Disclaimer: This is just a short piece I have based off of a fanfiction I have planned for Drake & Josh. It's not done yet but I thought I'd post it anyway, see if I got a good response and if I did finish it.
P.S This is a character I created myself. I only own her.
She is my best friend.
Every since we were five and she hit a boy twice her size for calling me a dork. Her mother was called and I sat outside the classroom, swinging my legs under the bench until she came out and fumbled over my words until I managed to piece together a thank you. She grinned back and said simply that she liked me and declared that we were now friends.
Just like that.
It was strange at first, having a friend someone to sit with and talk to and who thought your jokes were funny even when they weren't. But then it became natural. Like another layer of skin.
She was my best friend. And I was hers.
People were confused by our friendship. The fact that we followed each other everywhere, that we cuddled and held hands and once or twice shared a bath while re-enacting battles between our toys with bubble beards that stuck to our chests like bubble wrap.
Nothing ever happened. We were just friends.
But it was more than that. More than friends. More than siblings or boyfriend or girlfriend. We were soul mates.
And we still are.
She is perfect. Just looking at her sometimes I wanted to cry because she was so beautiful and so wonderful that it never made sense to me that of all people she wanted to be my friend.
But she was. Against all odds she wanted to be my friend.
People didn't understand her really. They way she talked or smiled or how she always dressed in clothes her mom made herself or bounced up and down on the balls of her feet like she had too much energy to contain. She always talked too fast, rambled off course of the conversation until something distracted her and she walked off to find what it was. She didn't understand half of what was going on at the time, getting confused over the situation and looking at me with pleading eyes to explain to her what was going on.
People thought she was dumb. Thought that she was annoying. That she had special needs or just plain stupid.
She was Bipolar.
She was diagnosed early and I was there holding her hand as the doctor ran through the list of medical terms and explanations while she looked up at her with tears in her eyes before turning to me to explain what was going on.
I never hated anyone as much as I did the doctor in that moment.
Her dad left soon after the diagnosis. Said that he couldn't handle the stress and the pressure, yelling at her mother while she sat at the top of the stairs and quietly listened to every word.
She started cutting the next day.
She told me about the scars as soon as she made them, cutting over her legs and her stomach so no one could see and I kissed each one before burying my face in her lap and holding her until she stopped trembling.
She cut for another two years before she finally stopped.
She started to take medication for it, rolling the pills over between her fingers before swallowing each one with a gag and staring at the labels on the bottles as if they somehow reinforced her belief that there was something wrong with her.
There never was. Never to me. She was perfect.
She balanced back and forth between the depression and the manic, lost in bliss and thought and distraction for weeks at a time before falling between the cracks and curling up in my bed while I ran my fingers through her hair and pressed the occasional kiss to her cheek.
She said she felt safe in my bed. Safe with me.
It was one of the reasons why we stayed so close to one another. Away from the "cool" kids and the words they would call us in hopes that it would make one or both of us break down in some sort of humiliation that they got off on. We could tell each other everything, be anything with each other and know at the end of the day we could curl up in bed together with the knowledge that we were together. That we were safe.
But then everything changed.
The moment she met Drake I knew she was infatuated. Most girls were. The moment they saw the flip of his hair or his hold on his guitar and they were gone and lost beyond any reason or thought that it might be a bad idea. I thought she might she might be different, see beneath and beyond his charm and his skilled fingers on his guitar strings.
She was. But she wasn't.
They started dating and I could see beneath the confidence that he exuded that she made him weak. That he would stumble on his words when he talked to her or blush after she kissed him and watch her movements as she left the room.
He was just as infatuated with her as she was with him. Maybe more.
I could stand it at first. The idea that she no longer belonged wholly to me. The thought that someone else now belonged and shared in her heart. That it just wasn't me holding it safe in her hands but that it had been torn between us with him balancing it between his fingers with less care or consideration that I could never dare attempt.
But then I couldn't bear it any more. And I broke.
She didn't belong with him. Not after mere months of knowing him when I had loved and was consumed by her for years. Knowing her inside and out. The marks on her skin, the scars on her heart and the lie she so heartedly believed that there was something wrong with her. That she was somehow broken and thus unfixable.
I was jealous.
She wasn't his. She was mine. I was hers. We were two halves to make a whole that needed the other to stand, to smile and be strong against a world that was so determined to break us down whenever we needed it.
He could never understand that.
To some degree he did. Beneath it all he understood that I was irreplaceable to her. That I could never be put aside or faded out of the picture to make way for him. I was first and foremost. And he would always be second place.
In a world that mattered so little I would always be last and in her heart where it mattered so much I was always first.
He tried to make her choose. To make her choose between us like were two dinner options and be satisfied with only one for the rest of her life. But she couldn't and she didn't.
So he broke up with her.
I barely saw her for a week with only bare moments of seeing her at school before I finally went to her door with cupcakes reading out "I love you B" because I couldn't afford the extra cupcake to fully spell out her name. We curled up in her bed for the rest of the night, licking the icing off the wrappers.
Just like old times.
But it wasn't. Not really. Drake seemed to move on easily, a different girl every week and a different number on his tongue to remember them by. It broke her heart every time she saw them, every way he tried to show her that he had moved on and didn't need her anymore.
But even I could see it was a lie.
He missed her. He loved her. But he didn't know how. So he kept up the stream of girls paraded past her while she tried her best not to shrink back at the sight.