on golden pond | fillie

summer of '97 >part 1

finn's p.o.v.

it wasn't until this morning, when i awoke from my seemingly endless slumber, that it clicked. i finally understood.

-

i sit upon the dock, watching the sun rise over the lake.

at first it puzzled me. why this, of all places, why here. i've woken up in different cities, different places and they all seemed to make sense.
places i had wanted to visit, places i'd gone as a child. but never, never did i think i'd awaken here,
on golden pond.

i spent my 27th birthday lying upon the roof of my childhood home. i couldn't bring myself to peer through the curtain and look into the remains of my broken family. 

i sat in the back at my own funeral, watching my friends and family fall apart.

eight torturous years have passed since that fateful day, the day i died. i've never quite understood why i'm here, stuck in the infinite inbetween.

unfinished.

when i was alive i never knew what to believe, heaven, hell and the rest of that bullshit but i sure didn't think this was what happens when you die.

it's lonely, watching people, blank stares and silent converstions. it becomes deafening the amount of times i used to try and speak, only to get silence as a reply.

eventually, i stopped trying.

the colours of the sunrise mush together creating a missmatched rainbow watercolour of sorts.  i dip my forever cold feet into the lake, swishing the water and feeling it slide through my toes.

i stare out at the crystal clear lake, watching as a loon calls out to its young. a row of babies come swimming out of the bay next to this one, following the sound of their mother.  i smile, millie would've loved this view.  she always liked loons.

millie.

if i were to rate on a scale of 1 to 10, whom i miss the most; millie bobby brown would lock in the top spot.

i miss her short brown hair that would threaten to drown her as she swam. i miss her caramel eyes that shone as flashlights even on the darkest nights. i miss the way her lips curled when i'd make her smile. i miss the little things. i miss the way she'd ramble when she became nervous, i miss the way her laugh could be heard from a mile away and most of all, i just miss her.

i'm so sick of just dreaming about her. every night, it's like hell.

standing, i wander up the creaky wooden stairs, walking along the path towards my childhood cabin. i stumble over the fallen trees that lay strown across our stone walkway.

i rub my fingers over my temples, a pounding headache coming on strong.

these headaches as i call them, have been becoming more and more frequent lately.  a throbbing from behind my eyes which pulls me into a memory. 

i lean back against a tree, gritting my teeth as my brain pulls me into the past.

---"finn?"