If We Survive

Chapter 32

It's nearly nine, according to Ernist's old-fashoned pocket watch (Which works, for no reason at all). I calamber over to my flatbed, collapsing face down. I inhale the deep smell of the matress- I just washed all of the clothes, sheets, and anything else fabric-related yesterday, which was fun. 

And by fun, I mean it was like Purgatroy. So not fun, really, at all. 

See, because my mom was semi-awesome and never made me do chores, or wash the clothes, or cook, or clean, save the occational "Wash the dishes!" So naturally I hate all things of that sort. Ernist left me with a bunch of dish soap and a bucket by the river, and I had to figure things out myself. I suppose if I was in a better mood, I would call it a learning experince, but I'm not, so no. 

Today, apparently, was manual labor day, which also was fun. So, so much fun. 

I feel it would be apporpriate to mention I also had a bath. 

Like the old fashoned, Little House on the Prarie kind that are in a wooden tub full of lukewarm water that you can't even fit in. It was actually pretty refeshing, and I tried to ignore the byond opaque water when I got out. My hair is still all kinds of a mess. 

Because that was super crucial to everything ever. 

Actually, it is. 

Really, I can't stand it. It gets caught in everything from doorknobs to bookshelves. Putting it up doesn't help, either, because it teams up with gravity and decides that it doesn't want to be up. 

It's about as stobborn as an old ass. 

Or maybe a 17-year-old one. 

In all reality, this matress smells like home. Mom used to use the same detergent, belive it or not. Everything smelled just like it, after wash day, even though it was supposedly scentless. I liked how it smelled. Still do. 

It's not like being home again, not by a long shot. I would go off, shooting as to why this isn't at all like, home, but I think you can figure. 

I exhale deeply, and instantly regret it. My back hurts so bad that I actually have trouble breathing. As if having a face full of bed wasn't enough. 

It's always comfort first at the end of the world, isn't it? 

I drift into sleepyland, peacefully, for the first time since God know when. 

-

It's competely dark. That's all I know; and it's one of those dreams. It's funny, with these tings, I always know what's going on. In other dreams, I'm just there. Here, I know some weird shit is about to go down. 

There is a light, waveringly brilliant, at the center of my vision. It appears that I am behind some sort of sheet, because the light seems fuzzy around the edges, like I'm wearing someone else's glasses. 

Suddenly, two siloettes pop up, that of a man and the other of a woman. They seem to be fighting. 

"You know why I took it. Because it's what had to happen." The girl announces loudly, motioning violently with her hands. 

"What had to happen? Nothing has to happen, you idiot." The man sound angry. I recignize his voice. 

"This did." It seems like they're bing oddly cryptic, like avoiding saying exactly what happened. I wonder if it's just my brain's censorship program. 

"God, I hate you so much." She runs a hand through what I assume is her hair, although it looks like she doesn't have much of it. I wonder if she shaved it all off. 

He reaches out an arm, to comfort her, or whatever- I rember were I've heard his voice. In that dream, months ago, with the little girl. Parallells are disturbing. 

There is darkness again, but it clears up in a matter of seconds, like a scence changing in a movie. 

And I feel so sick that I might just puke my guts out on the spot. 

Because there sits Dee, with his half-smile and puppy dog eyes. I remeber this day, better than any, in my entire life. 

It was the worst day of my life. 

And an EMP doesn't have shit on this day, which just shows how much like a teenager I am. I can take anythung but people.

Damn the people of the world. 

Everybody. 

You know in stories there are the girls who have only one friend, and are ultra-different than everyone else, but they don't really care? Like haters gonna hate style? I was not one of them. I spent my entire life wanting to be like everyone else. 

Again, with the grass is always greener on the other side. 

I wassitting in his dorm, even though that was highly illigel. 

The thing about Dee is, well, he was so perfect. It sounds extremely strange, but it is truth. He let me cry, and I told him all about how I was willing to commit mass genocide in order to wipe those asses off the face of the earth. 

He was the perfect friend. 

And no, he never liked me, never like that. We knew each other too well, wich sounds posotively retared, since it's always nice to know your partener, but, well Dee was just Dee. 

Which also makes no since. 

He nevr once told me to toughen the hell up, like what I would've done, or just give me a funny look and a few superfcial "It'll be oks." 

And when the hiccuping ears finally stopped, he still sat there, that look on his face. 

The kind of face that words can't actually discribe. It was a good look, though, a look that healed me, and filled me right up to the brim with that happy stuff. 

He's also a nice person to hug. That's the kind of things that friendships should be based, off of, really. Then again, I woundn't have a single friend, because I'm shit at hugging. Physical contact isn't my thing. 

That was also my favorite day, because it was when I realized that no matter were life took me, I would never forget him. He would always be Dee, the standard for the rest my relationships forever. 

I don't know how long it is, but I find myself in my bed again, back and everything else aching. 

But somehow I'm better.