|main menu | youngsters categories | authors | new stories | search | links | settings | author tools|
|A Simple Story First Verse (standard:romance, 5408 words) [2/5] show all parts|
|Author: sickboy||Added: Oct 22 2002||Views/Reads: 1552/967||Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|2 hearts crossed, one was taken...|
First Verse Who are you? I'm not talking about names or the titles or positions in societies and companies, neither am I talking about who your parents are or what is your social or economical state or where you stay or what you do. But the plain simple question of the person that you are. Who are you? A question far beyond any reasoning or rationality could ever answer, I believe. As Leslie Cheong so rightfully put it in the movie “Inner Sense”, “The question of who or what oneself really is, is as much mysterious and mind-boggling as the mysteries of the universe.” What am I talking about? I have absolutely no idea. Just as I have absolutely no idea what happened during that week, or for the entire fortnight for that matter. But that statement wasn't true, or else I wouldn't be able to tell it. No, I knew exactly what happened; I suppose what I didn't know was how it could have happened? It began, as all weeks begin, on Sunday. It had been nearly a week now since the Adele incident, and we haven't been talking to each other for the full week. No, you knew I wasn't gonna apologize, you owe me an explanation and I expect to get it. But the explanation never came. In fact, you never said a thing, it was like you didn't try, maybe didn't want to try. Nothing changed between us though: you still send me to college and then back, we still went for lunch and dinner together, we still held hands when we walked, and in fact, we just came back from a movie. The only thing was... we never talked. No, that wasn't exactly right either, was it?... “What time you want me to pick you up?” you “8.” me “Where are we going for lunch?” me “Station.” you “You wanna watch Inner Sense?” you “Okay.” me In the eyes of any normal person, we were just another young couple, maybe a little quiet, but still just a young couple. In the eyes of any normal person who knew what was happening between us, we were just another synonym for joint-passive-psychotic-episode (if there was such a thing), in laymen terms: utter weirdness. What was wrong with this picture? It was a tragicomedy that wasn't funny, and I was sick and tired of playing the leading lady. “Stop it.” “Stop what?” “Stop the don't-talk-to-Sue-but-do-everything-that-we-normally-do shit.” “What are you talking about?” “You bloody know what I'm talking about.” “Well what do you want me to say?” “You know what I want you to say.” ... ... Silence. Something about this silence made me sick (Rage Against The Machine, Fistful of Steel.) No, I wasn't gonna sit around and look at your blank looking face while the frustration I built-up over the past 7 days was eating me up almost every single second when I was with you. It wasn't just frustration, it was confusion, it was agony, it was pain, it was guilt. Guilt, of all things. What did I do? Did I go calling some other guy that I happened to like once upon a time? Did I hide the truth from you? Did I owe you an explanation? Yet every time I looked at you, it tore me apart like a combat knife slicing through my skin, but at the same time, I actually enjoyed and wanted to be with you and say to hell with Adele. I needed to talk to you, to hear you, Click here to read the rest of this story (598 more lines)
Authors appreciate feedback!
Please vote, and write to the authors to tell them what you liked or didn't like about the story!
sickboy has 3 active stories on this site.
Profile for sickboy, incl. all stories
For a quick, anonymous response to the author of this story, type
a message below. It will be sent to the author by email.