2A/N: I had to post this. It's sad, and it has some truth in it. It's more a... possible future, than pure fiction. Not a probable one, but a possibility, and one that I'm afraid of. So... read.
I stared up at the blue sky; the perfect, cloudless, pure, horrible blue sky with the sun blazing down. There was a breeze, just enough to counteract the effects of the blazing fireball's heat. In other words, it was a perfect day.
I didn't want it to be.
What I wanted was torrential rains coming down so hard you could barely see your hands in front of your face. What I wanted was a dark, gloomy day, filled with gray and darkness and fear and anger and despair. I wanted a day that matched my soul.
You're probably wondering why I was hating this oh-so-perfect summer day day. I should probably tell you my story, in that case.
A few years ago - I think it's almost nine, by now - I met a guy. A guy with the sweetest personality, whom I scorned. I was nine. I was nine and a fool. He was fourteen and persistent. Eventually I gave in and became his friend.
Skip a year; I was ten, then. I was ten and still foolish. I had a crush on him, and I told him. He was fifteen, still sweet and kind and wonderful, and we were still friends.
The next year; I was closer to him, the crush a mere memory. We started calling each other brother and sister at some point; I've forgotten exactly when it began. This year blurred into the next one, and what happened in April and May. The crush had come back; we stayed friends, even through that.
Then June, and his story. His glorious story that I felt would be our undoing. Not that I didn't like it; I loved it, but he obsessed over it SO much.
Skip another year; still the same. We were still friends, we still called each other brother and sister, I still loved him. But under that I could feel tension rising, like an ugly skeleton in a dark, dusty, dank closet. My skeleton, my closet. My jealousy. My fear, my anger, my terror of losing the one person who I could trust to be there for me.
Another year; farther into the teenage years for me; 19 for him, and me teasing him about being American and therefore not allowed to drink yet. I even offered, a few times, for him to come to Canada and get drunk and let me watch what he was like.
Another, and another. We grew closer, but I was hesitant. The skeleton rattled harder in its closet; I was afraid that he would hear it. But sometimes, even I forgot it was there; I'm surprisingly good at convincing myself that nothing is wrong. I was sixteen; he was twenty-one; I managed to have a small part in him getting drunk for the first time; mostly convincing him to not get TOO drunk so he could remember all the stupid things he did so he could tell me.
One more; I had recalled another girl he had mentioned, the girl who most frequently made me flare up in jealousy and had since I was twelve. He changed the subject when I asked about her; I ignored it, not thinking that it could be a sign. Not like me at all, really, not to be suspicious.
Another. My eighteenth birthday flew by; as he had promised me when I was twelve he came and we... dated.
It was perfect. He was perfect. I loved him. He loved me.
Or so I THOUGHT.
It all came crashing down not so long ago; Today, actually. That former life, that perfect life, seemed a lifetime away.
It all happened in less than ten minutes. He and I were sitting on the grass in a park, kissing, when an unfamiliar voice cried out. "I was RIGHT! You little ch-"
He pulled away and stood up. "I can explain, l-"
She snorted. "You're not so pure and angelic now, are you? Are you using me... or her?" She gestured at me as I looked up at her, and I recognized her at once.
I spat out her name like it was a curse, standing up as well. "Excuse me, but he's my boyfriend and the sweetest man I know."
She laughed. "He's a cheat, and my boyfriend."
I stared, looking between her and he. "No. He is the sweetest, kindest, smartest, friendliest, most loyal person I know. He would not do that. Not even to YOU."
"You're wrong, dearie."
I slapped her. "Don't call me that, and don't LIE. He's mine, you hear that? He's mine! I've had more claim to him than you ever have! He was mine before I even knew you existed! He was MINE since before I was ten! MINE, you hear that? And no one - especially not a BITCH like you - is going to change that."
He moved from my side to hers, catching her as she fell from my blow. I stared at him. "...Right?"
He sighed, looking down into... into her face. "I'm sorry... I-"
"NO! NO! NO NO NO! Do NOT be confirming what she said! Be apologizing for her like you always are, be the mediator, but WHATEVER you do, do NOT be telling me that SHE'S right!"
He didn't look at me, just laid her down on the ground. "I can't do that."
I blinked. "What?"
"I can't do that. I'm sorry. She... she's right..." The last part was a whisper, his head hanging.
I slapped him as well and stormed off, walking, then running away from that clump of trees, running back home.
The day, which had been perfect, was now mocking me and my life. Mocking all that I had worked toward, all that I had had for six whole months. Mocking... everything.
Reminding me that he didn't have to be my friend; he was five years older than I. He didn't have to love me; he could pick anyone and they would be happy to be his. He didn't have to deal with a girl barely an adult who still acted like a kid.
He didn't have to, and now he wouldn't. I was finished with him.
But if he and I were finished, why did I feel like I had died inside when I slapped him?