Of all my stories that were actually reviewed and favorited, this has to have been the one I liked the least. There was little to no character development and the ending honestly made no sense. However, because I'm a pushover like that… here it is. Hunting, rewritten.
My eyes are closed and I am hanging upside-down on the couch. For a second, I can pretend that male voice belongs to someone completely different. To you. It's easy enough to slip into the fantasy that I am young again and on my couch at home, and you're about to chastise me for not acting my age, or for being reckless, or for ignoring you when I suggested we hang out in the first place.
Silly boy, I was never ignoring you. I wanted to see that impatient, flustered look on your face when you got upset with me. I loved to hear you tell me something sternly, because I thought that was your no-nonsense way of saying, "I love you," because you were too petrified to say the actual words.
"Listen to me."
But now, I wished I hadn't teased you quite so much. As enjoyable as I found it, I knew I was a constant stress to you. I know you went home each night after a date, and held your head, wondering if I was worth it at all. There was so much pressure on you all the time, and whenever you wanted to talk about it, I just blew you off. You needed someone to talk to and I, your girlfriend of all people, was never there. Some part of you decided I was, and the next day you were by my side as if you could handle it all, when I knew that every time I didn't sit still, every time I got overexcited, you cracked a little more with the stress.
Why didn't you find a normal girl? Why didn't you find a girl who would hold you close when you looked like you were about to cry, instead of a girl who would giggle and bounce away and try to make you laugh with her when it was obviously the last thing you wanted to do. Why did you choose a girl who wouldn't help you hold your world together when it was cracking around? Why choose the girl who would force you to go on a walk in the dead of night?
Why me, Sam?
I never got the chance to ask you that, and I would wonder for the rest of my life.
It was all my fault, too. You hadn't wanted to go out that night. Do you remember? You wanted to stay in and watch a movie. Let me relax, you said, I'm so tired. I insisted that a walk would help you. Sometimes, when I'm alone and it's quiet, I wonder if I ever listened to you. In my memory, you always agreed with me, but how much of that was you getting swept up in my enthusiasm? Were you ever truly happy with me? And if so, how? How could you be… content with a girl who would never listen to you, never actually hear what you had to say?
So I forced you to go on that walk, like I had forced you to do so many things in the past, and now look what happened.
"Sierra! Open your eyes."
I open my eyes. An inch away from me is your killer, Sam. There is not the murderous gleam in his eyes that you saw seconds before you died. Instead, there is tenderness. How does that make you feel? Are you angry that I let him be this close to me? Are you angry that I haven't killed him? Are you sad?
Do you even care? Up there in heaven (because I know you are in a heaven: someone as good as you is proof that heaven must exist somewhere), are people allowed to hate? I hope you are. I hope you hate me. I close my eyes again as your killers' lips brush against mine, and I sigh softly. He chuckles and murmurs something about enjoying upside-down kisses and tangles his hands in my hair. I lean closer to him, and for the second that his lips part and he groans into my mouth, I almost forget about you.
Please hate me.
I deserve no better.
Do you remember that night, Sam? I remember every single detail, even though it was such a long time ago. It was supposed to be a good night for us. Hanging out right after finals. We hadn't seen each other in so long because of all the studying. I would've been fine studying together, but you wanted to be a doctor, so your grades were the most important things in the world to you. You would've been a great doctor, Sam. Your biggest downfall would've been that every time you lost a patient, a piece of your soul would be chipped away. You were always so compassionate to everyone, how could you have dealt with someones life slipping away?
You were late that night, and it was annoying me to no end. You always insisted that I was on time and ready, and always yelled at me when I was late like I usually was. However, when you were late, I'd yell and scream and call you a hypocrite. So we both tried to be on time. I was sitting on my couch, flipping through channels on the television, not actually watching the flashing images passing by. If my mother had been home, she would've told me to stick to one channel, but only my dad was home, and he was sleeping. That was the real reason I was so upset that you were late. We had so little alone time, and we couldn't exactly touch each other in front of our parents, so any time with just you and I was worth so much to me. You said it was worth a lot to you as well… was that the truth? How much of what you said was the truth? How much was just saying what I wanted to hear?
Finally, the doorbell rang and I leapt to my feet. I remember stopping in front of the mirror, smoothing my hair down, and wondering if you would notice how flushed my cheeks were. I wanted that night to be perfect so bad. I wanted to make up for lost time. When I got to the door and pulled it open, however, I knew instantly that something was wrong. You always had this goofy smile when you saw me for the first time in a while, and instead your face was somber and your eyes were red like you'd been crying. I realize now that that was why you were late. Despite everything, you didn't want me to see you cry.
"Sam?" I asked quietly, and you just moved forward and enveloped me in your arms. I stood still for a few seconds, however, my hands were smashed up against your chest and it was becoming uncomfortable for me so I squirmed until you let go of me. It didn't even occur to me that you needed that hug more than I needed to get out of it.
"Sam, what happened?" I demanded, touching your shoulder and leading you to the couch, shutting the door behind us. You sat heavily on it and held your head in your hands. I had never seen you so emotional before and I didn't know what I was supposed to do. I fluttered around, babbling, trying to get a look at your face and figure out what was so wrong.
"It's my parents," you told me hoarsely, "They're getting a divorce." I instantly froze. I had no idea what to say. I knew that had been fighting for a long time and it had been upsetting you a lot, but I never knew it was that bad. Back then, I was so sheltered, and never saw any conflict. My parents didn't fight. I didn't have any siblings to fight with. My boyfriend gave me whatever I wanted. And then, seeing you hurt the way you were, I didn't know what to do. My hands hovered over your back, but I was afraid to touch you. To me, you seemed like some fragile being that would shatter if I touched you.
What would have happened if I had actually held you? We would have stayed home that night, me comforting you, and that night you would drive home and arrive safe. Your parents would get divorced and I would be there for you—not in the way you needed, but I would still be there. Then time would pass, and you would realize that you were too good for me and we would break up. You would graduate high school and quickly be accepted by your dream college to become a doctor, just like you always wanted. And you age and get married and have kids… One day, eventually, you would die. But you would die surrounded by your wife and kids and grandkids, in a hospital bed at the end of a full, wonderful life.
But maybe I'm putting to much emphasis on a simple touch.
As it was, I didn't rest my hand on your back. Instead, I insisted that we go on a walk—that the fresh air would help you. You argued at first.
"I just want to stay in and rest. I just want to be with you, isn't that ever enough? Why do we always have to do something? Why are you so selfish?" The fight didn't last long, like all our fights. And we ended up doing what I wanted to, as usual. See, then, I thought you were just upset about what had happened and you were taking it out on me. I didn't know that those were emotions that you had bottled up for so long. I thought we were okay.
Once we both had our coats on and were outside, I grabbed your hand to keep it warm against the chill. Your face still hadn't lit up, and I wanted to make you happier, but had no idea how.
"I love you," I said uneasily. It wasn't the first time that I had used those three words to try and remedy a situation, and it showed. You just nodded and looked straight ahead. I slipped my hand out of yours and wound myself around your arm. I wanted so desperately to see you smile.
And I never would again.
If you want to shoot me after reading all that in second person, it's okay. I want to shoot myself, too. Note to self: NEVER WRITE IN SECOND PERSON. Also, I know Sierra seems like a bitch in this one, and she kinda is, but she doesn't really realize it at the time. She really does love him and doesn't know she's walking all over him.
So watcha think? Better or worse than take 1?