There once was a dying girl. An odd way to start off a story, yes? We're all dying, why point out this one specific girl? Well this girl was inching towards death much faster than most people you'd pass on the streets. This girl plays tag with death on a daily basis. This girl has personally sat down with death and asked him to delay her next visit. This was no dying girl, this was a girl who was meant to be dead.
There once was a dead boy. To say he was dead on a physical scale was bending the truth, for he was healthy from head to toe. That is, unless you looked closely at the way he was standing. Death was no friend of his, hardly even an aquintence. They had passed each other a few times, Death would stop him on the road just to say hello, though the boy would just keep driving. Death felt no need to stick around, for this boy was already dead. He knew not how to live, only how to survive.
Paths never crossing but once, one uneventful night, a night when the dead boy saw the dying girl and asked if she wanted to live, even for a few brief moments. So they lived, to a cheerful song, in a large crowd of perfectly living people, they lived. One decaying hand in another, feet stepping perfectly in sync, despite the fact that one foot was a bit worn down and in need of assistence. The night ended and they went on their separate paths, one avoiding death, one accepting it, both knowing that without the other, living is a much greater struggle.
A year of dying and a year of death. A year of surgeries, bleeding and tubes in the chest. A year of working, breakups and tires screeching against hard pavement. A year of living lives as the sick and the stuck. One sick of dying, and one stuck in life. A year of knowing, knowing each other's names, knowing each other's fame, just unaware of how greatly the other would change the game. A year of waiting. Waiting for the perfect timing. When the hell did this story start rhyming?
A year and a month, then the timing was right. It was only right one that one specific night. An invitation, a counter offer, and an aggreement. Then a night of talking of how the last year was spent. The night was long, though it felt like a mear second on their story's clock. Who knew, the next day, they'd be running together down an old wood dock.
The dead boy knew not how to live, but he knew if he didn't try, himself he'd never forgive. He knew not of travel, nor of fame or of glory. But he knew of romance, the one thing he wanted in his story.
The dying girl knew only of what she wanted. Aside from dying, her achievements, she always flaunted. To her, romance was something of fairytales, for her relationships always ended in fails.
Funny, the dead knew how to help the dying, and the dying knew how to help the dead, but only together could their story be read. Only together were they both resurrected. Only together, could they fight off that good friend Death, because only together, could they become the living.
