Dulcis Mors Mortis

Crying is a sign of weakness, although it is also a part of life. Girls in stories cry in the dark times of their minds, and that could mean no particular thing or the end of a sale at their favorite store, but in the end, it's there and it's powerful. In stories it is the job of writers to display humans as humanly as possible. A girl with white blonde hair and bright blue eyes with perfect skin, straight, white teeth, perfect everything and all the perfections in all it's just bull shit. Writing someone off as perfect is not realistic, it doesn't matter if it's fantasy. Everyone has flaws. Everyone.

For me, it's my pride in crying.

But that doesn't stop it from pouring out when I get back to my dorm.

Luckily, I didn't have class. It was Saturday, if you could believe it. I took Friday off for the funeral and now as I lay in bed bawling my eyes out drunk as hell I was so fucking relieved that I didn't have to face human beings when the sun rose.

I passed out as I was beginning to sober up, waking with eyeliner streaked across my cheeks and on my hands, clothes wrinkled and feet aching, my hair a nest. My throat ached along with my head. The first thing on my mind was water. Lots, and lots of water. And then coffee. Even more coffee.

I chugged probably a liter of water within twenty minutes while I made coffee on the coffee machine I smartly kept in my dorm room. As that was happening I tried to forget about the night, day, and week of my past life and focus on the writing piece due Monday. I sat on my bed, curled up in a ball with my MacBook humming ever so quietly, a blank page waiting to be filled. I hated the beginnings, beginnings sucked.

Within half an hour of me ramming my head for ideas and drinking three cups of coffee I had my cell phone ringing off the hook, making me extremely thankful that Brianne was working and not in bed like usual. In all honesty I jut wanted to throw my phone across the room and forget about it but after ringing off the hook for approximately five minutes I gave up and answered.

“Hello?” I mentally cringed, hoping that I didn’t sound incredibly bitchy and rude, and that if I did the person wouldn’t be anyone I particularly needed to please.

“What’s happening, CeCe?”

I groaned inwardly. Jude.

“What do you want, Jude?” I flopped onto my bed, letting the soft comforter consume me.

“For one to make sure you’re still alive, which you are, thankfully, and two, I was wondering if you wanted to go fetch some breakfast. I’m in New York City, I mean c’mon, what’s the best food city in the nation?”

“Portland, dumbass. The place where you’ve lived your whole fucking life.”

“So? It gets boring. New York’s so much nicer. And I know you’re oh-so loyal to your precious hippie-town but this food here is delicious, and I wanna fucking eat some. So get up, Bitch Queen, we’re going to breakfast. You pick the spot.”

“Fine, whatever asshole. Just as long as Tate shows up. Otherwise you can fucking forget it.”

“Well of course, milday.”

“Fuck. OFF.”

“Fine, fine, go drink your potions that make you look pretty. I’ll see you soon. Text me the location.”

I didn’t even bother saying any sort of good-bye. I hung up immediately, picking the restaurant closest to my dorm that sounded the least disgusting. The thought of waffles and fried chicken actually sounded quite heavenly. I texted him the address and as if trying to disprove his point I wiped off the smeared make up leaving only a slight pink in the cheeks and black around the eyes, pulling my red mane into a French braid.

I tugged off my tights and dress, sighing in relief as I changed into a long-sleeved sweater reaching my thighs which were covered in thick stockings that felt so much more comfortable. I wrapped a scarf around my neck, shoved my notebook, Persuasion, a pencil and wallet into my camera bag and grabbed my worn down utility jacket as I pulled on a pair of new riding boots while trudging out the door.

The restaurant was in walking distance, and I reached it before anyone else thankfully, ordering coffee immediately at the seemingly empty table for four. As I drank down another glass of water I flipped through my notebook, sketching out a writing web trying to form my “moral thesis”. I think my writing professor’s a stoner.

I was so deep in that I wouldn’t have cared one bit if Jude bailed and “forgot” to tell Matty and Tate about our shitty breakfast event. But sadly he slammed a palm in my face as he sat down, chuckling at my wide eyes at the sudden distraction from my paragraphs.

“The fucking aliens could descend on us and you wouldn’t notice.” He commented, sliding into the seat across from me. I scoffed, slamming the notebook shut and shoving it into my bag.

“You could spend your life discovering aliens didn’t exist and you still wouldn’t believe anyone.” I shot back. It was weak, and stupid. But I was starving.

“You’ve always been so against my love for the supernatural.” He sighed, smiling at the waitress that came by to take a drink order. I impatiently waited for Tate and Matty to arrive so I could order my food. At this point I’ve probably lost all the extra weight gained from alcohol consumption.

Finally, as I got through my third cup of coffee at the restaurant and sixth cup that day, Tate and Matty fell through the door. Tate wore her Nirvana t-shirt and cargo pants, all the while with crazy hair, Dr. Martens and a black pea coat and scarf yet she still looked a lot more professional then I probably ever would. Maybe it was her pea coat.

They sat themselves down, and everything became routine. It was just like high school, when we went out for breakfast after a night of partying, where we all had mad hangovers and tobacco breath. Although Fisher would always pull up an extra chair to my side of the table, as if seating himself at the head was just normality. Because it was.

I was staring at that empty spot where he would be if he were here for probably half of the time we’d been there, still staring at that spot even after the waitress filled it when she asked for our orders. No one minded me, there was loud laughter, Tate falling out of her chair in a matter of minutes and Matty trying to flirt with the waitress in hopes she’d get him a Bloody Mary. Jude at one point pinched my side, but that was only when the food arrived and I still hadn’t touched my chicken and waffles.

“Hey, Queen Bitch, eat your cereal.”

“This isn’t cereal, schmuck.” He was cackling.

“I know, but I always told that to you whenever I crashed at your place. You always forgot to eat your breakfast.” Tate was giggling now too.

“Yeah, it looks like she still does, Jude, leave the girl alone.” She sat on my side of the table and leaned over to give my thigh a squeeze. “If you wanna write in your damn journal you don’t have to ask.” She whispers and I slap her playfully on the shoulder, leading us both to laughing loudly.

It was all repetitive history, and I should’ve lightened up and been happier about everything, forgotten about my writing paper and Fisher, because I was with people that had always made me happy, even after we all graduated and moved to different places. Jude went back to the place where he’d been born in Ohio, Tate went to college in southern California so she could surf and study zoology like the hippie she is, and Matty decided not to go that far and head to Oregon State University, which apparently was party mania. Good for him.

But I felt deep down shitty as hell. And I wanted to go back to my dorm and disappear into my thick comforter with coffee and my computer and just let it all go to waste. Screw trying to be something.

“Celia. Celia!”

I shook a little. “What?”

Tate had a straight look on her face. “Were you listening?”

I groaned, sliding down in my seat and shoving chicken into my mouth making my voice muffled. “No.”

Jude kicked my leg under the table. I whined in annoyance and kicked back even harder. His eyes narrowed.

Matty, noticing our little escapade broke in, “We were all agreeing to open our secret jar shindigs.”

Now I was staring, wide eyed at each and every one of them. “No.”

Tate groaned. “Celia, we all know Fisher made sure you got his. You’re being a coward.”

I stood from the table, dropping a twenty-dollar bill onto it as I put on my coat. “You do whatever you want, I’m not going anywhere near that thing.”

I suppose I’m just a heartless, retched bitch, but who cares. That jar was all I had left of him.