Status: Completed.
Her Sad Mechanic Exercise
02/03
Camille stared down the hall, she hadn't even moved into the home yet but she already felt so suffocated by whatever caused her heart to stutter. Pain seemed to be too tamed of a word to use for the feeling too.
That hand that turned her around that day he proposed, that hand was no longer reachable.
She felt the awaiting tears begin their reign, stinging at her eyes furiously as they began to overflow and rush down her face. Those only opened the floodgate of very attractive snot from her nose, and mascara staining her cheeks.
She hadn't slept with days since the funeral that was only a few weeks back. The memories were so haunting, so consuming. How could she?
She was the one who made him drive her home after the party after all.
Where were those fingers?
"Your mother said I should probably come visit." She smiled weakly. "She doesn't know where we put our time capsule."
Where was his laugh? Camille knew it was echoing through these hallways somewhere.
"It was such a stupid place to hide it too. So easy." She went on, talking to only air. Perhaps-hopefully- his spirit too.
Where was her contentment in life? Joshua must have flew away with it when he made his way to heaven.
"Joshua." Camille said softly to the chipping walls of the old home. "I wish I could go with you. Right now. But I know that would piss you off." She smiled, knowing that was completely true. Her hand set the bottle of vodka down on the floor and Camille led herself to where she knew she needed to go.
"I'm sorry," She went on, "I was so selfish. I made you drive. You lied though." She started to accuse as she continued. "You said you were good to drive!" The sentence was glazed with weak anger toward Joshua.
Camille found herself in front of the coat closet in the upstairs hallway. A simply foolish place to put a time capsule. A capsule with only but one item in it. She opened the door, its hinges squeaked painfully as she did so. At the very back of the top shelf was the old cardboard shoebox, and she opened it to find that one item.
An old, dusty picture of the two of them on their third date, or one of those one digit numbers.
Neither of them knew exactly when they first put it in that silly box.
Numbly, she stood. Numbly, she made her way back to her bottle that sat at the bottom of the steps. Numbly, she exited the dark home.
That hand that turned her around that day he proposed, that hand was no longer reachable.
She felt the awaiting tears begin their reign, stinging at her eyes furiously as they began to overflow and rush down her face. Those only opened the floodgate of very attractive snot from her nose, and mascara staining her cheeks.
She hadn't slept with days since the funeral that was only a few weeks back. The memories were so haunting, so consuming. How could she?
She was the one who made him drive her home after the party after all.
Where were those fingers?
"Your mother said I should probably come visit." She smiled weakly. "She doesn't know where we put our time capsule."
Where was his laugh? Camille knew it was echoing through these hallways somewhere.
"It was such a stupid place to hide it too. So easy." She went on, talking to only air. Perhaps-hopefully- his spirit too.
Where was her contentment in life? Joshua must have flew away with it when he made his way to heaven.
"Joshua." Camille said softly to the chipping walls of the old home. "I wish I could go with you. Right now. But I know that would piss you off." She smiled, knowing that was completely true. Her hand set the bottle of vodka down on the floor and Camille led herself to where she knew she needed to go.
"I'm sorry," She went on, "I was so selfish. I made you drive. You lied though." She started to accuse as she continued. "You said you were good to drive!" The sentence was glazed with weak anger toward Joshua.
Camille found herself in front of the coat closet in the upstairs hallway. A simply foolish place to put a time capsule. A capsule with only but one item in it. She opened the door, its hinges squeaked painfully as she did so. At the very back of the top shelf was the old cardboard shoebox, and she opened it to find that one item.
An old, dusty picture of the two of them on their third date, or one of those one digit numbers.
Neither of them knew exactly when they first put it in that silly box.
Numbly, she stood. Numbly, she made her way back to her bottle that sat at the bottom of the steps. Numbly, she exited the dark home.
♠ ♠ ♠
Tennyson wrote In Memoriam in memory of his dead best friend. (--- Henry Hallem, or something like that. I can't remember his first name.)My story may not be on the lines Tennyson wrote his, but this is what I began to picture as I read the second stanza for what it seems to be about the 60th time(: