Story Unsent Letters

[gabrielle]

"Why me?"


It's an easily understood thing as to why it would be asked, and maybe one of the most difficult to answer simply because of the reason of its mention. It's rooted in self worth, or at least thats what I'd assume it to be. I believe this because it makes sense to me that if you value yourself enough, there should be no question as to why someone else would see it and share the same love you have for yourself. There is value in all you are, even the things that aren't the best simply because of the acceptance of them speaks volumes. It's difficult to answer because we see the same things, yet hold different values. It's like trying to explain to someone why a certain color is your favorite when another person is witnessing it as well as you are and just don't see the allure in it. But of course, you can always try to get your point across. So you better be fucking appreciative for this shit because who the hell argues about why one color is better than the other. (Let me tell you though, red is definitely the best. It's intense, and passion is the thing that always leaves the most satisfying impression) At first it was the way you spoke, or the lack of. And if I'm wrong, then it was the way you spoke softly enough for me not to notice. Knowing myself to pull the same habit, it brought curiosity, and that's how you caught attention. (Well, aside for the first time we spoke. I spent the whole week after that conversation way too excited over someone else liking Nirvana even though I hadn't even known your name. At the time those who liked the band were rare to me, and I was glad that someone else saw what I did in the band. Even so, that's not my point. I calmed my shit eventually, and that was the end of that. I'm talking about August, not whenever the words of "I'll see you in chemistry then, right?" were spoken with a smile out of a half assed flirting endeavor just for the hell of it. It wasn't my intention to get sidetracked here.) What I'm trying to say was that the relation I was able to draw in that behavior had me wondering if the reasoning behind it was the same as mine as well. Regardless of that, I didn't put in much thought into trying to find an answer being I knew it wasn't my business and overall, that it didn't matter anyways with the near complete lack of conversation between the both of us. I turned the curiosity into a different thing: a respect for the fact that you seemed to listen to what others said without forcing your words over theirs before a sentence was even completed. I had to respect it, because I've almost always been around people who weren't like that. Those that would ignore everything I would say, turning their backs. After so many years of putting up with the blatant exclusion, there was bound to be a time that my complacency for it would be lost, and in that newly found lack of tolerance of being treated so poorly, there would be an appreciation for those that would appear to value others enough to at least be polite. It was there that you had made your first right with me, even if it was entirely unbeknownst and unintentional on your part. What followed in making these feelings what they are, is in due respect because of my own impulsiveness in the mania of a certain affliction, but that's not what I want to talk about. The reckless actions of approaching you without thought or intention of planning it were brought up by the question of who would be the best choice. I don't notice many people let alone pay them enough mind to regard any desirable traits or feel the need to want to speak to them with the way I'm content contemplating things in my own silence, but that question needed an answer. You were the first to come to mind and the last; it was the way you seemed respectable that made it that way. Others that I knew were just too immature and not necessarily making the best decisions in their lives, and I respected myself too much to even entertain the idea of it. Sure, I kind of got the hint that drugs were no stranger to you, but who am I kidding, I've known them as well. It's not something I could use against anyone when it's something I've been around myself. That's why I always tell you "I get it, you don't have to explain," every time you mentioned the subject and seemed maybe a bit stressed over not wanting to look bad. I just never mentioned my own use because there's no importance in it. Of course a story is behind it, but it's not something you'd probably want to hear. Anyways, so because I was impulsive, picky, and the way you held yourself came off as more than decent, that's why. But I'm sure you're asking more than this. I just can't ever give half of a story. What came after was uncomfortable, I do have to admit. In the days and weeks following, I ended up dreading that decision to say to hell with keeping the impulsiveness in check. I dreaded it because of the abruptness of it and ridiculed myself for the lack of thought that had gone into it. For all I knew things would go terribly, terribly wrong, and it would all be of my own doing. Things were awkward, and I knew they were. It was because I didn't know you, and at that time I wasn't able to help hatefully questioning myself why I had ever put both of us through the discomfort of it or why you had even agreed to it. I didn't see any of it as a romantic thing nor did I intend for it to be as such. If I did, that'd just be downright ridiculous being I barely had any impression on you at all at the time. That, and I hadn't really had feelings for anyone after I broke up with Michael. Which was, mind you, almost three years ago, and there is a reason for this that is very clear to me: that occurrence had worsened whatever commitment issues I had at the time to something much more demanding. But you know, I dealt with it and of course began taking things more seriously whenever you seemed to be regarding me in that way. I found myself catching any sort of feelings pretty late. I remember feeling terrible for it too, because I found it to just be straight up mean to continue talking to you whenever I knew I didn't see it as romantic. I kept trusting it that things would happen eventually, and well, they did. I can recall the moment that I realized it, too. I was in our kitchen home alone with all the blinds in the room open. It was a Sunday. I'd been outlining a biology chapter for hours by then with my phone playing music as loudly as it could beside me. I was thinking about things as I usually do, about everything and nothing, and as the Everlong version from the Skin and Bones album started playing, the thought of you came up. I don't know what it was, but maybe it was just the romantic feel that I got from the song and lyric: "If anything could be this real again." I had to stop and think about a topic that had been bothering me pretty frequently at the time: was it wrong to be talking to you without me holding genuine romantic feelings while possibly leading you on? It was at that point that I had finally given myself a definite answer. No, it wasn't. It wasn't because I enjoyed spending my time with you, and I wasn't ever given a reason to think anything otherwise. If I have ever given off any feelings of not wanting to speak to you, it was because of my own faults. "This'll just end badly." "There isn't even a point to this." Etcetera, etcetera. But as I usually do, I resolved that. There is a point to it, and what I came up with was that relationships like this are made to teach you how to treat the one you will end up marrying and how to accept being treating in the same way and ultimately at some point, to find that person. That person may be the first one you entertain or the twentieth, but either way, all relationships will matter. So with that resolution and realization that I didn't completely hate you touching me (as I usually do with most people) along with being able to appreciate your presence, I decided that I did like you in some sort of romantic way no matter how small it had been. Of course it swayed in weeks following, but I figure that's something you couldn't care less to know about. I didn't allow myself to actually like you any more than that until we clarified things into something more official. (Thanks, Gwen Stefani) I did this more or less for the sake of myself. There is bound to be pain in rejection, so defense mechanisms kicked in and kept me for getting any strong feelings unless I was sure that they were reciprocated. Like I've said before, pessimism is the best thing out there. So past this, what was it aside for nice conversations and impressive values? I'm not so sure if I can explain this well aside for the givens. Talents make you admired and impressive; altruism can make you appreciated; interests make you, well, interesting. This can go on, but this isn't the type of answer I want to give. I like the way you walk. You move like you're not even real; languid and graceful without looking like you're even trying all while keeping an air of confidence. That's not real. That's the kind of stuff you read about in romantic fiction novels. I like the way you care for others. You're gentle. Your hands always seem steady. I can see the affections shown through small actions, and as much as I'm made near entirely uncomfortable with it just because of my own complicated reasoning, I know it's there and it is appreciated even if my own lack of gracefulness with it makes it seem otherwise. I like the way you have kind words and a subtle smile. You don't seem to speak very ill of others, and that's something to be respected. You're genuine. I like that you have something you believe in. I like you for who you are. Not for what you can do.

 

[gabrielle]

"What was it like?"


In my first memories, we lived in [omitted]. It was a military base. A house I do not remember aside for white walls, a carpet on the staircase that lead to a hallway that was by a closet and maybe by the front door. I can remember sliding down the steps in sleeping bags with my brother. I can remember hiding in the closet in the dark, nearly choking myself because for a reason I cannot recall. I had been running to hide from someone. I can remember a doorway leading from a dark hallway to an equally dark room that held a window that light could be seen filtering through the window. We held two there. Mine was green, and hers... Maybe it was blue. She squeezed it, and it died. It's tongue lolled out, and its eyes bulged. It was dead. I remember an open window with a net that also killed another by having it closed on its neck by accident. He didn't know there was a net to the window, so he thought the it would get out. He killed it by accident.


I remember a living room that may have been down the hall that was by the staircase. I think it had that same sea blue (maybe green) carpet, but I'm not sure. There may have been that old vertically stripped couch that we had with off-white, hunter green, and rust colors to it, and maybe an old recliner that my dad would like to sit in. I remember sitting on my knees maybe around Christmas time with my brother, trying to figure out how to work a yo-yo. We had matching ones. They may have been a yellow-ish brown. They lit up with red lights if you used it right. They had pickachus on it. All I really managed to do was knot my string.


I remember playing with my older brother. He said "[omitted]" I was no older than three. He was sixteen. I said okay in childish curiosity, and he did hold his end of the deal as if there were nothing to it. I was carried to a room. It was dark. Set on the bed, I looked towards the open door to which I could see light filtering through as [omitted]. I remember being at a maybe a gas station as we saw him off, him carrying multiple bags onto a blue and white bus. "Where is he going?" I asked. I got something along the lines of "Away." in reply. "Why?" I asked again. "He did something bad." I didn't know any better and had blamed myself for it.


In that town we lived in a culdesac. I remember riding a pink barbie jeep around the circle road with two other kids. They were brother and sister. I knew their jeep was the brother's because of the black color to it and red and orange flames. We drove together, smiling. I remember a boy with pale skin and black hair. "He's my boyfriend." I would say. We went to daycare together, but there was another boy. He had blonde hair, and he knew that I would say as well, "He's my boyfriend." I preferred him over the black haired boy. He would tell me "I have a secret for you." And I would ask, "What?" even though I knew the answer. He would always lean towards my ear and whisper, "I'm not your boyfriend." to which I'd reply, "Yes you are!"


I remember sitting at a rectangle shaped table that was short, the size for children at day care. It was the end of the day and everyone was eating their snacks as parents waited by the door for them to finish so they could leave. I can recall eating broccoli with ranch, smiling as I saw my mother waiting by the door. I can remember leaving that place for the last time, taking my laminated hand print that had information about me on it, a picture, or both. I think mine was pink, and I can recall other kid's hand prints being hung on the wall outside of the room. It would be sometime later when I'd ask, "Why'd I ever stop going there? I remember it was fun." I don't remember it being fun anymore, which is depressing. "You were sick." My mother replied. "I don't remember being sick."

 

[gabrielle]

"Why does it bother you?"


There are a few things that I've been needing to mention to you for a while now. This is three weeks overdue, and there is nothing to blame outside of my own avoidance of speaking of emotion (notice the way badly placed, forced jokes and fake shows of amusement spill out at a moment of discomfort), a denial of there ever being a problem (there's a common phrase to be used here: ignore it and act like it doesn't exist until it's screaming in my face to where dealing with it is completely unavoidable), and the discomfort of bringing about such serious and dreaded topics that are destined to surface even more confusion and mixed feelings, some of which are bound to be hurt. These topics are always difficult to approach with the awkwardness of trembling nervousness, lost words, and a stutter that all do well in creating a silence to be filled out with meaningless avoidance: "Heck, wow, never mind. I don't know what I'm saying." Or to be played off with jokes, things that are far more easier to deal with rather than trying to explain the complexities of thoughts and feelings when those are things that I can barely sort out myself with the inconstant turbulence of it. While I would never show the volatility it spurs, that doesn't deny that it is there; a nagging constant pulling vacant expressions and a mind far more preoccupied with sorting those things out rather than paying regard to more important matters concerning the present.


Even so, I feel as if these are empty, meaningless words that don't concern you and probably shouldn't; hence another cause for the poor timeliness of these matters. You know, because if it doesn't matter to you, why bother in going through the difficulty of writing this down? In those "weird family dynamics," that I barely mention let alone elaborate on, there has been a pertinent truth placed upon it: emotion is a completely private thing that is of no concern to others. I grew up being told to shut up if I cried in the presence of others, to get away if the comfort of affection was sought, and ridiculed for hurt feelings and anger pulled from other's actions. Over these instances you learn a few things: people, even those closest to you, will disappoint and distress; showing the vulnerability you feel will only make things ten times worse given that it provides even more ammunition to the possibilities of upset; and perhaps most disheartening to those that feel otherwise... comfort, praise, and reassurance from others is a completely unreliable and therefore unnecessary thing. And in that you find at least some semblance of an explanation for the strict pessimism and reservedness that I live by. In telling you this I hope you see that there is a reason for everything, even if you don't reflect on it. As a person who is constantly trying to find meaning and explanations for even the smallest of things, I've found that no action is taken without incentive.


So let me ask of you this, how does one look upon one and place a name to the box in which they stood? Could you even begin to count the plethora of things thrown together in such a small space all caused by the pettiest of concepts? A disordered mind, a disordered family, and those around which are too concerned with themselves to really care. They say it's genetics, genetics, genetics, mixed synapses, and bad hormone levels. The mother had it, the sister had it, the brothers probably have it, and there were bound to be others before with it. So it runs in the family, right? How fitting it'd go to another. Suicide in the morning, flowers in the afternoon, and tears of anxiety in the night. It's a continuous cycle.


A cycle that has the capability that is fully taken advantage of to pull one toward self hatred, disordered eating, impulsiveness, hallucinations, and self destruction. Yet on the other end it's being on top of the world. From one end to the other it's the basement and then the roof. Sometimes the basement is the only thing seen for months, years at a time. Other times it's the basement for only a week, an hour, five minutes then it's up to the roof for weeks, months. Then in the midst of it you go back and forth--the basement, no the roof, no-anxiety.


We're stuck in the middle in an anxious mess with fingertips tapping along collar bones, a hand around the neck because what if things get too deep and that's your only way out? A silence born from a tightly shut frown too anxious to speak because it was convinced that words should not tremble. Words should not be spoken if this disaster is all you can think of; they shouldn't and physically cannot be. Disgrace and reprimands were given at such a young age in response to upset feelings and tears; how could one stir from that and grow to be one for expression? Affection was scorn upon and laid entirely absent in everywhere it should lay. "Get off of me." "What's wrong with you." "..." Where you'd expect the responses to be "I don't want this to end." "I love you too." and "Are you okay?" Wounds were supposedly healed upon words of "shut up, it's not that bad," when the placement of them has an entirely subjective response. Yet none of this is comparable to the ridicule, disappointment, and everything found wrong with one when all that had been given was the very absolute best, all for mother dearest.

 

[gabrielle]

"Collections."

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This was madness. A loss of reality. It was danger. Instability. Insanity was a violation to society, and above all, it was indifference to the difference of and within itself. The thoughts, behavior, sociability, personality... It was all impaired. The beliefs of it are not ideas that are possessed. They are ideas that possess the mind. This was the purgatory of society. It was for the freaks, the weirdos. Take in all your traumatized, mentally unstable, starving, wrathful, sick children stuck in their own heads because the world itself is to abstruse and esoteric. It's too harsh and too confusing. It's a mismatched Rubik's Cube. Only the best seem to figure it out, and if you can't... Well. You better learn to like disorganization.

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His forgiveness wasn't infinite, but is anything ever as you expect it to be? I thought he'd be so much more; that we'd be so much more. I guess I was just naive, or maybe I cared too much and he, not enough. I'm pretty sure it was just me looking for something rather than waiting for it to find me. Love isn't something that you can rush, is it?

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You're stuck in the middle. A lost, empty medium of the minorities crashing about in the calamity of the fact that they are in a limbo, a sort of purgatory that they were not prepared for. That they were thrown into with no instruction, no company, and no warning. They were left here alone. Abandoned. Left to fend for themselves and figure out what the hell life is for them, because there is no one that knows the answer for them. Any words that they could offer prove to be meaningless. How could you apply the ideas of a life suited for one that was unfathomable to the likes of those found in the state of oblivion and abeyance stuck in the painful in between of almost?

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Life was a concoction of nauseating pills. All of which never seemed to work quite as well as the doctors would have hoped for, but hey, as long as things are manageable, why worry? It was a continuous cycle of downing those pills and looking past the sickness of side affects all while ignoring the things that weren't fixed in their painfully disordered mind. It's okay. There's a way to cope. You stop caring and go after what you're really looking for: a place in the world made for normalcy, populated by the unsound. There is comfort to be found in company. This is where you find their elaborate, vaguely self-righteous crusade of finding others that would make their own and everyone included's life a bit more worth while.

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They are evil, sick beings. They are fragile, and they are yours. But they are not right. You could break their spines, but you won't because you love them. But they are evil. They are not right. They plot and plan against you. They would kill you in your sleep if you wouldn't lock their doors. The boy... The boy, he'll beat you if he weren't afraid of you. And the girl... The girl would tear you down with her words if you wouldn't get to her first. You will break down their wills, and you will win. Your only hope here is to show them who is the one in power here. You will succeed, but at what cost?

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I think there's a certain way things go in life. The wind always calms; it always picks up.

This isn't a story for you, and it's not a story you will remember. It's one for the sake of myself, for the sake of getting it out before it rips itself out of me. It's not something you will feel. It's not something you will understand. It's not something you can fix.

Life gets better; that's definite truth. But once things settle down, right when trust finds its way and you allow yourself to feel, the cycle starts all over. You're ripped from your comfort, torn by the fact that you let in emotion. It hurts. The tumult twists and tears itself inside you. It squeezes your heart, sits on your chest, and keeps a hand around your neck, and there's nothing you can do about it except accept the fact that you allowed this to happen. You allowed yourself to trust them just enough when you knew, you fucking knew this would happen. It's always happened, and it always will. Trust is always broken every, fucking every time. People are inconsiderate. They lie to you, and they speak of thorns. They put themselves before you even when you're always too good to them. That's your fault. You're too good. You're too fucking good to people. This will always be your downfall.

I don't understand how some people can completely rip apart others without feeling a single thing.

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The lines here are not blurred. There is a strict distinction between well and unwell. Healthy and unhealthy. Happy and unhappy. Self-loving and self-loathing. Well, my dear, I'm afraid you just so happen to be unlucky enough to be stuck on the wrong side. The borders are rigid here. You're better off giving in and giving up on your hope. This is all you have left. Take advantage of it. Be the best you that you can be.

 

[gabrielle]

"I know more of when it happened rather than why"


A passing glimpse in the midst of the haze in exhaustion; energy left spent in the addictive escaping of realities. There was a hint of curiosity behind the pleasant cloud of a song. A small acknowledgement of the fact that there was nothing I knew aside for a look that seemed to be almost as lost as myself, yet there was beauty in it and the slow gracefulness that followed. Without a voice and without initiative, there was acceptance--no, apathy--left in the lack of everything.


There was more to follow. Joy in the simplicity. Comfort in the warmth and constant steadiness. Something not asked for, but something unknowingly and desperately needed. It was a feeling of being perfectly okay (maybe even more than that) without speaking a word. Going through motions because it was something needed to be done... Then finding surprise in what was found as it had never been expected to be in what was never done before.


And maybe, just maybe... What was better was the loss found. There wasn't comfort in the hollowness of it, but in the affirmation that what was there, what was felt, what was real in all of the noise biting out, fussing that it wasn't.


Smoke in the air, the fading linger of mint. There was a pain scratching, ripping itself through voluntarily; a fire not only in the ground but burning for what seemed to feel like an eternity in the wounds of years before. Wounds that weren't remembered, but ones that couldn't be helped. But there was more to be found in fighting through it, looking past the taste of red metal. The reward was in experiencing more of what was there, what wasn't the fire or the paralyzing chill.


There are hopes in these places. Hope for much more despite the opposition in its danger. This is trust. It should be respected well, as the trust for hope isn't something so easily given or received. Trust for the hope in that there will be more, that this won't end as some game, some joke that was never taken so seriously. Something that hadn't gone well. The agony to be had of being lost once again is inevitable, but there is nothing so bad without something so much better. The intimacy of being alone, but not entirely. The vulnerability of sleep made not so terrifying. The fear of life shared and forgotten in the understanding and company. A connection found under what isn't supposed to happen, but was enjoyed nonetheless. Porcelain burning under distant fire, there isn't a care. There's comfort here.


It exists in the ease of kindness and company. In the act of consideration. It's a rare thing to have. Blind trust in the ravenous beings of the world, vultures that no one will ever know well enough for that sort of generosity, but it's there. And that's what matters; it's all that has ever been desired to be seen. A subtle protectiveness, somber truth spoken, and fleeting glimpses. This is all that matters.

 

[gabrielle]

"The Gold They Never Found"


White walls and a white room. There was a stiffness to that hour, not only for the way its air chilled me to the bone but also in the way of seeing the ice those others held. I didn't know any of them, but there was one thing I knew. Hidden behind the smudges and murks of not knowing and not seeing was an undeniable want and perhaps even a need to become familiar with these surroundings. It wasn't intentional, but rather, it was natural. Pieces fell into place with light words, unburdened smiles, and lingering, shy gazes that were never as subtle as we would've hoped. 



Walking along those warm stones, I saw the way the red and pinks of them had faded over the months and years. We'd stepped over them too many times before and said too many words only to have them be lost to the days. Yet times like these still stand in fondness. Longing to reach out, wanting to connect yet not having the nerve. Playing upon a silly game of wanting to know, let me know, let me see you for what you are. I saw it, and I couldn't look away. Passion for something I'd soon discover myself. I was lost yet I recognized the feeling, and it was one I never wanted to miss witnessing again.



The sharpness of novelty spice forms around you; it's something so unique I could never form the proper words for it. It's genuineness and generosity in its purest form. Sunlight in a warm day during the afternoons in which we find ourselves most content. The comfort of freedom and no responsibility. Being so naive to the world and overwhelmingly vulnerable. I see that now, and I'll never approve of not noticing this before. 



It's not how I ever imagined it to be, yet it was as I knew it to exist. That uniform taste, and the clumsiness of not knowing. Hidden by darkness and rushed by uncertainty, or perhaps it was something more romantic. I'll have it as it was and know--no, hope that more will come.



The second option was oddly my first, and I'm ashamed to say that I'd become accustomed to something so different that never should have been mine. I'd always loved those curves and dips even in their lack of any softness and even in those moments of insecurity and dismissal. I've always found it a shame that I seemed to be the only one to love everything that those others have overlooked. At the end of the day, they'll never know the warmth that still exists. The warmth that I'll never be able to capture, but I'll sure as hell always long for. 



There's not much we can ask for here. Early mornings with that soft, overwhelming sweetness. Losing ourselves in the track of time, in with everything and out with even more. Moments of intimacy neither of us probably would have expected. Sharing those threads under one roof, and I'll dream of witnessing those notes and whispers from the depths of you. 



The tides have already ripped through here, and I'd be a fool to think they'd never return. Yet as things will always seem to go, I'm awfully in denial, and I'll always hope for the best in these situations. Turns of the past, those nights spent ripping ourselves apart... The only thing that could bring that back would be to take too much and leave without enough. Where do we stand to stay in the middle of that, blindfolded through it all?



Others have seen that I know this, and beauty was the only word that was left in their wake. That commitment to something that has always lingered and seems as if it will always stay. The excitement that follows, and the untouchable, unmatchable talent uncovered in those moments of vulnerability. Innocence and good intention, wanting nothing more than to be wanted and not dreaming of apologizing for it. It's humanity in its most beautiful form, and I can't even begin to tell of the things I've learned and loved from it. 



Those words stuck with me as they lingered and mirrored my own, and all that was left wasn't a sense of relief. It was a heavy sense of dread only because I care too much. The confession of what I was responsible for burdened me with not wanting to have this thrown on the floor a second time, but the mindfulness found in that flaw of worry can only bring a hopeful promise of safety for the both of us. 



What started this will always be a blur in terms of certainty, but there is one thing that has always been undeniable: it was the joy and trust I found. The comfort and stability, even if we were both too blind to understand it. That's what left things to ruin, but by the end of everyday, it will always have been the first and remain unforgotten. 
 

 

[gabrielle]

"A Heart Twice Broken"


[SIZE=11pt]Neither times did they come back to me. I came back to them. I guess that brings the beginning of a new set of questions burning into my soul, begging to be asked.[/SIZE]


[SIZE=11pt]Did it feel like I was the one that left? Did it feel like I was the one that walked away?[/SIZE]


[SIZE=11pt]I went to him on a tidal wave of emotion and tore my way into these streets with nothing in my eyes but the sight for destruction. It has proven to be one of the worst times of my life, yet there he stood, steady beside me as he told me he loved me. It was something I’d always held, but things don’t seem to be like they used to be. Or maybe they were as I was stuck reaching for a hand that wasn’t meant to stay. No matter how much I wish it wasn’t so, he is of the elusive kind and is free at a level I cannot match. I think that this is maybe where we differ and where I begin to feel lost and immature. Lesser in a way. I find he knows better than I do in more ways than one. I have a feeling that is the reason why I long for something I can never have.[/SIZE]


[SIZE=11pt]I went to you not in the worst times, but somehow in one of the better ones despite the intensity of it. Maybe it was a mistake I’ll rip into my heart as my skin burns and bleeds from it later, but for now I need only to see the girl of before. She was more beautiful yet not any more mature. Naive and reckless at best, but I don’t think that’s ever changed. Somehow the decisions I’ve always labeled to be the worst have turned out to be the best.[/SIZE]


[SIZE=11pt]How were you when I was gone? How are you now?[/SIZE]


[SIZE=11pt]I almost don’t want to ask, and maybe, I don’t need to know. All I can look to is the comfort of things I’d never quite seen as clearly as before, and hold myself back from any more mistakes. I’d hoped for better, and I can only wish that this is it. [/SIZE]

 

[gabrielle]

"Avery and Dex"


[SIZE=11pt]While the day had started badly, Dex found that there was always a calm to be found after enough time spent in exhausting his anger. The method in which that had taken place could be seen clearly on his fists as bruises colored them, but for the time being he was too exhausted to remain upset. At this point, he was drained of all that had been bothering him, and all he cared about was looking towards those that were present in his life. He was sick and tired of all the drama that has stirred inside of him because of the loss of two souls in his life. One lost to death and the other from heartbreak. The time it took to heal completely from these things frustrated him to no end. That goes without mentioning the belief he held quietly to himself that there were some things that would never leave you. While he found that to be true, it was simply too devastating of a reality for him to face at the moment. [/SIZE]


[SIZE=11pt]Perhaps despite all of his exhaustion, resentment would always linger. That’s just part of who he was, wasn’t it? Maybe the fire that kept him alive all this time was never a will for life but was instead the anger that kept him too vengeful to give in to sorrow. As things stood, despite any amount of unmanageable emotion or circumstance, he’d never been one to take anything out on himself. In his eyes, there was pride to be found in his resilience for that, but it’s questionable all the same as the call for that truth stands in his anger, the ugliest part he saw in himself. [/SIZE]


[SIZE=11pt]While there was beauty to be found in passionate emotion and the vulnerable expression of its intensity, Dex found that to be lost in the matter of its wake. Rage was only beautiful when it was unharming and reserved. Not whenever it possessed the entire form of a body and spewed out its volatility to anything in sight without any regard to consequence. A clenched jaw and an ugly scowl. Tight fists painting bruises and blood as inanimate objects crack and break under the stress. In that, it stands that no one has ever found Dexter’s anger to be beautiful. Everyone has always witnessed it to be frightening, if even to the boy himself. [/SIZE]


[SIZE=11pt]With that thought, Dex found himself glancing toward Avery as they walked along the trail. He wondered if she feared him, yet part of him already knew the answer. While it was true that she has yet to see the uglier, more truthful side of him, she has seen the surface of it. All the times that he’s snapped, if even only slightly as it was only shown in his words, volume, and appearance and in never his actions, he felt that anyone was bound to be distrustful of him. As much as Dexter found the lack of trust to be completely called for and necessary, it still tore painfully at his heart in silence.[/SIZE]


[SIZE=11pt]He would always be the first to disapprove of anyone trusting him completely, and his sister would be the first to understand that, especially with the scar running visibly across the bridge of his nose. Dex has always tried his damnedest to never hurt others in the wake of his anger, but that’s not to say it hasn’t already happened and never will. If the boy couldn’t even trust himself in terms of violence, he found it completely inappropriate for anyone else to be that comfortable with him, and in that, he knew (or rather, assumed) that there was no way Avery would ever feel entirely safe with him.[/SIZE]


[SIZE=11pt]That’s not to say it didn’t upset him, but to hell if he wanted to linger on that thought now.[/SIZE]


[SIZE=11pt]As they sat together, Dex was determined to enjoy his time. The sky was clear and the air was warm; it was his favorite type of weather. He wasn’t about to put up with seeing some silly girl that didn’t know how to treat him ruin his day. He wasn’t entirely sure what made his time with Avery enjoyable, but now wasn’t the time that he was going to spend questioning it.[/SIZE]


[SIZE=11pt]While she admired the setting, Dex found himself admiring her, and with that, the words “You’re so pretty, Avery,” slipped out softly. It wasn’t the first time the thought had crossed his mind, and he was confident that this wouldn’t be the last. [/SIZE]


[SIZE=11pt]As always, Dex held no fear of rejection and remained unembarrassed in his demeanor. There was a definite fondness to his tone as his voice was always the giveaway to his emotion, but there was no nervousness that followed. He’d simply said the words casually even if they held a heavier, more truthful meaning. His eyes remained on her for only a few remaining seconds in a moment of genuineness before he looked away, not wishing to stare. [/SIZE]



[SIZE=11pt]With that, any tangible feeling of romance drifted as he changed the mood of his tone and diction in a show of curiosity. “So how’s the lake been for you?” He asked lightly. They hadn’t seen much of each other outside of the day he’d made it a point to stay by her side, and in all honesty, it didn’t seem like she’d had too much of a good time. Even if he had been around her for only a few hours, he could see that something was bothering her, but he wasn’t intuitive enough to pick up on what caused it. The want to help her nagged at him persistently, but the way in which to approach the issue had him at a standstill. Dex was never confident in these situations, especially as frustration quickly rose in him whenever his efforts to help were rejected because of something as easily understandable as the other person not being comfortable enough to speak. And if there was one thing he didn’t want to happen now of all times, it was for him to become angry with her. [/SIZE]

 

[gabrielle]

"Honey Bones"


[SIZE=11pt]There are parts of you I don’t know. The intimacy of what your room ever looked like, what you think of before you go to sleep or the first thought in the morning. What words you needed to hear most as a child and if you ever got to hear them now. The length of your mother’s hair or if she’s the ideal sense of beauty you see in the world. There’s so much I don’t know, and I feel that I’ll never know. There’s beauty in that, I think. Because as long as you can stay with a person, you’ll always have different backgrounds and different experiences that the other will never know about. Maybe there’s a sense of loneliness in that, but I find a comfort in it if only because that means no matter what, there is always something to learn. And the pursuit of knowledge in itself is one thing I find needed in life.[/SIZE]


[SIZE=11pt]I had three hundred and forty days to make the best time of my life with you. I had one hundred and forty-three to make it the best time of my life without you. [/SIZE]


[SIZE=11pt]In truth, I hadn’t noticed the weight in time until now. Or rather, the lack of it. [/SIZE]


[SIZE=11pt]There was one mistake I had in the idea of love. It was that such a thing was incredibly dangerous and should be avoided at all costs only because it is a very severe mistake to have your happiness rely on someone else. This in part led to me holding myself back quite a bit. However, I can see that’s wrong, and it shouldn’t have taken a heart ripped open four times over for me to see that. [/SIZE]


[SIZE=11pt]Happiness is not what makes romance dangerous. It’s the trust that makes it hell covered up with a halo. [/SIZE]


[SIZE=11pt]I want to say that I’ve now seen it all and so I have nothing to fear, but I know I haven’t. [/SIZE]


[SIZE=11pt]I wish I had something profound to say, but all I can confess to is a feeling of dread holding me back from what I want the most. [/SIZE]


[SIZE=11pt]I’ve written so much about the breaks in a heart, I think I’ve forgotten how to write about the flowers that grow between them. [/SIZE]


[SIZE=11pt]I think maybe I’ve fallen in love with the idea of war. [/SIZE]


[SIZE=11pt]And maybe, I might just be the war itself in the form of skin too soft to touch and too cold to comfort. Yet look at where we are. [/SIZE]


[SIZE=11pt]As stupid as I feel for this, I think hands can be forgiven just as much as words can be. I know it’s wrong. I know it’s selfish. But again, look at where we are. [/SIZE]



[SIZE=11pt]Maybe it’s a lack of self-respect, but I’d like to say that it’s something else. [/SIZE]