FRERARD ONESHOT! Years later, Gerard remembers his teenage years, his struggles, and his savoir...PLEASE R&R!!
This is for the person who showed me I mattered, and without whom, I probably wouldn’t be writing this today.
Can you remember?
Sometimes, I wonder if you can remember me…
Can you remember the day we met?
I can remember it so clearly that sometimes, if I close my eyes, I can almost believe I’m still there. I can feel the harshly chopped, icy, barren grass against my bruised face, taste the horrible, sour, hot blood smothering my taste buds and spattering the frozen, greyish mud caking the dying grass; vivid scarlet in the neutral wilderness of the deserted sports field. I can almost taste the sickening, gut-wrenching fear in the bitter, misty winter air, mingling with the saltiness of the nearby sea and the rust of the goal posts decaying across the field.
I almost can see the thick, overcast grey cloud glowering overhead with the murky, finely drizzling mist curling round my feeble body like sinister, bitterly cold smoke, my body being battered by relentless pounds and punches; concealing my vulnerability from an empty world of unseeing eyes.
But the thing I remember most vividly about being sprawled, defenceless, on the harsh, frozen ground of the deserted school sports field in the slowly dwindling December light and the thick misty greyness, was that sickening feeling of being so, completely alone, and that there wasn’t a person alive in this world who would care I was getting bruised and battered and my blood was spurting from my breaking being, staining the icy, greying grass below me.
That was when I saw you for the first time; nothing but a vague, shadowy figure coming out of the mist that was lingering so thickly around the eerie silence of the bleak field.
To begin with, I thought you were just yet another person ready to torment me, but then, as you grew closer, your face became clearer and I could see horrified disgust written violently over it as your golden russet eyes took in the situation before you.
At first, I thought it was disgust towards me; my weakness, my chubby, pale face stained with my own blood and feebleness, my mud-spattered, unwashed inky black hair, and the ugliness of my whole being.
I closed my eyes in utter humiliation, blocking out the harsh, stark surroundings and the vibrant crimson pooling around me, letting everything slur into a fear fused blur.
When I opened my eyes, I realised that the punching and pounding had stopped, and I was alone in the bitterness, the icy, sweeping wind, alone with someone small and skinny with those golden russet eyes and dark, chocolaty hair blowing in the icy breeze and sweeping the delicate scents of guitar strings and jasmine and the faintest hint of tobacco to my senses.
“Are you alright?” You asked, pushing my muddy hair off my bleeding face and biting your lower lip worriedly.
I try to nod, feeling as though I should be scared; no one ever spoke to me unless they planned to ridicule me or beat me up. However, despite having come to know this after several years of experience not to talk to new people, the all too familiar needles of fear weren’t drilling into me and poisoning me with adrenaline.
You offered me your fingerless gloved hand, pulling me up so as I could stand shakily beside you in the frozen mist and winter silence of the vast sports field in the diminishing light.
“What’s your name?” You asked, offering me a tissue to mop the copious flow of blood streaming from my lip and my nose, which I gratefully accept with trembling fingers, still unsure.
“G-Gerard Way,” I stuttered, wincing as pain tore through my ripped lip.
“I’m Frankie,” you replied, offering a tentative smile and brushing your tangled hair out of your eyes.
There was a silence as I gingerly mopped at my damaged face, still confused as to why I didn’t want to turn and run; keep running for ever and ever and ever, running from the one thing I could never truly escape.
I wanted to stay there, in the dwindling dusk and bitter mist of the school sports field, stay standing on the field of grey blood and hacked, dead grass stretching on into the swirling, salty mist. I wanted to stay, standing beside you in the silence of the wind and the faint cry of distant sea birds circling overhead.
“Does…does this kind of thing happen to you often?” you asked suddenly, meeting my eyes with russet concern and golden empathy that glimmered in the dim light curling round us.
I looked at my feet, hiding behind my messy hair and shrugging, not wanting to answer with the truth I wish didn’t exist.
“P-people don’t usually save me, though,” I mumbled after a moment of silence. “…T-thank you.”
“No one stops that kind of thing?” you yelped, making me jump and wince in pain at the sharp movement that ripped through my already injured body.
I shook my head wordlessly in response.
“That’s disgusting,” You spat angrily, and I moved away nervously, mopping at my lip. “What’s fucking wrong with the world?!”
“Me, apparently,” I mumbled embarrassedly, not meeting your eyes. “Or so I’m told.”
Something painful ripped across the ghosted gold of your irises as you looked seriously at me, hair whipping across your face in the icy wind.
“Don’t listen to what you’re told, Gerard Way,” you said softly.
Can you remember where we had our first shaky conversation?
We were sitting on the silver sand of the beach, watching the greyish green waves crashing onto the pebbles and tendrils of slimy seaweed on the shoreline, the salt of the icy sea on the tips of our tongues, the rallying cry of gulls echoing across the winter wilderness.
I’d tried slipping off home after my lip finally stopped spewing scarlet and it was harder to see my bruises in the fast fading light, thanking you once more in the misty sports field, but you were having none of it; you insisted on walking me home to make sure I was okay, and we somehow meandered off course, ending up on the bleak beach under the thick raincloud.
By that time, I’d feeling quite so shy and uncertain; I’d found out that you’d transferred to my school that day from New York, and were in the year above, taking Music, Art and English. You lived with your Mom and your little sister, and you spent all your time playing guitar, nurturing the same love for rock bands I did.
As we stared out at the churning sea, our casual conversation ground to a halt, leaving us in comfortable silence, just breathing in the potent sea mist rising up from the writhing green waves and watching the grey clouds drain of light.
“Why did you save me?” I asked suddenly, before my usual shyness could get the better of me, looking round at you questioningly in the shivering misty coldness and awaiting the answer I’d been lamenting over since you walked out of the mist and stopped the torture, helped me up with warm, callused hands, and smiled at me despite the repulsiveness of my features and weakness of my character.
You looked at me for a moment, considering your reply as the gusts of sea wind swept your soft tendrils of wavy chestnut hair across your heavy-lidded golden eyes.
“No one should have to go through that,” you replied finally. “I know what it’s like and no one, no one should have to put up with it. Especially someone like you.”
“But it’s my fault- if I could stand up to them…” I trailed off, sighing and feeling stupid, wishing I hadn’t even opened my mouth. It was hard enough believing I was actually sitting on there on the frozen beach, talking to a complete stranger who had saved me from the endless violence and injustice I faced day after day after day.
I never talked to anyone, usually. No one wanted me to talk to them.
So I was silent. Silently screaming.
“Gerard, it’s almost impossible. But it will stop one day…for now, you just have to let it make you stronger,” you said, tucking your unruly hair behind your ear and looking seriously at me through the grey dusk.
“…How?” I asked, baffled.
“How long have you been getting shit like that?” You asked, shivering as a particularly strong gust of icy wind swept through us.
“Um…the last four years, I guess- since I stared high school,” I reply, nibbling my lip, horribly worried about how weak I might seem to the small, skinny boy with fingerless gloves and a rebellious lip ring. The only person who had seemed remotely concerned about me in years.
“Try and see it that you’ve got through all of that, and you’re still here. You’re fucking alive,” you told me, smiling slightly in the misty dusk. “What do you want to be when you’re older?” you asked suddenly, changing the subject.
“Um…it’s stupid,” I mumble, tracing a star in the silver sand with my raw finger on the ground, worn pebbles beneath us.
“I’m sure it’s not, but I’ll go first if you want- I want to be a musician,” You told me, eyes shimmering in the bitter dusk as you said the word. “I always have.”
I felt a small smile tug at the corners of my chapped lips at the warmth in your glittering, smiling eyes.
“Okay…I want to be an artist,” I reply shyly, feeling my cheeks colouring stupidly as I said it. Although I thought my drawings weren’t good enough, it was all I’d ever wanted to do. My dream, my passion, my life; the soothing sound of charcoal on paper, the almost hypnotic process of drawing and drawing and drawing whatever plagued my mind.
But the bullies at school had trodden that dream out of me. It was shattered, and I doubted it would ever be pieced back together. Confidence and self-belief fuels a dream, and without it, I was lost. I pictured myself no where in ten years; nobody, nothing, alone and scared, just as I was then.
I didn’t know it was all about to change.
“Then that’s what you’ll be,” You smiled gently at me through the swirling mist and salty sea spray. “If you want it enough, it’ll happen. You just have to persevere, and never, ever give up.”
At first, I thought you were crazy to think that, but as time went on, I realised just how much truth was in what you’d said to me that first day on the wilderness of the beach in the whipping winter wind.
We sat on that beach until dusk had fallen completely, shrouding the sea and the sand and the pebbles in ebony tendrils until the only reason we knew we were on the beach was the hiss of sand being swept along by the bitter gusts of wind, the distant crash of waves breaking onto the shoreline, and the distinct taste of wild salt in the freezing air.
Hours, we must have sat there, talking about anything and everything, gradually realising how much we had in common.
By the time we finally admitted we were freezing and stood up to start our separate ways home, I realised something huge.
I felt safe.
For the first time in years, I felt safe. In the dark on the beach with the sound of your Jersey accent and the soft scent of jasmine and tobacco in the salty seaside mist. I didn’t feel scared anymore.
Can you remember the way you stuck with me?
Walking the dreaded route to school the following morning, my stomach churning sourly in fear, I half wondered if I’d made you up completely; I myself knew I had a potent imagination, and the past twenty four hours just seemed too good to be true in the harsh, weak light of reality.
I thought that, at the very least, if you were real, you’d totally blank me and never speak to me again, realising what a weak, boring failure I really was.
But you didn’t.
Standing, at the school gates amongst the sea of chattering students flooding through into the yard, was someone small and skinny, someone with heavy-lidded, golden russet eyes and fingerless gloves. Someone smiling at me in the weak, watery winter sunlight that shimmered off the frosty pavement.
The sparkly frost reflected in your eyes that were far stronger than the tentative rays of the shy sun, glittering and warm and silently smiling behind your chestnut hair.
“Hey, Gerard,” You grinned at me as I nervously approached the gates, blinking slightly dazedly at you, as if you might disappear in a puff of smoke.
“H-hi,” I stammered, ducking behind my hair and staring at the ground as I was buffeted from behind by the tide of students.
“C’mon,” you said, grabbing my arm and pulling me into the yard, towards the main entrance, fearless, as if the vampires of reality didn’t exist, sucking the life and hope out of people’s lives to fuel their cold, heartless existence.
With you hanging onto my arm, for a half heartbeat, I almost believed they didn’t.
And that was it, after that. You stuck with me from that moment onwards; throwing me one of your warm smiles as we passed each other in the swarming corridors, waving at me from across the locker rooms and reminding me I wasn’t entirely alone in this hell, sitting with me by the sports field under the old oak tree, sharing sweets and smiles at break times, coaxing me into the claustrophobic canteen at lunchtimes and sharing your chips with me, walking home with me in the icy dusk and drilling rain, linked only by a pair of shared headphones blaring out the music we both loved so much.
I lost count of the amount of times we wound up in the grotty school toilets, you mopping my freshly butchered wounds and murmuring words of comfort, me holding back the tears and clinging to you like you were the only thing keeping me alive.
Looking back, I think you were.
I was on the brink of collapse when you walked out of the mist that day. Sometimes, even months on, I wondered if it had all been a dream. It just seemed too good to be true that I finally had a friend who cared, really cared about me and understood me.
A friend that never, ever gave up on me.
Can you remember where we always used to hang out?
The wild, deserted beach just behind the school grounds became our place; we’d go there every day after school, talking about anything and everything, huddled up together on the icy sand, shivering and sharing liquorice laces in the watery winter sunlight or icy needles of grey rain.
It was the place I almost always managed to forget the horrors of the day I’d just lived through. But looking back, I’m not sure it was the beach, but more the skinny, beaming person sitting beside me with golden eyes.
“Never give up, Gerard,” you whispered to me one day when the beach was basked in weak, watery sunlight and the gulls were swooping and diving low over the turquoise waves, and you looking at me seriously with those wide, empathetically russet eyes. It was after a particularly bad day at school, which has left me, to this day, physically scarred.
You were constantly telling me thing like this, encouraging and coaxing, telling me to never give up on my dreams, telling me how special I was and how far I could go in the world. I never really believed you.
So you believed in me because I couldn’t.
Can you remember the first time I showed you my drawings?
I remember it so vividly; the pure, trembling terror I felt as you stepped into my room, a room you had got to know so well, and flopped down onto my bed, running a hand through your chestnut hair and waiting expectantly.
I remember the fluttering, frantic fear writhing in my stomach as I handed you a sheaf of my drawings, hands trembling nervously, throat dry with apprehension. It felt as though I was handing you my soul to love or to destroy.
You were silent a long time, just looking through all the drawings I’d put my heart and soul and life into, but still didn’t think I were good enough. I suddenly felt horribly scared- I thought that if you didn’t like them, you didn’t like me, because I was my drawings and they were me.
They were the only thing that had kept me going until you arrived.
After what felt like an eternity of waiting, you looked up, russet eyes swimming with emotion and heartfelt smiles.
“Gerard…why were you so scared about these? They’re fucking amazing!” you cried, carefully putting my drawings back on the desk before throwing your arms round me and hugging me tight into your skinny body. “You’re going to go so far,” you mumbled into my neck, breath warm and soft on my skin.
I closed my eyes and hugged back, letting your hair tickle my nose, breathing in the familiar scents of your jasmine shampoo, guitar strings and subtle tobacco, filling myself with everything about you, everything about a person I cared so much for.
And for once, I felt that maybe, just maybe, I was worth something.
Can you remember how we used to be utterly inseparable?
By the time spring arrived, we were completely inseparable. We were like each other’s shadows; I don’t think there was a day we didn’t see each other over those Easter holidays. Wherever I was, you were, and vice versa. It didn’t feel right if it was just me; you had become part of me.
It never mattered where we were, what time it was, what we were doing; I was only content when I was with you. When you were gone, the old feelings of self-hatred and failure started to trickle back into me- only your presence almost completely eliminated them from my being.
Once your smiles and shimmering eyes, your girly giggles and the way you talked about your hopes and dreams of being in a band, playing music to change people’s lives, were gone, it felt like I was too.
I felt like a husk, a shell with where a soul had been hollowed out and left to fester and rot, when you weren’t with me.
We’d sleep over at each other’s houses and stay up way past midnight, whispering away together, laughing softly and listening to music, we’d take a bus into town and window shop, trying on all sorts of stuff and laughing hysterically at each other, we’d go down to the beach and lament and linger by the water, and while you strummed away at your guitar, I’d draw you.
I remember the one time you left a your favourite Black Flag hoodie over in my bedroom and I wore it all day and all night until I saw you again, breathing in the heart-tugging, familiar scents that made me feel almost okay, made me feel safe. It was then that I wondered if perhaps I felt something more towards you than just pure friendship.
However, I didn’t let my thoughts meander any further in that direction. I thought that if I let myself realise what I really felt, I’d lose the best thing that had ever happened to me…lose the only tiny, little thing that kept me fighting.
A tiny, little thing that was worth the weight of the world.
So I kept my thoughts silent, ignored the butterflies in my stomach when you smiled or hugged me, and just let myself drown in you every night when I’d put on your hoodie and fall asleep to a nightmare-less slumber in the soft fabric.
Can you remember the first time I smiled properly at you?
Since you walked into my life, I’d started smiling more, but it was never more than a tiny, tentative one, and it always felt forced and uncomfortable. I was smiling inside, but after years of bleak depression and having to keep my emotions locked away to protect myself, it was a lot harder to show it on the outside.
I’d lost every last drop of self confidence through the years of hell; I hated everything about myself. I especially hated my smile.
One drizzly day in the Easter holidays, you’d dragged me along to the shopping centre and dressed me up in all the things I was far too self conscious to have ever worn myself; tight black skinny jeans, a sleeveless zombie shirt and a stripy black and white hoodie.
Usually, I just hid away my revolting body in layers of baggy, colourless blacks and greys that didn’t draw attention to myself. I wanted to be like a shadow.
However, you didn’t want me to be a shadow.
Later, at one of our multiple sleepovers in your room, you dressed me up in my new clothes, deaf to my mumbled protests. You sat me on your bed and carefully outlined my eyes in smoky black, while I tried very hard to ignore the butterflies and shivers that possessed me at your proximity and soft, careful hands on my skin. You straightened my messy ebony hair and pushed it away from my face so as I couldn’t hide from the world.
And then you smiled; a wide, beaming smile that made my chest melt slightly and my cheeks heat up self-consciously.
“Mirror.” You propelled me gently towards your bedroom mirror.
I felt my mouth fall open.
Looking back at me in the soft glow of the fairy lights was someone completely different. He was slim and gothic and interesting looking with amazing hazel eyes. I didn’t think I looked good, but I thought I maybe looked almost okay.
And I felt like me, for the first time in years. I felt like I was in my own skin.
“You like?” you grinned at me as I tentatively touched my styled ebony hair, blinking blankly.
“I…I don’t look like me,” I said slightly dazedly.
“How do you feel?” you asked, smiling gently as continued to peer into the looking glass in disbelief.
“I feel…I feel like…me,” I replied honestly. “I mean, I don’t look great, but I look…okay.” I smiled tentatively.
You came up behind me, resting your head on my shoulder and looking at me in the mirror as your sweet, warm breath brushed my burning cheek.
“You look fucking beautiful,” you said softly, eyes swimming with honesty as you smiled at me in the glass.
And I smiled back.
A real, beaming smile that stretched right across my cheeks and tickled the corners of my lips, making me feel, if possible, even happier than before.
I was slowly getting better; slowly starting to feel safe in my own skin.
Can you remember the way we could stay up for hours and hours on end, talking about anything and everything?
We’d often stay up well into the night, huddled up in your duvet, the lights out, whispering away softly to each other in the ebony night that curled around us. I could talk to you about anything, and conversation never seemed to run dry between us- there was always something we wanted to talk about. You were so full of life and ideas and questions about everything.
I slipped up, one of those nights. I said too much, I got too close with you, and I thought I was going to lose everything. The words were out before I could consider their impact, too intoxicated by your presence and overwhelmed by the potency of my growing emotion for you.
“What do you think happens when you die?” you asked me the same night as the makeover, later on when we were curled up together, me still in my eyeliner and new hairstyle and your hoodie as we sat side by side on your bed, looking out at the soft drizzle of the night.
“I don’t know…” I mused, shifting subtly closer to the warmth of your body, more confident in the darkness when your jasmine and tobacco scent was intoxicating me and making my chest ache.
“There’s so much I want to do before I die,” you whispered, leaning your head on my shoulder, staring out at the tears dribbling down the black windowpane. “Life seems so short to do all the things I want…”
“Life seems too long,” I replied, ignoring the goose bumps shuddering down my spine at the soft warmth of your head on my shoulder and the soft tendrils of your hair tickling my cheek, making my pulse race and flutter.
“Don’t say that,” you said quietly, sorrow heavily tainting your voice. “There must be something you want to do before you die? Other than become an artist.”
I shrugged in the darkness, too shy to say that I think I already found all I wanted, right there.
“I want to find love, cheesy as that sounds,” you lamented, and I could feel you smile against my shoulder, making my heart thump against my ribs. “Don’t you?”
“…I- I think I already have,” I whispered without thinking, and then realising what I’d just said and horror shooting through me like ice.
I shot up in humiliated fear, shoving you off of me and scrambling across the room, deaf to your protests; hurtling blindly from your room and out onto the midnight street, stumbling home in the misty rain that mingled with the tears running down my cheeks.
I thought I’d lost everything that night.
Can you remember the first time we kissed?
It’s potently imbedded into my mind; the soft tapping on the window of my basement bedroom along with the pouring rain; a rain so similar to the rain that flowed down my cheeks from where I’d flung myself to my unmade bed the minute I stumbled back from your house.
I was wallowing in the mess I thought I’d just created of my whole life.
Snivelling, I shakily pulled open the latch and you slid easily into my room, landing softly on the carpet and looking up at me with pure, potent worry in your golden russet eyes as you saw the tear stains on my face.
“Gerard?” you whispered anxiously, reaching out and wiping away a tear on my cheek, fingers trembling. You never trembled, and it scared me.
I pulled away furiously, turning away from you and hiding behind my hair.
“Gerard, I know what you meant,” you continued quietly, and although I couldn’t see you, I knew you were biting your lip.
My heart plummeted horribly, and I braced myself for the worst.
“Gee, please turn round…” you sounded almost as broken as I felt, so, sniffing, I slowly and reluctantly turned around to face you, cheeks burning with humiliation.
Before I could choke out some pathetic excuse, your lips were crashing into mine furiously, tasting of the rain and tears and just plain, pure you. I choked back a shuddery gasp into your mouth and wound my arms round your skinny waist as tightly as I could; clasping me to you forever and ever as your lips meshed against mine and you tangled your hands in my hair.
It was bliss, ecstasy, everything. It was amazing; lips on lips, hearts racing wildly, fingers trembling.
In there, in that moment, I felt whole.
I felt like all the shattered pieces of my soul had been fixed back together.
Can you remember taking me to see The Misfits?
It’s all a blur of green lights and ear shattering noise of the band we both loved so much, a taste of alcohol and sweat and adrenaline along with the pounding guitars and the ragged screams and dark lyrics. For the first time, I felt part of something; I was crushed into a room with a crowd of misfits just like me, and it made that tiny little bubble of self confidence you’d created grow a little
And the whole time, you had your fingers knotted through mine, linking us together in the crowds and the noise and the night.
I’d never admitted it to you, but that was the highlight of the night.
Can you remember crying all over me when I got my arm broken?
I remember the harsh, artificial strip lighting of the local hospital when I came around from an unconscious limbo I’d been knocked into by the same person who’d snapped the bone in my arm, and your familiar face swimming into view, golden eyes full of undiluted worry.
When I groaned and blinked open my eyes, the worry stared to spill down your cheeks and you crushed me in a hug like you never wanted to let me go, hair tickling my cheeks, tears soaking into my top along with the comfortingly familiar scents of your body.
It was there, for the first time, that I realised maybe I meant something to you too, and that maybe you needed me like I needed you. I’d never thought of you like that before; seeing you seeming so lost and vulnerable was strange.
“I’m so glad you’re okay,” you choked, sniffing and gently stroking the cast on my arm. “I’m going to kill the guys at school for doing this to you.”
“I’m fine,” I managed a wobbly smile.
You smiled back shakily, eyes full of the empathetic warmth and love and hopes and dreams I knew so well.
And I realised that, just maybe, for the first time, what I said was true. I was so much stronger now…I didn’t really care that my arm had been broken, because like you’d told me to let all this make me stronger. And I had.
But maybe it was more just you making me stronger. You never gave up on me, not even in my darkest hours. You always believed in me, and it was slowly paying off.
My wounds were healing.
Can you remember the day you died?
I wonder about that so much. Can you remember what the last thing you saw was? Can you remember your last thoughts? Can you remember anything before that car collided with you and killed you so abruptly?
That drunken driver shattered everything. Your skeleton, your life, your guitar and your hopes and dreams along with it; tiny, broken fragments of a wonderful life that could never be pieced back together.
It was almost impossible to believe you were really gone, even after the funeral.
I still find it difficult to believe now, over a decade later.
I don’t think I’ll ever really believe it.
Can you remember any of it?
I can remember the salty grey mist of the day we met.
I can remember the countless times you mopped up my tears and blood in the school bathrooms.
I can remember the way your lips curved into a smile, the way your russet eyes glittered gold.
I can remember how you never, ever gave up on me.
I can remember the silky soft pressure of your lips.
I can remember your sweaty hand knotted with mine at my first concert.
I can remember how you made me feel whole.
Twelve years on and everyone’s forgotten you, moved on with their lives. But I can’t forget.
I’m living my own dream as a famous, successful artist, and it’s all thanks to you. Without you, if that day you walked out of the mist never happened, I’d still be nothing, just a shadow lingering in the dark, too scared to live and love.
But it all feels empty. After you died, I wanted to too. I wanted to crash and burn, to be shattered to smithereens, to drown in endless sleep to be with you.
Soon enough, I realised that wasn’t what you’d taught me to do. You wouldn’t want me to have given up like that.
You hadn’t taught me to run away; you’d taught me to fight.
You’d taught me to believe in myself and never give up for what I love.
And you’d taught me to live.
I wanted to live for you, carry on how you’d wanted me to and do all the things you never got a chance to do.
So, thanks to you, I’ve achieved what I always dreamed of. I’ve come a million miles from the depressed, lonely kid I was when we met; I’ve got friends, I’ve got success, I’ve got confidence.
But as I stand here on our beach, years since we last sat on the gravelly, pebbly grey sand, I still feel a little like that lost, vulnerable kid deep down as I nibble at a nostalgic liquorice lace and huddle into your now ancient Black Flag hoodie.
It’s fraying and full of holes, but it’s still somehow soft and smelling faintly of your tobacco and smiles and jasmine, and it makes my soul ache for your presence; a presence I can still feel around me every day, mingling in my shadow in tiny little particles of russet dust.
As I watch the waves churning relentlessly, greyish green and wild, I realise you really are gone, even though you’re not from my mind. You no longer walk the earth; walk along the shoreline, collecting shells and pebbles, dancing across the school yard to meet me.
The person who showed me I mattered and that I could do something with my life, the person who made me smile again, the person who saved me…gone. Nothing but a whisper in the wind, a hiss in the sand, a murmur in my shadow as I let my thoughts meander to my past, wondering if it hadn’t been for you, I’d be the one dead.
For that reason, I’ll never forget and I’ll never rest, not until I’ve lived how you wanted me to, and how you wanted to but never got the chance to. Only then will I finally allow myself fall into endless sleep with you.
You saved me from the shadows and from myself. You made me smile when I thought I never would again.
You made me live.
Can you remember?
I can. I remember it all.
What did you guys think? I really have no idea if it was any good, so I’d really like to know what you thought. If you read, rate and review? Please? Thanks so much for reading- hope you liked!