𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑭𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒇𝒖𝒍 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑭𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐄 | Forever is a Concept

ｆｏｒｅｖｅｒ   ｉｓ   ａ   ｃｏｎｃｅｐｔ

✫

"Don't leave me," I keep saying, repeating it like a mantra that I chant in front of a fire on a warm summer day. Something like what I used to do when my sister and I went to Florida to visit family and we'd pretend to make dances by the fire to show everyone. Very cult-ish, but childish foolery either way. Memories that planted itself into my brain and blossomed like flowers in spring. I pick each flower delicately and view it under a microscope, pulling apart the fake smiles that seemed to be there much longer than I realize. 

I gaze at him, my eyes begging. "Don't leave me," I say again, sure that this last time he's definitely heard me and my meek voice. 

He meets my gaze, but he gestures to the house down the block. I sit in the driver's side of my black pick-up truck, which we'd later scavenged for, parked a long stretch away. I see a few other cars parked across the street, probably for some party that the neighbors threw, but nevertheless I spot her car, a maroon Honda parked next to my father's vehicle. In all its' glory, it bathes and absorbs the sunlight. 

"You'll be okay," he assures me with a well-drawn smile. "I trust that everything will work out. Fate, am I right?" he says this teasingly, as if it was just the punchline, but to was more than just a punchline. I used to think fate was this metaphorical term that people used as an excuse or a supplement for their actions. I was awaiting fate's definition to be this whacky term that's supposed to make people feel better about horrible times like death, and survival. I assumed fate was a funny way of saying 'it's meant to be this way, you're meant to be in pain.' Though I don't think so, fate is the after-pain. That's fate. Fate is the knowledge that things will get better, that some things are unescapable, but the pain? That's just life. 

"Fate," I tell him. 

"You're a believer?" He sounds shocked like this nine hour journey did nothing but procrastinate inevitable persuasion. He laughs and watches the window blankly. The car isn't moving but he revels in pride. "I'm proud of you, y'know. It might be fate that brings you to where you'll be, but free-will is you right now, recognizing you need help. Just do it for yourself, those around you want you to do it for you and not them," he expresses with a soft-apology ridden in his tone. He touches the glass pane. "I'll miss you." 

"Don't leave me." 

"Yeah," he murmurs. "Come on, you're stalling," he jests, poking his chin out towards the white, two story home. The American flag rattles against the pole on the outside and the sun turns the thick blankets of snow to watery droplets that collect on the wooden porch. For a moment, it feels as if I'm watching from afar, the delicateness of my house missing my presence. I imagine the people inside, wondering where I'd gone off to, and if I'd ever return. I know I need help, despite my persistence that I am okay. I know that things have to work out. After all, that's all that I'm left to hope for. I've taken away this detachment to memories, making me feel them more-so than I ignored them. For obvious reasons, I didn't want to accept. 

Here I was, changing everything. I wanted to relax for a moment, feeling the pressure alleviate like a slow release on a helium balloon. I breathe in and out, training my shaking hands to go motionless. I waited until my beating heart was white noise and my cheeks were as albino as they were last seen. My jean cuffs are the only memory that itches my ankles, reminding me of the journey it took to get to this point. 

I look at Birdie for the first time again, that stranger ahead of me who pretends to have a grasp on the world, when in reality, no one knows what they're doing. "Can you come to the door with me?"