A Way to York

valentine's day

:write a chapter in which a character spends valentine's day alone:

A knock at the door interrupted York's blubbery sobbing. She didn't move for the remote until the knocking turned into an assault on her ears. A freeze-frame of Wes standing in the rain, gazing up at Delilah through his drenched hair was where she left off. She clambered over the sofa and mountain of used tissues over to the visitor.

With red-rimmed eyes, York gazed at her newest visitor. An older, more world-weary version of her stood dazed and glassy eyed. The stranger took one last look at her, recognition and calm washing over her face-a face that seemed familiar to her-before collapsing into her arms.

Baffled at this sudden encounter, she stared at the unconscious girl in her arms. She gently dragged the girl over to her sofa, brushing away the paper and boxes of chocolate. York yelped as she accidentally dropped her, scrambling to pull her onto the old sofa.

The resemblance was uncanny. The girl shared York's auburn hair she inherited from her birth-mother, knotty from countless attempts to tame the wild ringlets. That exact hue of blue-grey eyes that she remembered swirled with wonder. A rose stone cradled by her collar bone, tied with the ratty cloth that has she known to be from an old doll of hers'.

With shaking hands, York brushed away the singed hair from her shoulders and gasped. A spider web-like scar crawled and wrapped around her collar bone, peeking out from beneath the collar of her shirt.

York's hand flew to her own at once, a bubble of memory floating past her. She quickly popped it and shot up, afraid to be near this girl-the girl who harbored the same scar from birth.

York's mind spun as she watched the girl sleeping. Who was she? Why was she here? Why do we appear so similar?

Panic arose in her chest, her heart swelling and hammering against her chest, filling her ears. A cold sweat began to form on her body as she remembered something that Wyatt said when he had one too many drinks, swishing around a glass of tequila.

"They say that if you see a doppelgänger-or a twin-of yourself, it means that one of you have to die. Only one version of you can exist at a time. If two of you are present, the universe might collapse. Boom!"

No, that would be absurd. There was no way that this girl was another version of her. York took one last glance at the stranger and ran for the phone.

After some fell attempts, she managed to hear the sound of yelling that was familar to seem trivial. The clatter of plates sounded, and she registered a string of vulgar cursing being flung.

"What?" Wyatt's sharp voice snapped.

"Wyatt, something happened."

At the sound of York's voice, his tone softened and he spoke more softly. "Oh, thank god. It's you. What's up?"

"Do you remember when you told me about . . . " her gaze flickered over to the person dozing off on her sofa, and her voice lowered to a mere whisper. "those doppelgängers?"

"You remember that?" the embarrassment in his voice was apparent. "I was drunk, but yeah, I'm aware of what happened. Loosely."

Her stomach twisted up and knotted as she spoke through gritted teeth. "There' might-"

A hand covered her mouth, causing her stomach to drop to the floor and her heart to stop. A hoarse voice scraped against her ears as York fumbled with the phone, causing the mobile to shatter as it met the ground.

"Shh. You can't let him know," she breathed into her ear.

York couldn't make an distinguishable sound-other than mere whimpers and silent screams. Her blood drained from her face and settled into a deathly pallor. This person had the possiblity to kill her, take her life and all the prospects of a possible future.

Then she realized, she never had a future. During the second year of university, York dropped out to follow her boyfriend's dream. Being fiercly infatuated with a desperate actor trying to make it big meant that she would be faced with constant bipolar changes. He convinced her that she was the only girl in the world he cared about, and she believed him for so long.

York halted everything for him, severing ties with her family and friends to chase her lover's fatuous ambition.

He made her feel special, like she mattered in a sense. All she wanted was to be the main protagonist in her own romance, swept away by the prospect of true love and devotion. It started when he left her a rose on the door of her dorm. The gesture made her heart flutter and cheeks flush.

The thing was, it seemed too picture-esque.

She loved him too much, and expected things from him that he couldn't provide. Like the ability to love her the way she wanted him to.

Everything fell apart when she fell out of the loop. People sped past her and advanced to bigger and better things. They got married, jobs and children.

While York was stuck with no degree, no money, and no possibility to achieve anything. For years, she had been in a rut. The only reason she had an apartment was because her sister's best friend owned the building and paid her rent.

It would be beneficial for her to die right now. Too many disappointments and regrets in one human being. A weight would be lifted off everybody's shoulders, now that they didn't have to worry about her.

York released a breath and gazed directly into her own eyes. "Do it."

The doppelgänger quirked her eyebrows, clearing her throat. "Do what?"

Something flickered in her eyes as the situation registered to her. "You want me to kill you?"

York nodded grimly. She sighed and said, "It would be-"

"Don't you dare say what I think you're going to say," she whirled on her, jaw tense. "You have a duty to do, and a great future ahead of you. A family, a job and so many days to look forward to experiencing."

"You're me, aren't you?"

"From the future, yes." York opened her mouth, and the future version charged on her. "Don't you dare ask me any questions about who Wyatt ends up with, or anything stupid. I have something more important to-"

Other-York keeled over, clutching her side. She brought her hand to her face, and saw the blood that stuck to her palm. Her skin drained, and a cough raked through her body. More blood.

York raced to catch her when her knees buckled, her entire body ice-cold and shaking. The girl stared up at her through glassy eyes, reaching for her back pocket.

"The reason I can't kill you," she choked out, "is because I've already killed myself. Here."

She pressed a small pocketbook, marred and mutilated, into York's palm. York clutched it to her chest.

She felt the Other-York's breathing to become slower and more spaced out. She could barely sense her heartbeat emitting from her chest.

Then it stopped.

The room was still as York mourned her older self. When she has imagined her death, she thought it would have been alone, with nobody other herself to keep her company. The sound of Bob Dylan's voice would be the last thing she heard before the world faded away.

She never thought that she would be so right. For the first time, she didn't want to be.

When the clock erupted the silence, York gazed through tear-stained eyes at its face. She looked back at the place where she had died, some time later. The corpse dissolving into the essence of time, and the package burning a hole in her chest.

Happy Valentine's Day.