As Long As You're Mine

Remembering You

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Cymbals clashed in her head. Her shoulders squared and rooted in spot. An audible gasp slipped from her throat. She felt her chest tighten. Her heart hammered like a drill banging into the earth. Tears spilled down her cheeks. She knew there was nothing she could do now. Her stomach twisted and churned sickly. Her breath shortened and quickened.

She fell back into her thoughts. Back to that faithful, wretched day. July 26, 2012.

She was barely 4 feet, running around house, the misbalance of her small body shaking her vison making the world wobble. Her brown hair hung at necks length, held by two hair ties at both sides of her head. She was dressed in a simple sleeveless white frock, ending at her knees. In both hands she clutched very oddly dressed Barbie dolls, faces and bodies scribbled with multicolour 'washable' (the company scammed them) markers. She raised her hands, moving her stubby feet, forwards, backwards, forwards, backwards, just going where they led her. She violently moved her hands to allow the dolls to continue their affairs.

She found herself on the familiar cream-coloured tiles of the kitchen, the fridge decorated with what seemed like thousands of her scribbles and magnets, the counters filled with bowls and pans in the middle of a meal being made. She raised her head to see the warm face of her mother. She wore an azure buttoned shirt, stained with some red sauce, that was tucked into some loose-fitting royal blue jeans. The same curly chocolate hair as hers, pulled into a quick bun, held together by a stick. Her eyes, dark brown, shining in her everlasting joy. She beamed at her, showing her slight wrinkles. She never thought of her as old. Old was an unforgiving term.

"¡Hola mija! ¿Tienes hambre?" She says with a chuckle.

Andrea runs away out of the kitchen, heading to her room.

"¡Oye! ¡Andrea!" Her mother's voice, a little louder and sterner but nevertheless cheerful, echoes behind her.

She drops herself on the floor of her room, legs folded like a 'W', though her mother warned her not to multiple times. Her room's wallpaper was striped, baby and hot pink. In the middle was her large four poster bed, sheets messed up and disorganised with numerous push animals scattered everywhere. Lining the wall were tall white cabinets, the two doors of each open slightly by the overflowing books, art supplies and clothes. Toys and clothes were planted at every inch of her room, like crops on a farm. She continued playing with her dolls, shaking each one when it is their turn to speak. Life was sweet like this, but another funny thing about life is that life is cruel. When life believes that something is going to smooth for someone, life loves to mess up their lives. What's more fun than ruining people's lives?

A painful growl filled the air, a voice too familiar, followed by more. She loosens her grip on her dolls as they fall from her hands, nesting on the ground and joining with all the other filth. She pulls herself up and follows the sign of the yells, her brows scrunching together in confusion. Her dad's voice, she picked up. She suddenly hears her mother suddenly exclaim and sob, her eyes widening as she starts running towards the sound.

She found herself at her living room. The room, all walls and ceiling white, was rather spacious, compared to her tiny room and kitchen. The room had an 'L' shaped black sofa nearing the back. In front was a double story glass coffee table. Some magazines, mug stains and remotes were on top. In the front of the room was a grand 85'' TV, hanging on the wall. Usually the news, a cooking show or some cartoons would be religiously playing 24/7, but in a rare instance like this, it was off. But her eyes skipped all of this and saw her father.

His charcoal hair was messy, curly and pushing out in all places. He was muscular, his shoulders broad as broad as a double door. Her mother always joked to her friends about that in her often, fancy dinner parties. She would hold her 'juice' in a fancy glass and when Andrea begged her for a sip, she would refuse horrified, scolding her that she way too young.

She would playfully elbow her father and laugh, saying that was the only reason she married him. Andrea didn't understand that. Why would she marry someone for shoulders? But as soon as her mother said that she too wanted to be just like him. Broad in the shoulder and muscular.

When she announced that to her parents, her father laughed, his eyes, identical to Andrea's, twinkling. His same laugh that was hollow, but brought happiness to her, like the chocolate Santa that he always bought her during Christmas time. She always saw her dad as the smartest person in the world. The most handsome person in the world. He was her world. He would always stand, tall and confident. Ready to run up and lift Andrea into his arms and tickle her until she screamed that she couldn't breathe.

But not today.

Her father was kneeling on the ground, clutching his heart, loud yells still flowing from his throat and his breaths short and sharp.

He turned is head and turned to her, his face slightly paler than usual, in a pained expression that turned sorrowful and pitiful at the sight of her.

"Mi amor..." He gasped, the words barely escaping his throat.

"¿Papá? ¿Qué pasó? ¿Estás bien?" She replied, her eyes pooling.

Her mother was on the phone, sobbing, and answering questions the Emergency Dispatcher was asking her. Once she was finished, she ran and sat next to her husband, making him sit straight and hyperventilating. Andrea's dad turned and looked at her mom.

"Esperanza, te amo. Siempre lo he hecho y siempre lo haré. Prométeme que cuidarás bien de nuestra hija." He said, his face turning paler and his breaths slowing.

"¡Miguel! Yo también te amo. No digas eso. Va a estar bien. Todo estará bien. Solo-" She gasped back at him.

It all happened to fast. She didn't even notice until her mother yelled.

"¡MIGUEL!"

The next hours were a blur.

This was another example of a situation where your body changes it for you, so it becomes funny.

Pretty lights.

Flashing.

Red.

Blue.

Red.

Blue.

Red.

Blue.

Then bright white light.

The sharp smell of medicine and antiseptic that entered her body like a drug.

Her mother changing and never being the same.

Crying.

Phone calls.

Doctor.

The doctor said something to her.

She knew it, but it wasn't real in her head, until the doctor told her.

"Your

            father

                           is

                                  dead."

Author's Note:

Heya, Guys!

Sorry for the cringe and the obvious simping (ifykyk). 

Next part coming soon!

- JacksonPotter2099