Stories Brief & Unconnected

Lauren

Hello again, peoples! Here is my first short story! I wrote this one because I was über bored and the name Lauren was stuck in my head for no reason. Then I realized that all the other stuff I've been working on is horribly dark and depressing, so I tried to write a love story. It turned out dark and depressing. :P Oh well. I like it anyways. Hope you like it too! Thanks for reading my brain fluff...

- Lana ;)

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Lauren’s eyes are an indescribable shade of green. If I had to explain them, I’d say that they’re the color of the smallest leaves on fern fronds at the end of the plant’s life, just before it starts to fade to shriveled brown. Less than green, but more than brown. But not exactly that.

Lauren’s hair disregards the laws of the physical world. It springs wildly in all directions, the nice kind of frizzy that’s untamed and graceful at the same time. It has myriad textures and colors, and it’s beautiful in the way that comes from having no inkling of its effortless elegance. 

Lauren’s smile, rarer than wild tigers and all the more genuine for it, radiates softness and shyness, and shocks those who see it with its unexpected charm. 

Lauren’s gait is concise and betrays her decisive, pensive manner. 

Lauren’s voice is gentle and commanding, alluring and soothing, versatile as her vocabulary and constant as the metronome tapping of her foot, displaying her restless energy and her determined self control.

Lauren’s hands are small-palmed and long-fingered, but strong from practicing the deft, precise movement of a paintbrush on canvas. They are hands that know their own capabilities. They are hands that allow feelings to flow free. 

Lauren’s face is delicate, with an underlying strength that conveys all the toil and all the pain that people like Lauren face. The uncaring families, the classmates too important to care, those perfect people, those perfect, impossible people who are so easy to love and so reluctant to give love back. 

Lauren’s laugh is one that I have never heard, as the dead have only eyes, and my living self never gave her cause to laugh. 

I wish that I had known Lauren before I had to leave the realm of the living. All that I know of her I have observed. I watch her, and she does not know of my presence. She thinks that I am gone forever. She thinks that she finished the job when she slipped her toxic chemicals into my drink. 

I wish that I could tell Lauren what, I am sure, she now knows all too well; that when I ignored her it was not a willful omission. Rather, my eyes skipped over her, and did not make note of her utter perfection, because she was a quiet girl, a good girl; not one of the brazen ones who ensure that they are known by all. 

I wish I could tell her that her scheme did succeed, in a way, though perhaps not in the manner she expected. She disposed of me because she could not bear that I would never belong to her. She did not want to see me any longer, for I was a constant reminder of her shortcomings, her inadequacy. 

I wish that she did not feel the regret that I know she feels. 

I can see the sadness in Lauren’s paintings. 

If only she knew how I love her now. I love her indescribable eyes, her wild hair, her rare smile. Her concise gait, her controlled voice; her steady hands and her strong face. I imagine her laugh, and I imagine loving it. Adoring her has brought me to realize that I was living my life in the wrong way.

Lauren killed me, but she also allowed me to live.