"Suicide. A sideways word, a word that people whisper and mutter and cough: a word that must be squeezed out behind cupped palms or murmured behind closed doors. It was only in dreams that I heard the word shouted, screamed." ~ Lauren Oliver
He noticed.
When she wasn't sitting by the window,
drinking cup,
after cup,
of the darkest black coffee.
Just the way he liked it.
She used too,
she used to say his habits,
simply by association,
became her own.
He barely noticed,
one day,
when it was her turn to order she
ordered hers black,
just like that.
It didn't even register,
for him,
that she had stopped ordering,
as per usual,
her regular soy latte with an extra shot.
He didn't notice the little details then,
the way she walked,
as if parting seas,
heady confidence,
coming off her like stormy waves.
Now,
she walks as if,
she's being drowned,
pulled down by the weight of oceans,
while we're all standing dry.
He recalled the way her eyes gleamed.
Every star in the sky,
dancing within her irises.
Almost as if,
she knew secrets,
the rest of us didn't.
The way her smile lit a spark in him,
an intoxicating flame,
one he never noticed,
until now,
when the little details,
are more important than ever.
Cause he's too late.
He noticed.
When she wasn't wandering,
aimlessly,
in the park late at night,
or lying on the dampened leave strewn
grass,
voluminous waves splayed
around her heart shaped face like a
halo,
eyes glowing greener than the grass
beneath her.
A rebel angel,
fallen but not disgraced.
Staring with such intensity up at the
velvety black sky,
filled with infinite stars.
Her stars.
They twinkled brighter for her,
always her.
Only her
As if she could sense,
her place was not infact here among
beings of flesh,
but up between the star spangled skies.
He noticed.
When she no longer ventured down
Tolsten lane,
or entered the little vintage cinema,
that smelled like old spice and pressed
roses.
Forgetting herself,
if only for a few hours,
in the red velvet chair in the far back
left corner,
watching re-runs of the oldest movies,
hollywoods golden age she said.
He noticed.
When she disappeared from the
hallways,
and classrooms.
As if everything had once been
technicoloured,
and now was only grey.
Grey everywhere,
neverending shades of monotonous
gloom.
he never noticed,
the soft scent of cocoa and peppermint
by locker 711,
until it was gone,
and then it permeated his every
thought.
He noticed,
all those little deatils,
the ones that so long ago,
seemed irrelevant,
and now were all he had.
He heard them.
The whispers,
wherever he ventured,
in search of escape.
"Did you hear?"
"About that girl?"
Like a plague,
they followed him like darkened
shadows.
"The one that overdosed?"
"Yeah"
"Shit, quiet it's the guy"
"Who?"
"Didn't he date her?"
"The cops mentioned a diary,
Said it was filled with stories of him"
"The cops said her body was bruised
black and blue"
"Abused?"
"Fuck,
by him?"
"Her stepdad apparently"
"Is that why he left her? Couldn't
handle it?"
"Probably"
"Coward"
-Logan
YOU ARE READING
a tragedy of some kind
General FictionP.S. I wish I never loved you. Oh how I wish -Delilah He burned like the sun, blazing from the tips of her fingers to her toes. He was like a weed that entangled her obtruding ribcage, intertwining her lungs, drawing out every ounce of breathe. She...
