alexiswrites
He uses antlers in all of his decorating, that fool. As if mounting the trophies of kills past would make him seem any less of a cretin than his was. As if displaying his ability to shoot and destroy made him grand, made him wonderful. He thought his displays of masculinity would make him appealing, and, regarding the shallow, he was correct. The one he wanted, though, she was anything but.
They had history. They were there for each other - they had always been there for each other. Through the thunder and the daisies, the impossible and glorious. I stumbled upon their friendship late in the game, so late that I felt like a third wheel more days than not. It wasn't that they didn't accept me - no, no, they always did. I just couldn't turn back the clock. The history was there, and I was the voyager.
It represented her entire childhood, that train. Scarlet and steaming, gold letters proclaiming its name. Quiet compartments filled with laughter and beans and magic. Dementors and chocolate frogs and Albus Dumbledore trading cards. Her entire childhood, that train was. Her gateway to somewhere else. To magic.
"Gone, but never forgotten."
So little truth in so frequently spoken words, for we are all forgotten. We have but a hundred years on the Earth - less than a hundred years - and we are nothing in the great scope of the cosmos. Our bodies are birthed from the stars, and, in billions of years, as the universe trickles down to its last stages of darkness, those shreds of dust that were once human beings will fall into black stars with the rest of existence.
Gone, and always forgotten.
Their eyes were rimmed with black eyeliner as if to make themselves more attractive, but all I saw were raccoons. Orange skin, hair ratted to make their heads twice as large. Why exactly was that appealing? All I saw were a crowd of poorly dressed Oompa Loompas giggling their intelligence away.
Sing with me like there's nothing left. Paint pictures with your voice, fill oceans with your music. Sing like there will never be a tomorrow, like this is the last chance you have. Make them feel something. Make them weep, and your job is halfway done. Make them remember until the end of their days the notes, the feeling, the passion you've created, and you've done what music was born to do.
"You can't process emotions, can you?"
I looked up, only having half-heard the comment, and shrugged my shoulders nonchalantly.
"It's not that I don't process then," I answered. "I just don't let them affect me. I'm stronger than that."
"That's unhealthy."
"That's called being level-headed."
I didn't say anything more after that, though he kept rambling. I tucked myself into the corner of the room, buried my nose in my notebook and tried to pretend I couldn't feel my frustration building beneath my skin.
William could remember the day he had found the guitar with startling clarity, considering the way all of his memories were beginning to bleed into each other. It had been one of the few things remaining in his father's little hidden corner of the basement, and he had picked it up with the intention of throwing it away with the rest of the sour emotions. There had been something about it, though, something that made him sling it over his back and carry it up to his bedroom.
When he walked in, Jesse had looked up with those innocent eyes of his.
"You've learned well."
"And that means?"
Jesse grinned.
"Come on, little brother. Guitars pick up chicks."
Tear me up from the outside in. Keep your mouth on the bottle, and I'll keep my head buried in the ground. Tell me you don't have a problem, and I'll add more chains to bind me to the ground. The longer you avoid your problems, the longer I'll shy away from my dreams. Pull your head out of the whisky, and some day, I'll fly.
The lifestyle of the rich and famous was a world she couldn't understand. Having grown up in a small town, it was difficult for her to wrap her mind around the concept of having more than one could ever possibly use. What was the point of having a mansion with a hundred rooms? Why would anyone want seven cars?
All right, as a girl with only one rundown, unreliable Ford, she could understand that last one. But, still...
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