The Fault in Our Stars [Nix]
Apr 9, 2012 23:25:11 GMT -5
Post by gamemaker kelsier on Apr 9, 2012 23:25:11 GMT -5
Give me a second I,
I need to get my story straight
My friends are in the bathroom
Getting higher than the empire state
My lover, she is waiting for me just across the bar
When people speak of Romeo and Juliet, they call them the star-crossed lovers. Everything they thought they would be, was never meant, and they slipped far and away, out of life. When Juliet found a dead Romeo lying breathless on top of her, she killed herself. I guess she figured that there was nothing left for her. But what if Juliet hadn't been strong enough to slip out of life as well? What if she had woken up to find a dead boy lying on top of her, and she had simply shoved him off and walked away? How would the story change if Juliet had become a lawyer or something instead, and she grew up, only to move away from the warring families. Would they still be star-crossed lovers, or simply, Some bitch who didn't love Romeo enough to die for her love, and Romeo, an idiot who killed himself because he whined a lot.
I know I've lost the point somewhere along the way, but the point is, Is it allowed to be called love even if you didn't follow them into the darkness? Am I allowed to say that I loved my sister even if I wasn't strong enough to plunge a knife into my sternum at her death. Or am I an asshole that ruined everything. Alright, well that's beside the point. My ten year old self never read Romeo and Juliet. Maybe if I had I would have. Instead I simply asked a Monk for some poison, to slow my breathing and make me look dead. It worked, for so long, it worked. Still works, everyday. As long as the monk gets it to me, I get it to me, and sometimes that's all that is important.
Star-crossed doesn't have to mean romance. I know that at least. It doesn't even specifically point out two people in love. It's just for as long as anyone can remember, people have linked the two. Star-crossed literally means something thwarted by outside forces. Well no one but me did the thwarting here. I push my forehead into my right hand, arm steadied by the wooden bar beneath it. I've got a drink of some type clutched in my left, and a pill on my tongue. I can't remember how I even got here, or what time it is. but I know it's not that late. Maybe four pm. I glance out the window to my left. Make that seven in the evening. It's one of those weird spring days where it's oddly sunny and sweltering, like the sun is being unraveled thread by thread.
Can you be star-crossed even if you can feel the hatred of the dead swelling from the afterlife? Because I can, I can feel it in waves sometimes. How much she must hate me from taking her life from her, forcibly. She probably thinks that I pretended to love her, and it was all just building up to her murder. I wish I had a way of telling her now that I didn't mean it. I wish that i could look her in the eyes and tell her that I loved her, and she would hear me and know it. but she's dead and I'm alive, and she's the Romeo figure, and I'm the bitch of a Juliet that became a lawyer. So there is a fault line in our stars and I can feel it grow wider and wider every minute of every day that she hasn't aged one bit and I have.
It doesn't help either that she's always here. Even now, as I glance down, I can see small feet swinging back and forth on the bar stool beside me, but when I look up there is never anyone there. Or sometimes I think I can hear her small voice saying, "Ender! Stop that, I'm going to tell Mom!" I'll be sitting on a stool, lights on me somewhere, and she'll be in the front row, giggling and waving at me. Sometimes i'll stumble into the street and she'll catch me, so that we fall in a giggling heap to the ground. And as the pills dissolve she gets brighter and brighter and appears more often. Sometimes we have conversations about things from years ago, and sometimes conversations about things from now. Once, in that first year, i was turning eleven and she ran up to me in the street, giggling. She told me that mom had made a cake and it smelled amazing, so I sat down and cried. I cried and cried and cried.
I've spent my life seeing her everywhere so often that sometimes I guess I do think she's there. One morning, afternoon, whatever, I woke up and one of the boys asked who Nix was. That's when I realized I had a problem. Fucking finally. I'm a body bag made up of problems and faults but I finally decided I had one a few months back. Now when I see her, I ignore her, or do my best to. It's hard, it's so bloody difficult to pretend I don't see her. Sometimes she'll pull tactics, like pouting, or pretending she hurt herself. Once she told me that I was a fuck up, and the worst person ever for hours on end, so I drank till I couldn't see. So honestly, it's not all my fault, this drinking problem. Because my subconcious is half to blame for my crazy.
I feel rumpled. I know that my shirt is unironed, and that the sleeves are rolled up because of an ink spot on the cuff. I probably look like I'v been swallowed and spit up by the devil himself because that's where I feel like I've been. Let me assure you, she's not in hell.
I slip away from the bar, steadying myself by holding the edge, leaving the drink unfinished. I can't say I was really tasting it anyway. It's a clear night tonight, and I can go out and see things that I normally can't with clouds. the stars. n these nights, the boys know that I usually won't be coming home. Not if there are stars about to catch and sing off of. They always know what to say to me so that I can translate and write them into lyrics for songs. I have a habit fr writing them that keeps up my other habits too. The pill is fresh in my blood stream, and I have a pen in my pocket, and an unwritten arm, things should go as planned. If only my feet would do what they're told as well. Breathing deeply, I blink slowly and then push out into the night air.
It's that coolness that happens when the sun's only just left us here alone, and the moons just peeking out like a shy little thing. It's a relief after the stuffiness of the bar, and I breath the air in with great gulps. There's a few people about, gleaming that last bit of a nice day away, and workers still plodding along, to clean up the damage of that earthquake. But other than that, it's silent and nice. There's a slight breath, but it's warm, and appreciated. It tells me to go out and away, so I swivel on my heel, noting the seven year old keeping pace with me, brown locks swinging with her own turn into the wind. In my haste to ignore it, I glance up and away, only to see dark eyes in a halo of brown hair staring at me from far away. What seems like miles but could be measured in feet and inches.
Someone's plunged a dagger into my sternum.
I know I gave it to you months ago
I know you're trying to forget
But between the drinks and subtle things
The holes in my apologies
You know I'm trying hard to take it back
I know you're trying to forget
But between the drinks and subtle things
The holes in my apologies
You know I'm trying hard to take it back