As I stood and watched him die, I knew that I loved him. No matter how messed up a relationship we each made for the other, I could tell the feeling was mutual. But only the one feeling; I was not also tortured with the pain of slowly dying. But, as I discovered my love for him, the pain of watching him die increased ten times over, sending me to my knees. I begged him to "just stop dying" in tortured half-screams. He never did listen to me before, a habit of his. Maybe, if he wasn't so used to ignoring me, he would have jumped up from his agonized heap, exuberant as ever, and also as annoying as ever, into the man he was just moments ago. We would have walked hand in hand away, laughing and getting to know the better side of each other. But he wasn't used to taking my advise, and so he couldn't now. As his breaths became more labored, my struggles became more necessary. I shut my eyes tight, wishing against all hope that this was all some messed up dream, and that my unconscious mind dreamed up the most wild of scenarios to show my conscious mind how I felt about the man before me. A wish that I soon realized, as I grew more emotional and him more dead, would not come true. My fingers fluttered helplessly over his convulsing frame, my eyes growing blind and blinder still with the presence of never ending tears.
And I shut my eyes.
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Not Figured Out Yet
Teen FictionThere it was. There was the sappy quote meant to make the audience of my life story say, "Awwwwe!" And I was okay if it didn't serve its purpose. I was okay if a random person walking on the sidewalk heard our whole conversation and mentally gaged a...
