling, knowing that I'm finally going to be with her again. I hope I can see her. That's why I'm doing this. For her. I don't care about me.
With the last energy I have stored, I kick the wooden stool and it falls to the ground. Besides the scarf I used, the rope is helping. The burnt feeling against my throat aches, it burns, and my tears won't stop. They just won't.
I'm gapping for air. My eyes turn to the ceiling. I stare at it. Slowly, everything is fading.
Slowly, everything is gone.
Slowly, I died.