thebeautyofconfession
She searches for a clue, because she doesn't have any. Not even one.
"Not a clue," she whispers to herself. "Not a clue. Not a clue."
She bites at her freshly-painted nails; pink, pristine.
Runs her hands through her perfect blonde curls.
Grazes the soft porcelain skin of her arms with her clammy hands.
And those tears that were sitting dangerously close to the edge, they finally spill over, sending black-stained tears dripping down her rosy cheeks. Spoiling those eyes. Those beautiful blue eyes.
She's unable to sit still. Always looking, always searching. Everywhere, all the time. Turning over and over in her mind.
It's the one thing she doesn't have. And the one thing she needs most.
Your jet black hair looks charred to a crisp
I want to swim in your ocean-blue eyes
And I want your guitar hands to hold me like you hold her
Be a fool for me
Sing me Coldplay songs and stroke me to sleep.
But just utter two words
Or even look up
Because I'm here and you're not.
There is a house on the outskirts of my town that sits alone. It has no neighbours, not for miles. It's concealed by an enormous garden, a garden that's too lush and too beautiful to belong to the aging mansion. The stone walls are chipped and cracked, and vines of ivy have wrapped themselves around the exterior.
At first glance, you can't even see the house. But if you look for it, it's there.
This is the house that came to be my home, when I felt like I had none. This is the house that makes me feel a little less alone.
I step up to the edge of the platform and stare down at the sparkling blue water. My breath is so loud, it's bouncing off the walls, almost echoing. Despite the serene atmosphere, my hands are shaking. I close my eyes and rub my hands on my bare arms, trying to calm myself.
"I'm here for you," Matt says. I can feel him beside me, but his voice sounds too distant to be comforting. "It's okay. I'm here."
I open my eyes. The water is smooth, untouched. I can see the bottom like it's right there, but I know better than that.
Jump, I think. Just jump.
And I do.
But not before grabbing Matt's hand in dragging him down with me.
I held the old blue apron in my hands, still dotted with chocolate sauce. I'd never thought to wash it. It would've been like washing away a memory.
I could almost feel his lean hands wrapping the apron around my waist, and tying in a bow it at the back. As he had done last year, and every year before that.
And at the same time, I could almost feel my face being splattered with chocolate sauce. As it had last year, and every year before that.
The apron crumpled in my hands.
I miss him.