╭⋆⋰☆⋱⋆⋰⍣⋱⋆⋰☆⋱⋆╮ ❛ THE GOLD ❜ S02 ; E01 ╰⋆⋰☆⋱⋆⋰⍣⋱⋆⋰☆⋱⋆╯
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Death is imminent. Everyone knows it— everyone will die. Whether that death is slow and torturous, or quick and painless, everyone will eventually end up in a hole in the ground or on someone's fireplace mantle. It's just how the world works.
I think I died this summer, in one way or another.
I don't know what part died first— my motivation, my passion, my lungs, my heart. But, I'm sure that if you split me open, top to bottom, everything would be rotted and crumbling. I couldn't feel my pulse as I watched my friends set up our own little memorial, right in the middle of the tree that stood proudly behind the Château. Pope was perfecting the edge of the wide heart that they had carved into the bark while JJ took to burning in the actual lettering.
2003-2020 John B Routledge, P4L
Pogues for life.
My far-off spot from the lawn chairs near the back door was surrounded with smoke as I blew out the hit I had just taken from the blunt in my hand. Ash dropped onto the linen cargo pants that I wore, black streaking onto the cream fabric as I brushed it away.
"Shit," I cursed quietly, coughing slightly. Kie turned from her spot near the hole at the base of the tree, an eyebrow raised at me.
"Chayse, come over here," She called gently. "We're about to start."
I took another hit quickly and snubbed out the tip of the blunt onto the white plastic of the chair, tucking the small roll into my pocket. I left a trail of smoke as I dragged myself to the group, squinting at the makeshift gravestone.
"Good job on the letters, babe," I linked my arm with JJ's, sending him a small smile. "You make a kickass grave."
"Hell yeah. Best for the best," The blonde pulled out his flask, as I did mine. Pope gripped a beer, looking somberly between us. "To John B."
"And to Sarah," Kiara added weakly, tears lining her bottom lashes.
"Salud," I mumbled, screwing the top off of the black container and letting a gulp of the vodka inside drip down my throat, enticing the smallest burn to warm my chest. The boys followed suit, downing their own drinks in silence.
My eyes trailed over to Kiara, then to the wooden box in her hand. Mementos and forgotten things taken from the depths of John B's bedroom, previously untouched, laid in the box, along with an item from each of us; A leather, braided bracelet from JJ, an empty tackle bottle from Pope, which had been used as a stash jar for long school days, a seashell the size of someone's palm from Kiara, and a tattered, pink bandana that I had previously tied around the strap of my backpack. It lay on top of the pile, stark against the rest of the objects. The fraying end flapped in the light breeze before she closed the box, signaling that it was finally time.
