"What's up?" I asked from where I stood near the edge of the old rental house that she lived in.
"Not much." She said as she picked the flowering weeds that grew in the unkempt, un-mowed back yard of the grey house.
"How are you?" I asked, knowing the answer but asking anyway. It was more out of habit than anything else.
"I saw him today." She said, the way she said him made me almost certain that she had talking about the him, the jerk who broke her heart and mangled her life.
"Did you talk to him?" I asked.
"No, we don't talk anymore." She said continuing to pick the flower weeds, I leaned lightly against the dirty grey outside of the house. Once, she had given me her phone and since she hadn't told me not to I had read the poems and things that she had written about him.
They caused me, somehow, physical pain. They were angry, raw and far to real. They scared me, and I didn't have any idea what I could do about it.
I expect that she knows that I know how much he hurt her, but she doesn't know how I know. The way he himself hurt her wasn't physical per-say. He had been really close to her over the summer, when she was at her weakest. When summer had ended he had began to fade, leaving her.
I didn't know exactly what had happened, I don't know exactly what happened, but I know that she misses him for some odd reason. But me, I blame him. He brought all of the other boys. The other ones who were hurt and needed fixing. But she couldn't really help them, not enough.
I know that because she told me, she told me about the other boy. The one who only calls late at night, when he's stoned out of his mind or when he's so depressed he can't seem to find any other option. And he talks to her, and he tells her and he breaks her.
I've met him, the one who calls. He doesn't talk to her when he's actually with her. He just nods of laughs humorlessly at her. He says things, sad things that make me want to hit him for saying them in front of her and also to curl up and cry. I hate that I feel so helpless when they are around.
The only one who was ever nice was banished. Not really, but he isn't allowed back. I don't know what he did but he was always nice to me. He would lift me up and spin me around like I was a little kid and I didn't mind it.But he did something wrong, for all I know he got weed from the wrong guy or he laughed at the wrong joke. He doesn't come round anymore.
She was picking weeds in the literal and figurative sense.
She chose the ones who sprung up, unkempt and hurt the others.
"Did you eat?" I finally asked, she was growing thinner but her cuts looked more like scars. At least where I could see them.
"I ate." She answered simply.
"Why are you picking weeds?" I asked as she looked lovingly at her bouquet of yellow and white plants, their little sharp stickers not bothering her some how.
"Because," She said, looking at me now, "They're pretty."
(I was going to write something today for Homestuck day. But I didn't get 'round to it. I will eventually. I want to. I just also wanted to get this out of my system.)
