Sequel: Smile. ›
Stripes
Stripes
Stripes.
Oddly enough, they reminded me of her.
She always wore stripes, had a fascination with zebras and tigers too.
It was one of those little quirks people tend to have.
You know, the ones that sometimes annoy you to tears, or at others, put a smile on your face.
Everything she owned had some sort of stripes on it.
Even her jewelry.
She just had to wear them.
I remember the day she lost her prized possession.
Her necklace with the little zebra and tiger dangling side-by-side, wrapped around a heart.
She came to school completely out of character.
Her hair was frizzy and sticking up.
A messily applied smear of eyeliner adorned her face.
And not one thing she was wearing; had stripes on it.
That last thing was enough to make me almost fall out of my chair.
She walked into the room, and the atmosphere shifted.
The air got cold and still, and the shock was enough to power a nuclear bomb.
Simply put, she had made quite the impact on our school.
For an entire week, she was like that.
I remember going to her house and her usually neat room looked like a hurricane had ganged up with a few dozen tornados and decided to party in it.
And what a party it was.
When I walked in, I kind of just stood there, mouth wide open, staring around.
And then she popped up from the far corner, tears streaming down her face.
The necklace hanging limply from her hand. Broken.
I just walked over, and opened my arms.
And she immediately understood.
I remember watching her crumble after that.
No matter what I did, she never got better.
And I tried everything.
I spent entire days, learning her favorite songs on guitar, and every two nights, I went to her house and played one for her.
I made sure to talk to her everyday, go over to her house as much as possible, just be there.
And one of those nights, I learned the truth behind the stripes.
It was such an awful truth.
She had grown up without her dad, or so I thought.
From the day I met her, we silently agreed to never bring up her dad in any conversation.
And it always worked.
Except when one day, she just couldn’t take it anymore I guess.
She just had to tell someone.
And I happened to be that person.
When she was ten or eleven, her dad came to visit her on weekends.
Sometimes he took her out shopping or for ice cream.
And sometimes, after those events, he took her back to his place.
You probably all know where I’m going with this, don’t you?
But it’s true.
Every time he saw her, the last thing she remembered, was him raping her.
Raping her.
I felt like bursting out crying then, because I had never known.
I didn’t even try and find out, I didn’t even try to help.
The truth behind the stripes though…
That connected to the scars.
On her stomach, there were words, carved deep, as plain as day.
Fucking. Whore.
Apparently, she had accidentally wore a striped shirt over to his house.
And apparently, he had a deep hatred for anything of the striped variety.
She wouldn’t tell me why.
But she knew.
I remember a lot of things about her.
As I sit here, I take time to bring them into the light.
There’s nothing else better to do.
Except listen to the endless droning of the apathetic preacher, of course.
But no, let’s not do that.
I remember the day we first met, how surprised I was by her coordinating skills, on such a strict pallet.
Meaning the stripes, of course.
I remember the day on the swings.
The four Halloweens.
The Christmas’.
And the New Years.
I remember the countless sleepovers.
Staying up till four in the morning talking to each other, whether through texts or ims.
I remember sharing the stories and the songs.
The memories and bands.
I remember the numerous secrets, we only told each other.
The tears and the laughs.
The smiles and the frowns.
The peace and the pain.
Five years builds a lot of memories.
A lot of moments.
I remember when I first told her.
What I really felt.
Three years as friends, two years as lovers.
Although, all five were the last.
Granted, there were a lot of bumps in the road.
Fights and days of not talking to each other.
But in the end, it all somehow worked out.
It will all be okay in the end, they say.
If it’s not okay, then it’s not the end.
I believe in that one hundred percent.
I remember waking up, and having her right there.
I remember running to her house crying, and her just hugging me.
I remember so many nights, I just felt like running away, and then somehow, she stopped me. Made me think straight.
God, I’m so grateful I found her.
So many memories, I could go on for hours, days, weeks, months.
Years.
Right now, is when I wish we had more years.
But I’ll never have that.
No, never again.
At times, I feel like crying my heart out.
But I don’t.
Because I know, that if I do, I’ll want to run to her house.
And she won’t be there.
As I think this, the preacher steps down, and I wait.
I wait until everyone is gone, and then step up to the black box in front of me.
Taking a deep breath, I place the roses on the head, on top of all the others.
Their striped paper stands out amazingly from the rest.
Just like she did.
I pull out the silver chain and place it around the roses.
Making sure the tiger and the zebra are the very top.
Smiling up at me, and smiling down at her.
Carrying their story for years to come.
Oddly enough, they reminded me of her.
She always wore stripes, had a fascination with zebras and tigers too.
It was one of those little quirks people tend to have.
You know, the ones that sometimes annoy you to tears, or at others, put a smile on your face.
Everything she owned had some sort of stripes on it.
Even her jewelry.
She just had to wear them.
I remember the day she lost her prized possession.
Her necklace with the little zebra and tiger dangling side-by-side, wrapped around a heart.
She came to school completely out of character.
Her hair was frizzy and sticking up.
A messily applied smear of eyeliner adorned her face.
And not one thing she was wearing; had stripes on it.
That last thing was enough to make me almost fall out of my chair.
She walked into the room, and the atmosphere shifted.
The air got cold and still, and the shock was enough to power a nuclear bomb.
Simply put, she had made quite the impact on our school.
For an entire week, she was like that.
I remember going to her house and her usually neat room looked like a hurricane had ganged up with a few dozen tornados and decided to party in it.
And what a party it was.
When I walked in, I kind of just stood there, mouth wide open, staring around.
And then she popped up from the far corner, tears streaming down her face.
The necklace hanging limply from her hand. Broken.
I just walked over, and opened my arms.
And she immediately understood.
I remember watching her crumble after that.
No matter what I did, she never got better.
And I tried everything.
I spent entire days, learning her favorite songs on guitar, and every two nights, I went to her house and played one for her.
I made sure to talk to her everyday, go over to her house as much as possible, just be there.
And one of those nights, I learned the truth behind the stripes.
It was such an awful truth.
She had grown up without her dad, or so I thought.
From the day I met her, we silently agreed to never bring up her dad in any conversation.
And it always worked.
Except when one day, she just couldn’t take it anymore I guess.
She just had to tell someone.
And I happened to be that person.
When she was ten or eleven, her dad came to visit her on weekends.
Sometimes he took her out shopping or for ice cream.
And sometimes, after those events, he took her back to his place.
You probably all know where I’m going with this, don’t you?
But it’s true.
Every time he saw her, the last thing she remembered, was him raping her.
Raping her.
I felt like bursting out crying then, because I had never known.
I didn’t even try and find out, I didn’t even try to help.
The truth behind the stripes though…
That connected to the scars.
On her stomach, there were words, carved deep, as plain as day.
Fucking. Whore.
Apparently, she had accidentally wore a striped shirt over to his house.
And apparently, he had a deep hatred for anything of the striped variety.
She wouldn’t tell me why.
But she knew.
I remember a lot of things about her.
As I sit here, I take time to bring them into the light.
There’s nothing else better to do.
Except listen to the endless droning of the apathetic preacher, of course.
But no, let’s not do that.
I remember the day we first met, how surprised I was by her coordinating skills, on such a strict pallet.
Meaning the stripes, of course.
I remember the day on the swings.
The four Halloweens.
The Christmas’.
And the New Years.
I remember the countless sleepovers.
Staying up till four in the morning talking to each other, whether through texts or ims.
I remember sharing the stories and the songs.
The memories and bands.
I remember the numerous secrets, we only told each other.
The tears and the laughs.
The smiles and the frowns.
The peace and the pain.
Five years builds a lot of memories.
A lot of moments.
I remember when I first told her.
What I really felt.
Three years as friends, two years as lovers.
Although, all five were the last.
Granted, there were a lot of bumps in the road.
Fights and days of not talking to each other.
But in the end, it all somehow worked out.
It will all be okay in the end, they say.
If it’s not okay, then it’s not the end.
I believe in that one hundred percent.
I remember waking up, and having her right there.
I remember running to her house crying, and her just hugging me.
I remember so many nights, I just felt like running away, and then somehow, she stopped me. Made me think straight.
God, I’m so grateful I found her.
So many memories, I could go on for hours, days, weeks, months.
Years.
Right now, is when I wish we had more years.
But I’ll never have that.
No, never again.
At times, I feel like crying my heart out.
But I don’t.
Because I know, that if I do, I’ll want to run to her house.
And she won’t be there.
As I think this, the preacher steps down, and I wait.
I wait until everyone is gone, and then step up to the black box in front of me.
Taking a deep breath, I place the roses on the head, on top of all the others.
Their striped paper stands out amazingly from the rest.
Just like she did.
I pull out the silver chain and place it around the roses.
Making sure the tiger and the zebra are the very top.
Smiling up at me, and smiling down at her.
Carrying their story for years to come.