I am dead.
Honestly, I've been dead this whole time. Not to say that I was never alive, because I was. I held Cleo. I kissed Cleo. I told her "I love you" and "I miss you" and "I really need you right now because the whole world's falling apart and for some reason you keep me together." I still do. I just don't know if she hears me anymore. My mother does sometimes, but she was never as cynical as Cleo. Personally, I don't think Cleo is ready to listen to what I have to say. She has herself convinced that death grasps her doorknob, which is ridiculous. Cleo isn't going to die any time soon. I can feel it.
I know that she had met someone else. He's good for her. I was afraid that Cleo would hold a gun to her head. She still does, it's just nowhere near as noticeable as it once was. She wants to die. The thing is, neither him or I will let that happen. We will keep her walking and spitting sarcastic words for as long as we can. Why? Because we both love her. I don't know if she loves him. She probably feels that she isn't capable of love anymore. For that, I am partly responsible. What kind of asshole loves someone and teaches them to love only to get shot? Frankly, I hate myself a little bit more everyday for that. I hate the amount of pain I've put everyone in.
Naturally, I am jealous of him. His fingers can roam Cleo's body and dance along her words. He's almost as witty as her. Almost. Almost, almost, almost. I almost lived. She almost died. We almost survived. But we didn't. We couldn't. So I hope they do. I hope he plants a garden and brings her bouquets of lavender everyday, because that's her favorite flower. Hell, I hope he finds out that lavender is her favorite flower. I hope they go swing dancing in their 40's finest and I hope he falls deeper in love with every spin. I hope they have a fight, one where objects are thrown and words are slung. But then I hope he slips, or she trips over her speech and they are too busy laughing to continue to fight.
Most of all, I hope he changes her. I hope she changes him, too. That's what she did to me.
And I couldn't be more grateful that she finally found someone good enough to do the same for her.
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The end.
Well, at least for now.
YOU ARE READING
What He Wrote
Short Story"I hate how the human race complicates things. You're born, and then you die. The space between that is a grey area. It's a blank line. It's all up to you on how you fill the line. You can write good or bad or spontaneous or wonderful-it's up to you...
