November 13, 2009
(Alternate title: unfortunately, CIPA doesn't sound romantic at all OR unfortunately, this isn't for NaNo)
--
Her ragged brown hair claws at the base of her neck as she runs down the street. She wants to tell him she's not ready for this. She wants to tell him she doesn't deserve to be alone. She wants to tell him that his hair smells of peanut butter and floristry.
She wants to tell him a lot of things.
--
He’s standing on the railing of the bridge contemplating death.
Well, no, not quite. He’s thinking about it, thinking about what death is, what it would be like. He raises his arms and screams, “I’m on top of the world!”
And he believes it if for only just a moment.
He’s thinking about this ability he has to toy with his own life, thinking about how powerful he is. No, he doesn’t really want to die. He’s curious. Curious to a fault, she used to say. It’s your own damned fault your life turned out like this, she also used to say.
What she used to say.
He’s thought too many times about what she used to say. She also used to tell him he dressed too nicely. He chuckled to himself. Wasn’t it Wilde who said that you can never be overdressed or overeducated? He wasn’t too sure about the latter, but he sure as hell agreed with the former. What else would you do with a fortune? Donate it to charity?
Don’t make me laugh, he grins dangerously. He wasn’t that guy.
She used to go out with him on autumn weekends. He'd watch that brown hair bounce, watch the click-clack of those sensible Mary Janes, watch her. Out on a whim, he’d told her. Like you’ve got the whole world balanced on your shoulders.
“Really?” she'd laughed. Laughed. “I don’t even notice it.”
She'd laughed again and told him he’d never make it as a poet.
“Well, look at me now!” he raises his head to the wind and howls.
“Hey.”
He sees her: blue lips, scarlet cheeks, narrowed eyes and all. It’s cold, he realizes.
And he doesn’t look before he leaps.
“Hey!”
--
“You’re lucky to be alive, you know.”
He doesn’t need her to tell him that. He never wanted to die. He wanted to prove a point. Oh, the things he’d do to prove her wrong. He tries to tell her this, but he realizes he can’t feel a thing.
“They gave something to you. I don’t know what. It’ll wear off after a while.”
It’ll wear off. What’ll wear off? The pain? The restlessness? The curiosity? The curiosity’ll never wear off. They can’t do a damned thing about that.
He comes to a dangerous conclusion in this somewhat-non-physical state he’s in. Can’t feel a thing. He realizes how unrestrained his thoughts are when isolated, when his shell is removed, and all that’s left is this intangible something-nothing.
He wonders what it would be like to stand atop that bridge in his current state, wonders if the same thoughts would be running through his head.
“This isn’t what I meant when I told you you’re incapable of feeling, you know.”
He knows.
“I don’t mean to be the way I am, you know.”
He knows.
He sees the faintest whisper of a lonely smile as she says, “Let’s go home.”
She takes his hand, and he’s there.
But most of all she wants to tell him the bottom of the Thames is the worst place to end up.