Her Beautiful Imperfections

A/N: I don't know entirely where this is going, but I thought it sounded like a good idea. Tell me in your reviews whether you think the narrator is a girl or a boy. I already know which it is, I was just wondering what you thought. This is a prologue, sort of. Hence the italics! Sort of about…well I don't know. The paranoia or the conspiracy?

It's strange the things we remember.

Especially the things I remember. Selective memory, I like to call it.

My mother calls it slow development.

My friends call it stupidity.

But I do often wonder why I remember some things and others are a complete blank.

It's strange.

Especially the things I remember about her.

I remember her hair exactly; how it felt. Thick, underneath your fingers, solid black, long, slightly ragged in places; these were the places I adored to kiss the most, feeling it against her naked back with my lips.

I couldn't exactly describe to you the features on her face, except that little scar she had on her left cheek that ran a short distance from the edge of her mouth, beautifully curved upwards. She wouldn't explain how she got the scar but would always let me kiss it.

I remember our kisses. I remember exactly how they felt, the way my arms were wrapped around her, in our own little world, her long hair stroking my arms as they stroked her in the small of her back, making her giggle and moan against me occasionally.

I remember when we went to the seaside together. A place called Southwold, we went there together for the weekend. Our first run-away-together trip. It was last year, in March. The 29th. We camped in tents, a 2-man tent, near the sea. And at night, when the moon was out, we ran down to the beach, hand in hand. It was one of the coldest nights I can remember. Even though it was dark you could still see the black clouds over head, ready to rain if they felt like it. And the sea was going wild, bewildered by the raging force of the winds and the pull of the shining moon that stayed at its peek through the clouds. I remember the way the sand felt beneath my toes. And I remember the way the sand felt beneath hers. She would run sand through it, just to feel the gristle between her toes. Imperfection was beauty, she said. The imperfection of how her feet felt made her feel alive.

I could replay to you every moment of that night by the sea if I wanted to. How we kissed, played in the sand, the sea…made love

Instead I'll just tell you about our last conversation.

She asked me if I loved her.

I told her yes.

She asked me again.

I told her I loved her more than anyone or anything else. That I loved her so much it almost hurt me to, but that I loved the imperfections it brought. I smiled wryly, and she smiled back.

The last time she asked me, I asked her back.

She told me I was almost too perfect. But that she loved me anyway; and that it scared her to love something so beautiful.

And then I kissed her.

It's strange the things we remember, and the things we block out.

I didn't see her again. After that night, I haven't seen her ever again.

I blocked out the suicide. Can't remember how, or when, if ever, there was the death.

I heard my mother talking about it though. Happened just after that night on the beach.

They found the knife in the tent. Blood-stained they said it was suicide. They said she died.

I didn't believe them.