nothing else but my heart's desire [COLLECTION] | FINISHED

Kismet Lovers - ORIGINAL PROSE

A girl travelled alone, as she headed back to her home town, after so many years away. She had travelled around the world, history and experience, pain and grief written clearly upon her face as she felt she could let her emotions show more plainly in a room full of strangers. There werent many who had boarded the train, it was also a rather small town, thus there weren't many who lived there to begin with. That was the way things were: most ventured out if they could, mostly, primarily in search of work, for better opportunities for themselves and their families, but if you didn't leave while you had the chance, you were destined to live and die within the confines of those streets, always smiling and waving at the same people, eating at the same diner, talking about the same things, never anything different. While Annie had once hated it, had left so isolated by it, so trapped by those people, she never forgot them, she had always dreamt of returning, of being accepted, of having routine in the same boring, so beautifully boring way. She had never forgotten her mother, who had only a look of disgust for her when they had parted; she had never forgotten her father, who had failed to acknowledge her as she left; she had never forgotten her brother, who had been too young to remember her as clearly as she had remembered him. Above all, Annie had never forgotten her, how could she? Who could forgot a girl like Wendy Angels? A girl who had taught her what it meant to love and lose, to love and never stop loving, to love and break free from all that shackles us to our troubles. Some prices had been too great to pay though, and for Wendy, that meant living a lie until the bitter end. She had sent letters up until mere weeks before her early demise, before her life had been tragically cut short by "unforeseen circumstances," though Annie had known differently. She had seen how her former love, her lost love, her only love had bared her soul in the letters she sent, how she felt as though she could not tell a soul such things except for her own exiled friend, who, even in these modern times, had been forced from her home and sent into the great unknown; Wendy had lived the lie her family wished her to, had forced her into, had her wed and bear children as every woman before her had, and she had not been able to live such a life any longer. Annie felt the anger she had been feeling since she had heard the news, indirectly, of course (since no one would have dared tell her such news), through social media, as it had been covered up by her family, never to be revealed, allowing their family's greatest shame to finally die, to be buried and forgotten. The funeral, as far as Annie was aware, and had happened a few days prior, and she had hoped no one would be around in the later part of the day, particularly as it was a week day, as her family and other funeral goers, others who were grieving her as much as Annie had been, for Wendy had been a loved and cherished person by all accounts; Annie wanted to remember her friend in her own way, in private, to grieve, to show her love and care for her lost love in her own way, far from prying eyes. She allowed herself to cry, and thankfully the strangers around her (as few as they were) had given her the space to sit with her feelings, to recall those moments only she and Wendy had been privy to in peace. Each memory had been followed by an action, a step in her journey back home, as she hid her face with an oversized hoodie, her distinct red hair always a remarked characteristic of the exiled woman; she wore little makeup, it had always been her way. To her chest, she carried a diary, filled with scribblings, letters from the deceased and more personal affects. She recalled her first kiss, under an apple tree, in the middle of summer, unusually chilly that day as Wendy had gifted her redhead her hoodie, the same hoodie Annie now wore and kept close to remember better days, happy days; the train came to a stop, the platform appeared mostly deserted, as day slowly shifted to night. She recalled the secret meetings to hold hands, when neither had been strong or confident enough to tell the other how they felt; Annie stood up from her seat, grabbing her backpack, as generic and non-distinct as one could be, all to blend in with those around her, hoping none of her old high school classmates would recognise her, that her father wouldnt be driving down the street and spot his long lost daughter, or Wendy's parents wouldnt see her and think it was a good idea to settle old scores. She remembered that fateful night, it was her senior year, prom night, a night so many looked forward to, while she and Wendy had only wanted it to be over. They had brought dates, as many girls did, though they were still as close as best friends could be. When they were found together, away from their dates, it had all been revealed, their parents banding together to separate the two and force them to compile or be forced from their homes. Annie had been much more firm in her identity, not to be manipulated or forced into any kind of programme in which she would be changed "for the better." Perhaps it was because of Wendy's status, as her family had much more to lose in a town where anything or anyone deemed different was not something to be proud of or respected, which left her vulnerable, but once she had been forced to wed a man, to eventually, after a few years, bear children, that she was better off than she would have been with another woman, there was nothing more which could've been done to help her. Annie had given her an address, as well as other contact details so the two would never be apart, but it had taken time before she had gathered the courage to write, even longer before she had been able to acknowledge the terrible situation she had been forced into. The realisation, after ten years of lies, six years of marriage and two children later, with no finances of her own, no higher education degree to speak of (as Wendy had always dreamed of), the enormity of her life had seemingly hit her like a tonne of bricks, as indicated by her letters. It had moved her old friend to tears, for Annie had known Wendy her whole life, had cared for her for many years, had known her as well as she had known her own name. The tragedy of it all had planted itself firmly in Annie's heart, and she had felt then, as she walked down the back roads to the only graveyard for miles, that it may never go away. As she marched closer and closer to the cemetery, she had felt the pit in her stomach so much more prevalent than it had been before, as though it were growing, forming this great emptiness inside her, longing for simpler days and, with each moment passing, realising what can never be. Annie's life had been empty for so long, for she had never known stability in her life since her family had disowned her. As much as she wrote, she never received a word back, which upset her as much as it didnt surprise her; to people who hated others as much as her parents hated "her kind," she no longer existed, she had never existed. She swallowed the lump forming in her throat, she pushed back the wave of tears which threatened to break through the reinforced barriers she had placed to protect her heart from further damage; her lost love's demise seemed to be the straw which finally broke the camel's back, but Annie would not shed a tear for her family. Not now, not ever. The cemetery was old, far older than even the oldest residents, though Annie had never known exactly. She had hated History while at school, had found it so tedious and boring, but had learned much about her community as she had travelled and met with others, just like her, for, to them, family and education could be (and often times had to be) learned on the streets, in harsh environments, with the rest of the world (the good, the bad and the ugly). She walked through the gates, pushing the old, creeky barriers as much as she could, as far as was required to let her pass. Night had fallen, but such places had long since required any guards or special protection, with only the priest residing nearby. Gone were the days of the graverobber, and it wouldn't have mattered much, no matter the era, for this town, even with its families of limited supply of money and wealth, still only truly relied upon their status to get by. It was a dying town, and everyone knew it, but Annie still recalled the familiar sights and smells, the sounds which rung like church bells in her head, from somewhere deep inside where she had locked away all these memories of her lost youth. She had managed to find Wendy's grave, new as it was, as the earth had yet to settle; it had been marked with rows of flowers and other mementos lying upon the ground, as though she had been tucked into bed by a parent, ready for the long sleep, for her travels to realms unknown, far beyond Annie's own understanding on the matter. Wendy had believed, as did all around them, as it was the only thing they knew how to do, though Annie had been less convinced. She found it hard to believe in something which did not believe in her, would cast her aside as though she were lesser than simply for being who she was. In her letters, Wendy had confined into her about how shaky her faith had seemed, the more she were forced to live a lie, up until she had been confirmed that she would soon be welcoming her third child into this world, upon which the foundation her life had rested begun to cave in all around her. Annie had taken a seat by her friend's grave, marked also by the small wooden cross with her name neatly engraved into the material, as she reached into her backpack and took out a bottle of wine she had been saving for a special occasion, along with a small black box, inside resting a ring: it was seemingly nothing special, for it had no large, expensive rock, but it was silver, shiny and engraved with a simple phrase, again, seemingly nothing special to the outside world, but it had held a lot of meaning for the pair. 'I love you,' it read, and Annie knew now she would never get to say it aloud. She opened the bottle, another token of celebration she had hoped to save for the moment her lost love agreed to run away with her, another memento from their last night together as they had shared a bottle of wine. The diary fell to the ground, as she allowed herself to weep silent tears before her friend's resting place, as the ring, still residing in the box, had been placed by the broken girl's feet. Annie closed her eyes, gulping down the harsh liquid as she retreated inwardly for a moment, envisioning her lost love sitting before her, smiling, happy, with no baby or wealthy ring tying her down. She was free, and Annie always wanted to remember her that way, not as the desperate woman, full of despair, sinking lower into her sadness as her life brought her to her knees. Though Wendy would put on a smile and push her way through, her heartache had seeped through the white space between each words. Annie had already prepared to see her, to urge her to flee, to write and prepare the other woman for her new life, as she would never leave her behind again. Until, as she wrote her final letter, she had heard the news and found herself here, in a graveyard, surrounded by ghosts. They didnt utter a word, as Annie allowed her friend's spirit to linger, just for a little longer, as the alcohol made her feel dizzy and faint. Grief would follow Annie wherever she went, no matter how many trains she took to run from her mistakes.