Random Short Stories

Love Like Death

              Salty tears fall down my hot face. My heart lurches with pain. Pain so deep, I've never felt something that hurt so bad. A metal shaft plunging through my chest would hurt no more.

              Why do good memories hurt? I ask myself, repeating the question over and over, not getting any closer to an answer.

              My mom told me to move on. It is the only way to make the pain go away. I won't move on; I won't forget.

              The line, love never lasts forever, is dead wrong. Love is always there. It's disguised as pain. The love that burrows in your heart transforms into a monster. A monster that only brings pain.

               I look at my blank canvas. I look deeper into the sheer emptiness it holds. I see something beautiful in it, someone beautiful in it. I begin to paint.

                                                                                          ~~~

              Raven. I write my small bird of a name onto the loose-leaf paper. I slide the sheet to the side of my desk, ready for my work to be handed in and groan when I see my arm lined with a nice shade of gray from the lead that I always seem to get everywhere.

             My long, dark, waving hair falls annoyingly onto my face, and I shove it back behind my ear in its rightful place, huffing at its insubordination.

             I lick my finger and start rubbing it against my arm; the gray stays put. It's almost as stubborn as I am. I decide to let go of all my dignity and pull my arm up to lick it. The gray starts to fade. Satisfied, I continue. I smile at my handy work when I see that nothing is left.

             Looking up, I see my stunned teacher. My silvery, pale skin, like the moon, turns five shades whiter. She takes my paper and moves on, pretending nothing has happened.

             The bell rings, and I am the first one out the door. That is enough weirding people out for one day. I see my best friend across the hall and run over to her, shoving her into the nearest wall.

             "Hey, Ashley," I say in an annoying voice, my arms pinning her scrawny arms to the wall.

             She quickly moves her arms around in a way that I am now the one pinned against the lockers behind us, my arm jabbing into my back.

             "How many times, Raven, do I have to tell you not to call me Ashley. You have a death wish."

             "Fine, fine," I try to put my hands up from their awkward position in a sort of surrender.

             She lets me go. We walk down the hall together and step out the doors of the prison cell behind us.

             I replay the story of Mrs. Johnson witnessing me licking my elbow back to my best friend as we make our way home. Home -- the small cul-de-sac that lies a few blocks away from the school. Our feet shuffle against the uneven ground, the worn-out color to the soles on our shoes fading further with each step.

             I look over at my freckled friend and wait for her to respond to my typical strange story. She doesn't trap her hair back like I do. She lets her golden red hair fall onto her face.

             "First of all, I am now going to have to pretend I don't know you, and second of all, why the hell were you licking your arm in the first place?"

             "Ash, you have to stop saying hell."

              Shoving her hands into her pockets, she begins to protest, but I cut her off.

             "It is a bad word," I say thinking about how my mom already doesn't like her.

             "It's a place, not a bad word. Those who merely demean the horrific void as just a word are only trying to forget the fact that it is a real place, the future for some. They are too scared to think about the place, so they say it is a bad word."

             Her seriousness lessens, and she puts a smile on her face, "Places can't be bad words, Raven. Have you ever been punished because you said Iowa? No, you haven't, but maybe you should have been because Iowa is pretty crappy."

             She laughs at her own joke, and I can't help but to laugh along with her.

             "We have surveyed this area for possible threats, and there are many. Some of the threats include: nothing ever happens, severe boredness, and possible death from the terrible smell," I say in a professional voice.

             We laugh for a long time, then we go silent. We've reached our block by the time I speak again, adding to our major list of plans, "Maybe along with being neighbors when we're older, having children that will become best friends, and having matching dogs, we could also get out of Iowa?"

             Ash looks at me sincerely. Her blue eyes look into my brown ones, "Raven, I want to get out of the U.S. when I'm older. Let's move to Paris or England. I've always loved the sound of England."

              On that day, my best friend and I promised to get out of this country and away from everything we know except, well, each other.

                                                                                      ~~~

              I step into the bathroom to wash my hands before going to lunch. I hear soft sobs coming from behind the stall door. I recognize the voice coming from my best friend.

             I walk over to the last stall and knock lightly on the door.

             "What's wrong, Ash?"

             The sobs stop immediately. I hear a sniff, then a click of the lock. She walks past me, wiping a stray tear from her face. She moves to the sink and washes her hands. She starts walking to the door, but I grab her arm before she can leave.

              "Ash, what's wrong?" I demand an answer.

               She rubs her reddened eyes to catch an escaping tear, "Fine. Want me to tell you? I'm moving. My parents are forcing me to go with them to Florida next week."

             My heart drops. I start to cry just like her. Pathetic sobs escape from my mouth with each breath. Hot tears run down my face.

             Questions run through my head.

             Why didn't she tell me sooner?

             Why does she have to leave?

             Why are her parents so cruel?

                                                                               ~~~

             Years later, I remember my best friend. I remember her golden red hair, and her freckles bouncing across her face when she smiled. I feel emptiness when I think of one of our many memories. Happy moments that bring me sadness.

              I remember her as I stare into her cold, blank face.

              I smile, more tears running down my face. I lean over to look at my best friend lying still in the casket.

             I pick up my canvas that is no longer empty. My canvas that holds my beautiful best friend. I set it near her casket.

             She didn't kill herself. Sadness killed her.