A Year For You

It's hard being someone you hate.

I used to hate those whiny kids who cried over people dying.

I realize now that I was wrong.

I guess it was because I never experienced the effects of death: I never had a pet to see die. Not even a gold fish. Pathetic,right?

So that made it the hardest when they died. My grandparents (all of them) died shortly after I was born or before then. I had no brothers or sisters. No Aunties or Uncles. I was all alone.

That was what made it hardest.

And then I went on to college, alone and living off the fund that had been provided for me by my parents before my death.

I majored in art. In that class, I met the person who would change my life.

Callie. Soft and gentle like a summer breeze, as happy go lucky as a little puppy in the midst of a buttercup filled meadow. She changed my view of the world. I was no longer dark and miserable, I was alive, happy. I can remember her soft hair blowing gently in the breeze, long, wavy and blonde. She was like a hippie, without the drugs.

We got together not long after we met. She loved the way I could turn from dark and brooding and artistic to light and happy, just by looking at her.

Dare I say it, we loved each other.

And then, one day, I found her with another guy.

It hurt and I was eaten up inside. It hurt almost as much as my dead parents. It had only been summer break, we'd talked every day. So what drove her to this?

She clearly wasn't drunk, she was more straight edge than a ruler. Or maybe even more straight edge than a laser.

I no longer wanted to talk to her, not if she would hurt me like this. Not if this hurt wouldn't go away.

She told me that she would be back for me some day, and she hoped I would forgive her.

It's too late, she moved on. She didn't keep her promise.

And that's why, right now, I'm staring at the river, feeling dirty again. Another night, another memory.

Another memory, another whore.

It's payback.