Flowers Can't Fix Everything

"This is so unfair," she murmured, tears staining her cheeks.

Today had been a nightmare. Hell, the last month had been a nightmare. A recurring inferno, 30 days in the making. Ever since the crash, the call from the police, the blaring sirens, the chatter in the ER, the silence in the waiting room: everything had changed. Nothing was the same anymore, and Alaska hated that. She was still accustomed to coming home and seeing her parents happy, and smiling. Okay, maybe not all the time, but that was normal. They weren't a Stepford family. They were just generally very happy, optimistic people. But based on the current chain of events, their persona lacked animation to say the very least.

Alaska inhaled a breath of air, her body stuttering in its own gawky manner, the way it usually does when you try to hold back a crying fit. She was attempting just that, but even after two decades under the sun, over the rainbow and in the clouds, she still hadn't mastered it. Her gut gave way to a wail loud enough to wake the dead, but sorrowful enough to be mistaken for a cry of death. It was quite the morbid scene, and Brendon noticed that.

He'd been standing there for the better part of ten minutes, watching his dearest friend try to cope with her emotions. He frowned, his heart hurting for her. She couldn't hold back what she felt, and truth be told, that was what he loved about her. She could tell someone how she felt, she could be honest and trustworthy, and was the only one he knew in the whole world that could sound innocent while putting another person down with her bitter honesty. He smiled, reminding himself of the baby face she'd put on when she said something severely sincere. He let out a chuckle, but stopped. This layout was too depressing, and while he always preferred the brighter side of things, he knew that just this once, wallowing in misery would be the best medicinal remedy.

A sigh escaped his wet lips, which he persistently licked. He told everyone he knew that so long as his tongue was still lodged in between his jowl, chapstick would never be a necessity. Naturally, they thought he was mad and labelled him "lax lips." And naturally, he'd hated that. But Alaska never minded. She would just press her lips to his in a friendly embrace, and smile. He'd never return the gesture because he never really knew what it meant to her. It meant a lot to him, but hey, he was Brendon, the best friend, not the beau. He had been fine with that, up till now, of course. Those kisses meant so much more, especially this last month, because he hadn't gotten one. Not one since the accident. But he couldn't blame her. She was too distraught to blame, and if he showed anguish at the loss of a few friendly kisses, it would be like a slap in the face to her.

He stared at the wooden cross hanging from their porch door and scant tears escaped his brown eyes. He missed Alaska's mom, too. She had been like a second mother to him. Whenever he got hurt, or was upset, and couldn't face his own parents, she would do what she always did with her own children. She would wrap him in her arms, sit him on her lap, and rock him, urging him to talk to her. Tears would flow from his chubby child-like cheeks, and she would smile lovingly, and wave them away with a gentle caress of her beautiful hand. And he missed that. He had loved the way her hands had held him, and wiped his tears, and tended to his contusions. He looked back up at hislove friend. Her eyes didn't sparkle anymore as they stared lifelessly out into the open space. Flowers wilted in the humidity, grass crisped in the midday sun and old toys collected dust, dirt and debris from lying about, unmoved for endless weeks. Brendon took one last breath before finally moving his feet from the spot where he'd been standing. It was now or never, and even he knew, she couldn't survive without him. Not even close.

Alaska's eyes remained glued to the ball that lay in the middle of the backyard. She'd named it Tilly, because she'd felt like it. It helped take her mind off the pain, even if it was only for a little while. She didn't move even though she could hear the familiar footsteps of a friend rounding the corner. They weren't heavy steps; they were rather light, actually. They were light and airy, but she could hear them. She could hear them from a mile away. She finally turned her head to look up at him once his overcast shadow hindered the blinding light that had been annoying her so. But of course, she hadn't moved. She'd been more or less immobilized by everything else around her. Numb, to put it in laymen's terms.

"Do you want me to sit with you?"

Her voice cracked slightly, and she gave up on words. She nodded simply and stood up, her legs being pricked by covert pins and needles. Brendon sat down and watched as her legs collapsed beneath her, her weight brought down on him. He didn't mind. She'd become frail and thin since the accident. She hadn't eaten and now her clothes covered her, swallowing her in a sea of jersey pullovers and baggy sweats. Even her jeans slipped from her waist. He wrapped his arms around her and watched as her long legs lay, dwindling over the patio chair's arm. Her above-average female stature made her stick out a little bit, but Brendon liked being able to turn and see her eyes right there, looking back at his. Her big, brown eyes, full of life and wonder. He looked at them again. No. These weren't the same eyes, and this wasn't the same girl. These eyes were gray and dead, and this body was tired and frail. It pained him to look at, because he knew, deep down inside, that this really was the same girl he'd known and loved for all these years. She had the same messy, chocolate hair he loved to secretly smell. She had the same legs he'd loved to chase after. She had the same aesthetic regiment to boot. He frowned. Only this time, instead of smouldering kohl-rimmed eyes, liner applied with remarkable rigueur, he saw lifeless eyes, with blotches of black encircling them. He wanted to cry for her. She didn't deserve this kind of torture, and he felt as if he couldn't do anything. He felt like even trying to do something to make her feel better would make her feel as if he'd forgotten her mother. And that would frighten her because the last thing Alaska would ever want, would be to forget the one person she loved the most. That had been the problem from the start; forgetting. She didn't want to. She was determined not to.

"Walk."

She turned her head and looked at Brendon. She got to her feet, awaiting his reply, and he nodded, doing the same. She stuffed her hands into her jean pockets, and he watched as they fell down another inch, scraping against the pavement as she walked away from him. He followed her in hoping that by some God-given miracle, that maybe – just maybe – today, she'd smile.

Just once.