Can You Feel My Heart?

Fix

Chipping away at the already broken pieces. Continuing to ruin a future.

Life's a killer. And so is time.

•••
Three Days Before
Jake sat at an empty computer chair in the public library. He tapped his pencil, but this time Florence wasn't there to stop him. He stared at the computer in front of him, then at the paper under his elbow. He glanced back and forth, concentrating on what to do. Or, rather, what to write.

He had never written one of these before. There was so much he wanted to say, but he could not find a way to put it on paper. Being a poet did not help him one bit, and it should have. But it didn't.

He didn't want to rhyme.

Or free verse.

He just wanted to speak.

Jake looked at the clock on the wall and took a deep breath. He closed his eyes, thinking of everything that happened to him in the past two weeks.

Meeting Florence, loosing her. Writing his poem, getting humiliated when it was passed around school. His father.

He knew what he had to do, for he was weak.

•••

Jake walked to a hardware store, keeping his head down the whole way there. When he got inside, he went to the back of the store, which is where they stocked the ropes. They came in different colors, bright pink, blue, and highlighter yellow. Then there was the dull colored one. The one that looked like dry wood. He picked it up and felt the rough material between his fingers.

He looked at the rope, tears brimming in his eyes. Finally, he gathered what little strength he had left and went back to the front of the store. Walking to an open register, he held the rope tightly in his hand. The lady at the register smiled.

"Is that all?" He nodded at her, taking a ten dollar bill out of his pocket. She scanned the tag on the rope. "Would you like a bag?" Jake bit his fingernail. He didn't want to see the rope until he needed it, so he said yes. She handed him the bag, wishing him a nice day.

•••

Again, Jake was at the library. It stayed open all night. Instead of writing, he listened to a song, over and over. He seemed to lose himself in it, and for a moment, he wished he was musical. If he were able to play an instrument, he wouldn't have to write all the time. But then he thought about it, and he realized that he didn't mind writing everyday.

He pulled his journal out the bag that held the rope. Suddenly, he was writing and revising.

•••

What he was writing, however, will remain a secret, though I'm pretty sure you've already guessed it. Yours Truly,
Quiet Observer.

A/N:
The song Jake was listening to is on the side. Enjoy...or not.
-Vi