When I walked out of that hospital - the second time that month- I think I realized then that one of us would never make it out.
As the smell of gasoline and cigarettes invaded my senses I felt our little paradise being burnt down to ashes. Maybe it was my trust issues, or maybe your paranoia.
"This will never last." You once told me, that killer smile on your face and a hand on my chest. "But we don't live for tomorrow, do we?" And I think I just smiled back, but I can't remember because your very essence was toxic and invaded my brain and all I could think about was, you you you.
Six months later it was my turn to sit in those worn out, old, blue chairs. Listen to the phones and computer keyboards tap tap tap. Cleaning supplies so thick it had washed out your perfume from underneath my nose, but you'd been asleep for three days by then. Your artifical scent worn out.
I can't remember what had happened the day before to make you fall asleep or to get me sitting there, but it didn't matter because four days later we were in each others arms again. Whispering about world wide trips and kids with blond hair like mine, green eyes like yours. We knew it was never going to happen, but we'd like to think it would. I remember killer smiles and, "but we don't live for tomorrow, do we?" But we forgot that not living for tomorrow is different than not living tomorrow at all.
I remember, getting so mad that for one second I blew out your toxins only to breathe back in my steam. Saying something I can't remember, but remembering your face as you ran out. A mixture between red anger, blue disappointment, and black mascara running down your cheeks. Also your headlights, shinning on my empty bottle as you pulled out of the drive. I'm wondering if that tree remembers them too.
But I think when I watched that man light his cigarette, standing outside of the gray hospital, I think I decided then that I would be the one to stay behind. I vowed, under the hybrid influence between grief and determination, that you would make it out alive. I would be the only one scorned by our superficial love.
So now, here I am, spitting lies in your face about how I never once loved you. Twisted words coming put of my mouth, internally pleading you see right through them. But my bullets hit your heart and once again - for the last time- I watch as your headlights illuminate my once again empty bottle, breathing in the smell of your perfume and breathing out as the smoke takes it place.
YOU ARE READING
A Collection of Stories
Short StoryA collection of short stories. There are three crazy authors who participate in the act of writing this book. There is an update once per week, we all alternate chapters so it goes: @redroses818 @greentealows @bluespoononmynose Please enjoy reading...
