shockerx
I'm not even sure how it happened. It's just like, one day I was on my own, doing my own thing and the next thing I knew she was everything that I thought about. She was it for me. I thought about her in everything I did. Would she approve? What would she be thinking if she saw me like this? Would she hate me? WOuld she want to be like me? man, that last one is what I thought of the most. It was the scariest thing i could have asked. WOuld she want to be like me? Man, I hope she would never turn into me. I mean, I'm bad news. Everybody knows that. But she, she never thought that about me. To her I was Superman, never doing anything wrong, always saying the right words, always the prince I promised I would be. She never caught on to my double life. Who I was in the real world. She was so far woven into her own fantasy world, the one that I just couldn't get myself to come out of, that I never told her. And nobody else bothered to tell her either. She was just that innocent. Nobody wanted to break her. Especially me.
He understood. He understood my reluctance to life, and to him. He got that I didn't want to do certain things, and that those things were just too old, and too mature for me. He understood that he just had to wait and not pressure me. I can't thank him enough for that. I've had many guys before in my lifetime, but never one that understood. Not like him anyway. He was different. A good different.
Okay. Enough of this crazy talk. Understood? Pshht. Yeah right. He understood just as much a parent understands a depressed teenager. Not at all. I can't even believe I just put that he was different and that he understood. What a cliche. He pressured and fought, and was the most un-understanding person I've ever met. Pfft. Understood. What. A. Lie.
His imagination was killed. Everything that had once motivated, and inspired was gone for all eternity into the abyss of what might how been. It was a shame, really, watching as he slowly realized how much he had lost in his ongoing fight to keep everything he had just the way it was now. I don't pity him now though, knowing that he hasn't slept in ages from the pressure he had put on himself. It was his fault. And anyways, he had lost his imagination. All he had to do was find a new one. That's not that hard to do, is it?
He honestly believed he was a cowboy. He bought the hat, the shoes, the spurs. He bought it all. His dreams consisted of riding his horse into the sunset, and daydreaming showdowns with his arch nemesis, Mandarin Magic. Stupid name by the way. He even admits it. But it's what his overly conscious mind told him to call him. It wasn't even sure what brought this on to begin with. Maybe the trip to the old abandoned town, or that one movie with that one actor who portrayed an actor that one time. he didn't know. All he knew was that he was a cowboy. Whether other people accepted that or not, well, that was a different story.
I never thought I would ever have to be saved. I was supposed to be the one saving, the one who people looked up to to always be there for them, and never think about anything but that. I wasn't supposed to ask for help, or get into trouble, or so anything where I would ever have to be saved. If I got into trouble or harm, I was to get ymself out of it. I have the perfect track record. Or, at least I did until that boy showed up. He just had to do the noble thing to get me out of what probably looked like a compromising position. I'll have you know, it wasn't though. I had it all under control. Sort of.
Stupid boys. They ruin everything.
She picked up the sponge, squeezing it to get the excess water out. With a sigh, she scrubbed away at the floor removing all the evidence of the previous night. She tried pretending that this would be the last time, that she would never has to do this again. The substance stuck to the tile like a sticker from her childhood that was lost int the pocket of her jeans during the wash. A tear slid down her face turning a new stain into a sticky liquid. With a low groan, she scrubbed harder not wanting to think about anything. She shook her head as more tears came.
Collapsing to the floor, she threw her bloody sponge against the wall, and just sat there refusing to let any more tears fall. Hopefully, this would be the last night she would ever have to touch that filthy sponge ever again.
If only, if only.
SIghing, she set the kettle back on the stove as she has done every night since she met him. Never before had she ever had to use the piece of crap her mother had given her so many years ago, hoping she'd grow up. Now, because of him, she used it every night. Every freakin' night. She took a sip of her new concoction, and grimaced. Even after 3 months, it still tasted likesomeone had dipped there wart covered feet that hadn't been washed in days into it, and stirred. Spitting out the vile, she stared at the kettle hoping it would turn into something more delectable. A few seconds had passed when she heard a slamming door, equipped with an unidentifiable man entering through.
"Good evening, Honey." She kissed his cheek before brushing past him, and up to her room. Just like the vile, he had an acquired taste. A taste she hadn't yet grown into.
Sometimes, she wondered if her mother had sent him over, as she did the kettle.
It was one of her favorite memories. It was just her and her best friend, playing on the driveway creating there own little world through chalk, and laughter, and pretending. There was no need for flashbacks in her world; no need for remembering. All she wanted was right in front of her.
"You okay there?" her friend wondered.
"Yeah. Of course. Can you hand me that yellow piece?" She smiled to herself as she looked out into the desolate street. Yeah. who needs flashbacks when they have the present?
"Anything I could get you?" the bartender asked, sensing a stricken life full of rules and regulations.
"I..uh.. I'm only 17, Sir." he answered, ashamed by the his confession of youth.
"17? Then, what you doin' here boy?"
"Escapin' Sir. Running away to freedom."
"I see, boy. I see. I was just like you as a kid. Did the 'xact thing you're doin'. Got me nowhere but where I am, standin' in front of you today."
"So, SIr, I guess now you're gonna give me a big speech about how I should leave here, go back home, and talk my problems through, and get back on track?"
"Nah. You seem to already know all that. What I'm going to do is pour a little whiskey in this glass, and then just walk away. And besides, the world could always use more bartenders."
“Mission accomplished,” she said, brushing off the dirt from the ground. She took her newly finished work into view. The walls that were once a blank slate of brick, was now a vibrant canvas of colors. Her art, displayed for the world– well, community– to see. Every stroke, every splatter, part of her life story. “A story for the record books,” her grandfather used to say. It truly was brilliant.
She chuckled as she stood back, spreading her arms wide, looking to the sky. “You can take me now, Lord. Like I said, mission accomplished. Plus, I didn’t leave any space for any more stories.”
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