perspective | wroetoshaw

Chapter 51 - The End.

A story in which nineteen year old Eddie Parks finds herself in a situation she'd only ever written about - literally.

"Eddie Parks, I swear to the fucking sky daddy if you don't come out of your room today I'm coming in to drag you out by your hair!" Dylan yelled, banging on my door and bringing me out of the daze I'd been in.

I shut my laptop with swift ease, running up from my chair, ignoring the shooting pain in my legs from sitting still for so long, and opening the door for him. He was outside, his hair sticking to his forehead, fanning his face.

"Can I borrow your fan? Or at least sit in your room because - oh my God, it's so nice and cool in here!" He sighed, walking in and sitting on my bed.

"I still can't get over the posters," he smiled, looking at my wall and seeing the posters of him on my wall.

"They're never leaving. But you are! You can take the fan, but out you go," I say, pointing to the fan in the corner of my room, standing in front of my desk, waiting to be alone again.

"Okay, okay! I'm going. Are we still on for lunch tomorrow, though?" He asks, his head hanging round the door.

"Yeah, we are. I just gotta finish this last bit of work," I lie, waving him goodbye. "I'll let you know when I'm done."

"Alrighty. Thanks for the fan, babe," he calls, shutting my door once more.

I'm finally able to open my laptop again, rereading the last sentence, not sure if it was an appropriate way to end my piece of work.

Leaning back in my seat, my eyes caught sight of my posters again. They'd been there for so long it felt almost unnatural to even think about taking them down. I was lucky I lived with a roommate who understood. He was the exact same as I was, just with Taylor Swift (and who could blame him, really?).

After several moments of studying the posters once more, it was decided. I liked the last sentence. I was going to leave it.

It had been a writing heavy day, today. It was easy when I felt like this - inspired, by the weather, by the music, by my friends - especially my friends.

But now that it was done - all of it, I felt a mixture between relief and emptiness. Relief that it was at an end, but emptiness because it had felt so real to me. He had felt so real to me whilst writing it. He had been right there for me, so close that it felt like if I reached my hand out it would brush against his. That gentle squeeze was all I yearned for - for his fingertips against mine, but it was one of the only cravings that could never be satisfied.

And so I hit publish, releasing the last part of the project to my friends, to random strangers I didnt even know, hoping it would provide the same comfort to them as it had to me, hoping it felt every bit as real as it had to me, too.

Because, from my perspective, it was my little distraction.