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Author's Note:This story will be a story only of two to five chapters. This is sort of semi-based on the other story I wrote plot wise but the characters are different. I also had some insperation from the story "Copy Cat", read it. It's beautiful. This will contain femmeslash and an implied sexual moment. Don't like, don't read.
in this house
By:Scattered Pieces
--
everyday she talks to her girl
and she will drag her sneakers to her new home
sadly
ashes aren't able to hear people.
but she'll say they can't hear
and other will refuse
--
This was the house you lived in.
The house of hope that you ate your home cooked meals in courtesy of your mother, watched your little brothers rough house as if they were the spirits of wild animals, and were every single day she would come
This was the house you would sneak her to when you two needed solace in each other arms, when she needed someone that had supported her lifestyle, when you needed someone to belong.
(What was belonging?)
In lamince terms, both of you needed each other and almost everyone turned their backs towards both of you, shunning you for having un-convencinal ways and her for her orientation. It bit you both in the back that everyone in the world had norms that many people couldn't uphold to themselves. They say that all families have to have a mother, a father, two children, and a home with a white picket fence but not everybody has that.
Her family doesn't have that and still, they exclaim the words "Devil-Worshipper" to your ears. They think that you are inhuman, that you were never meant on the earth and yet their child is not their pride or joy but instead the pit of their hatred towards you.
(What did you do?)
They didn't approve of the loud music that would play inside the walls of your room that you lit your cigarette inside. They didn't approve of the fact you had an open mind or that you didn't believe in God (he/ she/it for all you care wouldn't have all these people suffering or diar need), that you had supported their daughter for being who she was. Not a gentle minded girl. Not a lesbian. A sinner. They never liked sinners which included their daughter. They believed that all of them go to hell.
But then again, if you were with someone you loved same-sex or not would it still be a sin? Or would it be something that you thought was right at the right time.
Then you think again, they already don't like you. They already don't like their daughter. They already don't like the "sinners" even though hate would be a sin in the dreaded black book. They already don't like your religion(or the lack of one).
(Then again, why should you care about the prudes?)
In your house, on your bed, only the empty darkness watching, your bodies entwine. It doesn't feel wrong to either of you and you never want this to end. You love when she takes her time kissing you with her delicate red lips down your torso. Or when she moans out your name when she gasps out for air from enjoyment. You love when her fingers are slowly fingering around your lips and a small smile is planted onto your face. She loves when you smile, showing off all thirty-two teeth radiantly "glowing" in the darkness.
She can never see (or you) what is wrong with opening your shirt buttons to find exposed flesh of a loved one same-gender or not. Both of you do not feel it is wrong to press your lips onto each other's mouth. In fact, you say it's better than all the boys you have kissed in your lifetime(from Christopher Andrews, the boy that ate paste to Andre Porter, the kickass jock on the football team). You both also feel a mutual attraction that goes beyond all the kissing, hand-holding and other declarations of love. You both sometimes don't need to say words to get what you both want to say, it is just expressed through facial expressions and the types of glares you pass.
This is not wrong. This is not wrong.
(What is wrong?)
Her parents find out about you and you can't do anything to stop them. It was never meant to be found out, you two kept it a secret for almost a year and you thought you could keep it that way. It was when they caught you two kissing they yelled out "Go back to where you came from, you dyke!" Telling her that she couldn't see you again. Telling you that you should burn in the pits of Hell and yet you say "What's wrong with it? We both love each other, is it that bad?"
They just shove you out of their home.
Those words pierces through your heart so many times and tears began to fall down each cheek. You try to force them back, but silence forever gone as soon as choked sobs fill the night sky and it is those tears that put you to sleep.
(You miss her, don't you?)
Every Saturday, she passes by your house hoping that you will glance and you just whip your head to see if it's really her and you realize, it isn't. It is only a dream, an elusion. Her parents banished you from ever coming back to their home and her vibrant amber eyes are nothing but a dull memory, a pain in your heart.
The last time you saw her was on Tuesday holding hands with a very brooding teenage boy whose blue eyes captured your soul. It wasn't love at first sight but just slight awement. The lesbian that had seduced her and loved her was with a male.
Shocking as it was, she was with him.
She didn't dare turn her face towards you, no matter how much you were suffering, no matter how much you learned to love her. She looked disgusted with you, nothing to do with you, as if you were the cause of why she had to succumb to this. Once your grey eyes mixed with her amber and she just turned her head away, seeing her glossy brown hair trailed behind her.
You yearn to touch it one more time and yet she doesn't want to be associated with you.
(But she still loves you, right?)
You slash yourself with the razor.
When you bleed you do not cry or shed a tear, you just smile. You just smile because you finally have a friend that understands you. You don't need her , the girl that was outed and put back into the closet again. But yet you still feel her smooth hand stroking through your black hair and cry. You hate to cry, but that memory is so dear.
They way you look had started to look more morbid than darkly beautiful. Your small body gets more frail and you don't have the strength to cry. You think about more of what you can do so the pain is eased.
(You cry.)
You died at the age of eighteen. Dressed fully in black, you have asked that on your feet you wear black checkerboard shoes and the bracelet she gave you. You wrote in a note on why you were doing this in only a few words that only a few people can do. Everyone is suffering. Including her.
After she found out you died, she ran away from her home and tried to find your grave. It was her fault. Her fault that you killed yourself. It was her fault she slept with you and tried to ignore it.
You might go to heaven, you might go to hell, you might be a walking spirt but there is one thing you know.
You still love her.