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Just some school work. :D |
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This is a work of complete fiction for homework, none of it is true at all. I posted it here because my Word 2003 doesn't have spell check. D:
Him
His clothes. His soft, fuzzy sweater jacket thingy and his gray and black striped scarf with short threads hanging off at the bottom. His almost skinny-but-not-quite, Goodwill-light-gray, faded-at-the knee jeans. His black, half fingerless gloves and his medium sized yet big headphones. We used to jam our heads together and stretch the plastic as far as possible, so we could listen to his music. His thick, black reading glasses that he only used when he was writing or drawing with me. His black T-shirt with the name of a band nobody knew.
His hair. His somehow soft-yet-rough dark brown hair, almost black, and never dyed another colour. It was shaggy - it almost had a natural spike to it, and he always had it cut so that he had long bangs an somewhat short hair, longer in the back. But it wasn't short. It was about to his shoulders, but in a way he made it look really cool. He never combed it, but it always stayed the same, and it smelled like Old Spice conditioner. I used to play with it, decorating it with berets and daisies, always, daisies.
His body. His skin. He was tall, but not big. He was tall small, like me. We could never find gloves that fit because our hands were small, but we had long fingers. He was a bit taller than me at the time, maybe about five feet, while I was four foot eleven. We used to draw on each other, always cool black tribal designs and 'I love you's on our shoulders so no one could see them. His skin was almost flawless, creamy pale, as if it were coffee with too much creamer.
His scars. They were there, and he only told me about them, no one else. On his back and his sides, some long and thin, others short and deep. He had one obvious one, trailing above his left eyebrow to above his ear. That's why he had bangs. He never talked about it, but I knew. He didn't need to tell me. I just saw it in his face on some days, and we would just sit silently together on our hill, looking up at the clouds or down at passersby.
His eyes. Oh God, his eyes. They were astonishingly hazelnut brown, with tinges of orange and green. And they were deep, so deep that I felt as if I would disappear looking into them for too long, but did anyway. Sometimes, they screamed out in silent pain, and as we were sitting I would hold him, and he would cling to me like a child holds onto his mother after a bad dream, warm tears rolling down both of our faces. I wanted to say, "It's okay, everything is fine." But it wasn't, so I didn't. Other times they were warm, and just by looking at him I could feel his love, his caring, his passion. He would comment about how he loved my innocence, how I didn't understand simple things, but could explain in detail the complicated.
The gun. The shot. The screams. The crying. The ambulance. The crying. The coma. The crying. He woke up. We cried. He moved far away. We cried. After a couple of years, we lost touch. He had moved again, across the world. I'm torn up inside, always so unsure of myself. I act shy, I act outgoing. But that's exactly what it is, an act.I'm colourful and peppy, depressed and hating. I miss him. Am I considered insane for loving someone who only existed in a dream? I still see him, laughing, crying, and smiling with me.
Why can't he be real? Why is he only some sick, twisted dream my demented brain came up with when I was in such an unstable state of mind? Because now I can't forget him, that nameless figure in my dreams, no matter how hard I try. I know he's not real, that he'll never exist, but I can't help it. This dream's on repeat, the tape never rewinds. Some small detail may change, but I always recognize it, and with a sweet sadness, I play my part over and over, like a ballerina in a music box.
Copyright (c) Keegan Kimbrough @ Fairview Jr. High
 Nikonope · Fri Mar 11, 2011 @ 12:29am · 0 Comments |
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