"Everything will change," I promised, twisting my fingers tighly in my dark warm pockets.
At this point Id like to remind you that I didn't normally wear pink. It was just a one off thing; because I overheard he liked irony.
"In four days." I said offhandedly; wrapping up my hair while avoiding eye contact.
"Four days." She repeated. "Ok."
At first I thought it was cute how much she believed me. But next week when the (unbeautiful) patterns still criss-crossed up and down underneath my sleeves, she stopped believing that they were just tallys. She stopped believing in me.
And thats the way things were between us. She'd still ask me what I'd like to drink, tell me how Lovely the weather was and occasionally sit next to me. But everytime I laughed she'd glare over angrily at me, challenging me, as if silently sneering at how I could smile without actually ever being happy.
I didnt let her win, though. So over the years she just gave up entirely.
I couldn't bottle up and package just how weak it made me. I grew lazy and one day (not long after) I dropped everything I was holding (two bottles of vodka and a 1/4 of a ciggerette), collasped and just fell asleep. I grew lazy and didn't bother pruning the bad thoughts spreading everwhere over my body and the pavements.
A thousand blood-red thorns sprouted up in my absense creating a forest of nasty thoughts trapping me in my deep sleep.
Everyone I ever saw was already dead. I doddled grave stones to scribble out their sickly cheerful masks.
Then one day she came back for me. Imperfect; she was fatter then I remembered. Her spots had gone to be replaced with a captivaing beauty that kept me entranced to every word she spun. I couldn't sleep, I couldnt breath, I just kept circling round and round like a cat waiting for some where to rest. She said she only came to see me because I still had her Spice girls CD and they were going for lots on eBay ( she wanted an iPod).
Dizzy, I told her there was a invisible woman sitting in the corner of my room and once she'd gone Id give it to her. I didnt see her face; just her feet as they clip clopped into the forest and out of sight.
"The medication is meant to work any day now," Someone says now. Not to me. Nobody speaks to me; they just talk about me where they know I can hear. I told them to get rid of the white; I preferred the dark. They just made things number.
"Who would you like to call today?" The line they copy and paste into the air every day.
But just like before, in old times closer to fairy tales, I can't make the decision. Him, or her, or myself. Today I chose myself in 25 years. I don't tell her how I am, because I don't even know. I tell her about the body in the bed next to me who told me we were lucky. We didn't have to worry about money, or family, or bills. We just have to worry about keeping the nasties out, whilst waiting for Prince charming to cut his way through the ugly mess surrounding us, and kiss us all awake again.
Which is why tomorrow I'm going to call him.