Status: alive
Apologies
I thought I had it all,
Her scent engulfed him.
Even after she was gone, he caught waves of her as he stalked from room to room in their tiny apartment. The walls, still painted that ghastly orange color she loved, served as an ever present reminder that she existed. As she grew sicker, she would manage a smirk when he brought flowers and strummed notes on his guitar, whispering lyrics to a song she would never have the chance to hear in full.
She liked to reach her pale arm out and touch him, her fingers so fragile he feared they might break against his exterior. They both knew that their time was short, and yet still they never addressed it. She talked of her dreams, her plans to refurbish antique store finds and fill their future home with pictures of anything and everything. It's all beautiful, she'd insist. I want our home to be filled with everywhere we go. He'd listen, ever enthralled by his dying girl. He'd make promises, knowing in the back of his mind that they were ones he couldn't ever keep.
She died on a Thursday at 4:58 a.m., as the sun crept slowing into the early clouds. While she was dying, he ran his fingers along the warm flesh of someone else. Her heart rate accelerating, as fear courses through her body, eyes flashing from either corner of the room as doctors and nurses push in scrambling, routinely trying to keep her alive for one more day. When the doctors confirmed the time of death, he rolled over curving his body to meet the frame of another's.
His darling girl's funeral was held on a Friday at 5:45 p.m., as the sheets of rain clouds carried out the monsoon. As she was lowered in the ground, whiskey burned his esophagus. As dirt covered her casket, the bartender pitying his pallid frame, told him that he thought he'd had enough. As the grieving family left her in the cold, dark soil, he fell into their once shared bed, where his screams and curses were muffled by the thick comforter.
John never forgave himself for letting her die alone. He pictured it every day. Her once shining eyes, so scared. Her last thoughts being about how he failed her. His dreams would leave him in cold sweats, panting as images of her slowly slipped from his intoxicated mind.
Three years passed like this, as John's band rose to fame. Every show was a reminder of how much she had believed in him. Her eyes lighting up as she clapped on that dirty old sofa in the basement, cherishing the songs that were loosely inspired by her. The alcohol was plentiful. There was always someone on the road who wanted a piece of him. Each head full of blonde hair could be his escape for a few hours until that whiskey cleared from his vision and the reminder, like an incessant alarm clock, couldn't be muted any longer.
She was dead. She was dead. She was dead.
Even after she was gone, he caught waves of her as he stalked from room to room in their tiny apartment. The walls, still painted that ghastly orange color she loved, served as an ever present reminder that she existed. As she grew sicker, she would manage a smirk when he brought flowers and strummed notes on his guitar, whispering lyrics to a song she would never have the chance to hear in full.
She liked to reach her pale arm out and touch him, her fingers so fragile he feared they might break against his exterior. They both knew that their time was short, and yet still they never addressed it. She talked of her dreams, her plans to refurbish antique store finds and fill their future home with pictures of anything and everything. It's all beautiful, she'd insist. I want our home to be filled with everywhere we go. He'd listen, ever enthralled by his dying girl. He'd make promises, knowing in the back of his mind that they were ones he couldn't ever keep.
She died on a Thursday at 4:58 a.m., as the sun crept slowing into the early clouds. While she was dying, he ran his fingers along the warm flesh of someone else. Her heart rate accelerating, as fear courses through her body, eyes flashing from either corner of the room as doctors and nurses push in scrambling, routinely trying to keep her alive for one more day. When the doctors confirmed the time of death, he rolled over curving his body to meet the frame of another's.
His darling girl's funeral was held on a Friday at 5:45 p.m., as the sheets of rain clouds carried out the monsoon. As she was lowered in the ground, whiskey burned his esophagus. As dirt covered her casket, the bartender pitying his pallid frame, told him that he thought he'd had enough. As the grieving family left her in the cold, dark soil, he fell into their once shared bed, where his screams and curses were muffled by the thick comforter.
John never forgave himself for letting her die alone. He pictured it every day. Her once shining eyes, so scared. Her last thoughts being about how he failed her. His dreams would leave him in cold sweats, panting as images of her slowly slipped from his intoxicated mind.
Three years passed like this, as John's band rose to fame. Every show was a reminder of how much she had believed in him. Her eyes lighting up as she clapped on that dirty old sofa in the basement, cherishing the songs that were loosely inspired by her. The alcohol was plentiful. There was always someone on the road who wanted a piece of him. Each head full of blonde hair could be his escape for a few hours until that whiskey cleared from his vision and the reminder, like an incessant alarm clock, couldn't be muted any longer.
She was dead. She was dead. She was dead.
♠ ♠ ♠
Restarting this story because I felt it had a lot of potential. As I reread it, I really missed writing and having a creative putlet. So this is a revamp, with light editing cause I’m 21 and not 16 anymore. The original was posted on my account vanillabliss if you want to read ahead but the events will be altered slightly since I have a good understanding of life now. Thanks!M