When Lightning Strikes

Crushes

S I P H

Walking into homeroom the day after our little "meeting" was a normality in an otherwise increasingly abnormal reality.  I took my seat next to the red-haired wonder of a girl who had occupied my mind for the last few years.  On that day she was wearing her favorite blue T-Shirt and ripped light grey jeans.  Her sweater was unzipped, leaving it strewn around her shoulders in a perfectly beautiful and equally careless fashion.  Her black high-top converse were rugged and soiled, and perfect.  Every part of her was perfect.  And in that moment, I wondered how the miracle that was Faith Susan Morningstar had ended up in my life, let alone next to me in homeroom. 

"Hello Sipheus."  The way her upper lip moved when she talked had me hypnotized but her flashing brown eyes snapped me out of my daze.

"Hello Faith."  I nodded and took my seat.  She reached down to her purple Jansport backpack and grabbed her doodle book.  The doodle book was started at the beginning of the school year, when I noticed her doodles and she noticed mine and they were thus combined.  It seems ridiculous to explain exactly what a doodle book is because the name explains it all.  By this time on this day, Faith had already begun doodling on her page.  I reached into my pocket and pulled out one of my many hoarded pens.  She, seeing my pen, slid the book to the middle of the desk.  I begun doodling a hand on the other half of the paper.  It wasn't till about halfway through drawing it that I noticed who's hand it was.  It was her's.  Of course it was her's.  Everything I did seemed to be at least somewhat related to her.  From drinking ginger tea (her favorite) to helping her cheat on a test to drawing her hand.  My drawing notebook was filled with drawings of her.  However, none of the drawings were perfect.  I couldn't draw her just right.  I think that there was one reason for my inability to perfect her drawings.  Because she was wild.  She was beautiful and wild and no one, let alone me, would have been able to capture her in a single drawing.  She was so wild, that she could not be contained by simple pencil and paper.  She was feral, she was beautiful, she was un-contained, and so full of life.  These factors were all why the event of the next week was so tragic.  Because as much as I loved her, and yes, I did love her, I could not protect her from the end.  I could not protect her from myself.