Author: alineofprose PM
Fate enveloped you, and the years gone by inevitably haunt you with bittersweet nostagia. Let your heart guide you through something utterly irrepressible and pour out hopes that you're still holding, because she isn't going to come back soon. [Oneshot]Rated: Fiction T - English - Words: 1,158 - Reviews: 5 - Favs: 2 - Published: 03-02-06 - id: 2123828
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Summary: Fate enveloped you and the years gone by inevitably haunt you with this bittersweet nostagia. Recollect. Let your heart guide you through something utterly irrepressible and pour out hopes that you're still holding, because she isn't going to come back anytime soon.
Ironic that I see you here, isn't it? A pleasant family restaurant. A deceptively friendly atmosphere, I hasten to add. Trying for sophistication, with the newly painted walls in maroon, sofas added here and there.
There's still a playground out the back, with the same old statue of Ronald waving falsely to the masses. I cringe as I think of how many people have kissed, or snogged poor Ron as a result of an incredibly unhygienic dare, and how children hug the useless plastic happily, because they got to hug Ronald.
I remember the Wednesday lunch, when we were younger, that we spent in Hungry Jacks, screaming with laughter as our Coach watched on with amusement. Things were so different back then, so innocent, I suppose. It was that year that you first dyed your hair black. Pulled a permanent marker apart, soaked it in water and stuffed your hair in the bucket. 'Twas an ingenious idea – you were always ridiculously bright.
People wondered why it was ever the three of us – you, mature for our age and opinionated, her, with her blonde hair and bubbly personality and I, the short, brown-skinned, square – but loud – why we used to be best friends.
We used to be friends
It was that year that everything fell apart. We were so fucking young - inexperienced, dreaming, obnoxious kids. Oh, but you were always the most mature, with your boyfriends. Bloody hormonal preteens, who just wanted a piece of you so that they could go further. You always had other friends, apart from our little trio – that, I always noticed. When you two fell out, I was there for both of you, and found myself replaced on both sides. I hung around, in case you needed me, but it was always rather awkward between 'the popular group' and me. I guess I didn't fit the bill, huh?
It was in high school that we made our mark. You, with your friends, and I with mine. I, of course, had rejoined my group of friends that I had before you came to our school. I heard of your exploits daily, how you were going out with him and you'd done that and this.
My friends' shocked whispers would echo the corridors long after the bell rang. These rumours would eventually spiral out of control, as overblown as one could possibly make them without seeming ridiculous.
You'd still hold your head high, a cool façade never leaving your face. You were it, and you liked to think that their petty words and infantile taunts didn't affect you.
I liked to think that I knew you better, though.
You were indifferent, cooler, and increasingly cynical, if that was possible. You were too condescending, and somewhere over the course of time, had developed a discriminatory streak. Not the same girl whose house I'd slept over (and we'd indulge in wafers, only to find out they were stale), or who begged me to call him so he would call you and do a three-way call because you were too nervous (even though you'd never admit it).
It's what time does to you, huh? I guess we were already poles apart to begin with.
It was in Maths, when I saw you digging into your wrists with a broken compass – I was so horrified that you were doing that in public. Circles and slashes, crimson against your pale skin. I whispered quickly that you should hide it in case the teacher sees, and you replied with an apathetic 'I don't care'.
You may not have, but I did. Bloody hell, I remember how you used to be. I remember how excluded I felt when you didn't tell me your parents had divorced, that I wasn't a good enough friend for you to tell me. I tried to be there, you know.
I've heard you talking about it, various gossiping teens and many rumours, but I don't think it hit me until then. McDonalds. You ran outside and jumped on your friends – the same, dyed, black hair flying in the wind, you, dressed in black, and your blue eyes almost sparkling with excitement. Almost, because I had hoped you hadn't resigned yourself to live like this, that you weren't actually happy this way.
Almost because I wanted to believe that there was still more to you than getting drunk and shagging your boyfriend on weekends, or whatever you supposedly felt like doing.
I saw you take that cigarette, twirl it gently in your fingers and then raise it to your lips. Your friend, also covered from head to toe in black, raised his lighter and a flame was emitted with a gentle flick of his finger.
The black didn't matter - the fact that you used it to try to fit into a stereotype, which you say that you don't give a flying fuck about, did.
I think that part of me that foolishly hoped that this was just a falsehood, that maybe, after all these years, you'd still remember – uphold – the vows we pledged, just fucking well kicked the bucket.
Nevertheless, I should have realised that our promises were juvenile expectations, and were bound to fall apart one day.
And I suppose it's no good getting all nostalgic now and reminisce, when so much has already been done.
But, remember, I'll still have known you. I'd like to think, that for a while, I made an impact on your life – even if it was years ago. If we ever talk about this in the years to come, I can be part of that club. My bitter, hushed whisper of 'yeah, I knew her,' would join others, and we'll all have a piece of you.
If something happened to you, I would still care.
We still have an eternity of promises somewhere. Galaxies, light years away, in fantasy worlds and hoping, loving, caring; reminiscences and memoirs, memory after memory, I will remember you.
We used to be friends.
A/N: I haven't written original fiction since my uninspiring attempt 3 years ago (which is still posted on here). This doesn't have the quality of some of my work (not posted), and I feel that I can write much better than this.
Just tell me what you think, okay? Feel free to criticise. Flames are welcome, I suppose, but not too harsh – I don't think my poor ego can handle it.
Oh, and thanks to AK for helping me with the summary and title. 3