|it rains on me
Author: melancholy-911 PM
Love, hate: they can be mangled in so many different ways.Rated: Fiction K - English - Drama/Angst - Words: 709 - Reviews: 1 - Published: 09-16-06 - id: 2247653
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
>>This is about a person (could be any gender, age, race, etc.) who feels their lover doesn't love anymore, but hates. This person feels resentment towards the other for hating he/she, but denying it all at the same time. So they write a letter to them professing everything they believe, hoping they'll never read it so they'll never have to admit it.
it rains on me
angels, 17 days, 13 seconds.
Why the fuck does it matter if I don't want to get up now? If I don't feel like taking out the garbage, I don't want to drive Matt to soccer practice, or take Tessa to dance? My feet are killing me, and I just can't get up.
Or actually, I'm just lazy. I had a bad day too you know, you just didn't ask. You never ask.
"Hi Honey, how was your
"It was shit, thanks."
That's it, that's all. But it doesn't matter if you say it now, because I asked you to say it.
33 thoughts, 16
minutes, 7 seconds.
It's hot. They said its 33 degrees today. But the weatherman always lies. I was sitting on the leather couch, and my legs kept sticking to it. I was in the basement too, with the air conditioner on low. I don't know why I put it on low. The bills are getting harder to pay. So you say.
17 lives, 6 angels, 6
It's never the same. I mean every time I go out. I rarely go out as it is. Before I even get to Tim's 5 and Dime, it rains on me. I got home, and the floor was wet. All wet. You said 'take an umbrella next time'.
23 keys, 5 lives, 4
I just can't anymore. I can't write. I try, I've tried. So hard. What is it called? Writer's block, you say. Oh ok then. I have that. I have writer's block. But I still wrote you that letter yesterday. I don't think you read it because it's still on the fridge, under the top hat magnet, still askew or slanted or whatever. You write me sometimes too. Yours say:
Advil – 2 packs
Milk – 2 bags
You don't write them anymore though. I guess because I never bother to go anymore. You never ask. I still read some of your old letters. But I'll throw them away if you want me to.
8 thoughts, 7 frogs, 2
The kids don't look. I asked them to, and they didn't even turn around. What did you tell them? What are you telling them? Remember how Matt loved to say 'dropped off the face of the planet' when he was 4? I dropped off the face of the planet 6 angels ago. Margot's been calling. But I haven't been answering. "When he was four!" you say. You don't even know what fucking angels are, do you? I can't stand you, you know that? You think I'm-I'm like that Theresa woman who used to live next door. I'm not.
1 short-circuit, 4
lives, 1 second.
Why is it so hard? Life I mean. I tried to cut my wrist the other day, with your shaver. That's why it was broken 6 days ago. I wasn't going to tell you, even though you looked at me. You think the worst of me. But if it had worked, it wouldn't be 'attempted' it would be 'committed'. But you would go back to work the next day. If you did, did you remember the apples? Because I always forgot the apples. You should've always done your shit yourself. God knows, you do it better than me. God also knows I can't stand you. I don't know if I love you yet. Or if I hate you.
13 days, 7 minutes, 0
Let me know if you read this.
P.S. I left it here, because I knew it would be the last place you'd look.