Next Left

Prologue

READ THIS AUTHOR'S NOTE!

Greetings, my minions! Behold, the prologue to my newest attempt at a story that's longer than a single page: Next Left. I've started in a completely different place this time, so you can forget anything you read of my previous draft-ish thingy. And, I really, truly hate to ask, but PLEASE, if you like it, COMMENT! And, if you like it, VOTE! If you hate it, COMMENT (but don't vote :D). I NEED TO KNOW WHAT YOU THINK! And please, if you think my writing is TERRIBLE, don't be afraid to tell me. I don't mind one bit. Thanks always,

Beans ;P

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2 years ago

God, I hate my reflection sometimes.I feel so ugly, looking in the mirror, hating the fact that the person I’m staring at is actually me. But I guess that’s why God invented mirrors – to make normal people feel like shit. I don’t believe in God.

I take a deep, calming breath, wiping my bloodshot eyes with a shaky hand. My shoulders begin to tremble with the suffocating weight of suppressed sobs, and I hold my breath in a pathetic attempt to stop them from coming, gripping the edge of the bathroom’s Formica countertop so tightly my knuckles turn a sickly shade of white. Another tear fights its way down my pale cheek, and a single, desperate sob escapes the confines of my gasping lungs.

NO! I bite my lip as hard as I can, drawing blood. I need to stop. I need composure. This is no way to behave. Composure, Gaia, composure. My back straightens as I assume proper posture, striving for calm, for stoicism. Another deep breath. I can do this. I can do this, I know I can. I am strong.

“You can do this, Gaia,” I mutter to myself under my trembling breath. “You can do this.”

I shut my eyes, squeezing them so tightly closed it hurts, and I will myself not to cry. I NEED myself not to cry. I want this more than I’ve wanted anything in my whole, pathetic life.Deep breaths, Gaia. Concentrate on your breathing. That’s right, in… out. In… out. Good girl.

Slowly, hesitantly, I open my eyes. And there, staring back at me from the silver confines of the bathroom mirror, is my reflection. My repulsive, pathetic, disgusting reflection. My watery green eyes are red and swollen, both cheeks streaked with tears. The freckles dusting my nose and cheekbones stand out, a stark contrast to my ashen complexion, and chunks of brown hair have found their way loose from my ponytail and hang out oddly, limp. It’s so…ugly.

The word echoes through my head, a cruel ghost, taunting me.

Ugly.

And, for just a fraction of a fraction of a second, I slip. My lip trembles, just the slightest bit, and I know, right then, that I’ve lost.

The dam breaks with the force of a tidal wave, my pent up tears spilling down my pale cheeks in gushing torrents, my breath in halting, irregular bursts.Any hope of composure or stoicism vanishes in an instant as I sink away from the mirror, settling on the tile with my back to the wall, my tall, wiry frame wracked with desperate sobs.And I cry.

I cry because I am ugly and hurting and lost. I cry because I cannot do it, I am not strong. I cry because I need to – I need to cry. And I cry because my heart is rent in two, and I will never, ever, be the same.

***

“Are you okay?”

I look up, squinting in the dull light of the chapel. I don’t recognize the voice speaking to me, and honestly, I don’t care. I just want to be left alone. I can’t stand to be at the funeral any longer.

“No,” I snap, “I’m NOT okay. “ It’s a mean thing to say, but the girl standing above me doesn’t seem to mind. She just stands there.

After a second of awkward silence, she sits down next to me on a pew. The back of the chapel isn’t heated, and the inside of the ancient, drafty building is icy cold. I shiver, realizing I’ve left my coat in the car; my thin grey sweater isn’t doing much. Without a word, the girl unbuttons her heavy, black wool coat and wraps it gently around my shoulders, sending warmth spreading slowly through my frozen bones. I turn to look at her, surprised.

“Thanks,” I mutter, and turn to stare intently at my boots. The girl grins.

“I’m Gretchen,” she says, sticking out a gloved hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah… nice to meet you too,” I sigh, and give her a wan smile “I’m Gaia.”We shake hands.

She laughs. “Jesus, your hand is cold, and I’m wearing gloves!” she giggles. “Silly! It’s, like, fifty degrees in here. Don’t you have gloves?”

“Nope,” I say quietly, adding quickly, “I don’t really need them.” I don’t want her giving me her gloves, too; she might freeze to death.

Gretchen nods, giving me another gentle smile, and looks toward the front of the chapel, where a dusty altar sits in silence, watching the world go by. For the first time, I have a chance to really look at her.

Gretchen is fairly short, and a little heavier than I am. Her hair, jet black, falls in curls around her shoulders, and her heavy black eyeliner makes her warm brown eyes look larger than they actually are.She’s not wearing anything elaborate – just a T-shirt for some band I haven’t heard of and black skinny jeans with a gaping hole in the knee. One of her black wool gloves has a hole too, and I notice that her nails, bitten practically to stubs, are a shockingly bright lime green.I smile – my favorite color.

“So.” I break the silence. “Do you, uh, want your jacket back?”

“No,” she says softly. “No, you keep it.”

“Are you sure?” I press. “ ‘Cause if you want it back—“

“Gaia. Keep it.” Gretchen puts a comforting hand on my shoulder. “It’s fine, I promise. “

We sit in silence this way for some time. I don’t know how long – after all, who’s counting? But I need to tell Gretchen. She should know. And, after all, it’s nothing to keep.

I open my mouth to say it, and hesitate for just a second before beginning.

“I’m sorry I snapped. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

I pause again.

“I lost my mom.”

It sounds so… bleak, so crude, so insufficient. But Gretchen understands.

“I know,” she says, squeezing my shoulder, “I know.”

And right then, I realize I’ve found what I need most: a friend.