Become a fan
This story seems to signify a reason for him insecurity - perhaps his childhood?
She seems to be OK? Perhaps her friends saw a man with issues.
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[PG] Parental Guidance Suggested
PROLOGUE:
We are dangerous.
We scare you.
We scare ourselves.
We live our lives like we don't care.
We care.
We push you to your limits.
We push ourselves to our limits.
We bring pain to you.
We bring pain to ourselves.
We are honest.
We lie.
We wait.
We live.
We are dying inside, but no one knows. No one cares.
We care.
We lie to ourselves.
We speak words of contempt.
We speak words of anger.
We are in love.
We are broken.
CHAPTER 1:
He paces back and forth across his apartment. His apartment is small, so it doesn't take him long to get from one end to the other. He bores of this quickly, but he can't seem to stop moving.
It's laying there, on his lousy excuse for a kitchen table. It mocks him with its lettering. The handwriting that he'd recognize anywhere.
He wants to rip it apart, throw it to the wind. If he had a shredder, he could shred it. The most tempting option is to burn it. To watch it burn. To hope that the fire would spread to the rest of the apartment and take him with it.
But he can't. He could never destroy anything of hers. He's destroyed himself plenty, but he could never destroy her. He never believed he had the power to, and he still doesn't. But she destroyed him. It was easy for her. She could always destroy him with a glance. A glance to or away from him, it doesn't matter. But no matter how much he pushed her away, how much he tried to force her to leave, she never would. So he left.
It's something he regrets every day.
He had convinced himself that she had forgotten about him. That he was just a passing ship in the night. But this letter proves otherwise.
He is euphoric.
He is angry.
He is miserable.
Above all, he is terrified.
Each day she goes home during her lunch break to check her mail. At work, she checks her email and her voice mail, her cell phone, each time losing faith.
She was in a bookstore searching for hidden treasures and there it was. She hadn't known that he had written a book. A novel.
It was his masterpiece. She knew he thought it was crap. She hadn't seen or heard from him in almost two years, but she knew him well enough to know this.
She read it in one sitting. She cried through most of it. Though it wasn't a particularly sad book. She had never been able to convince him that he was good enough, but here was the proof. And yet, she knew he still didn't believe.
She loved reading what he had written. There was an openness about it that she had never experienced with him. She felt that after all of those years, he had finally let her in. She was never one to be assuming, but she knew that the book was about her. It wasn't a love story. It was a story about a boy who grew to be a man. Regardless, she knew it was about her. When she got to the end, she stopped breathing. In the center of the final page, was a simple sentence: "I love you."
So she wrote him a letter.
He doesn't know how she got his address. He is unlisted.
He pours himself another glass of Jack Daniels. He knows it's pointless. That he shouldn't waste the glass, but the glass makes him feel more in control. He needs that control now. If he loses it, he fears he'll never get it back.
He feels sick. He knows it's not from the whiskey.
He's sick over her.
Over her cruel letter.
Its presence is cruel, not the contents.
The contents could be cruel, but he wouldn't know. He hasn't opened it yet.
He downs the last of the whiskey.
Before he can change his mind he grabs the letter and tears it open.
He stops. He can't bring himself to read it.
He's out of alcohol.
He gets up quickly and reaches into the furthest corner of his closet.
He hasn't smoked for years. But he always keeps a pack around for emergencies.
Like this.
He lights up one of the cigarettes and breathes deeply.
He lets the calmness wash over him.
He reads the letter.
Halfway through, he throws the whiskey glass across the room.
It shatters into a thousand tiny pieces.
She doesn't write the letter right away.
She wanted to, but she couldn't.
After many sleepless nights, she starts writing, promising herself that she'll never mail it.
She can't help herself.
She mails her first draft.
She hopes it's not too raw.
She hopes it wasn't a mistake.
It's always a mistake.
But they're older now, and things were never bad.
We are dangerous.
We scare you.
We scare ourselves.
We live our lives like we don't care.
We care.
We push you to your limits.
We push ourselves to our limits.
We bring pain to you.
We bring pain to ourselves.
We are honest.
We lie.
We wait.
We live.
We are dying inside, but no one knows. No one cares.
We care.
We lie to ourselves.
We speak words of contempt.
We speak words of anger.
We are in love.
We are broken.
CHAPTER 1:
He paces back and forth across his apartment. His apartment is small, so it doesn't take him long to get from one end to the other. He bores of this quickly, but he can't seem to stop moving.
It's laying there, on his lousy excuse for a kitchen table. It mocks him with its lettering. The handwriting that he'd recognize anywhere.
He wants to rip it apart, throw it to the wind. If he had a shredder, he could shred it. The most tempting option is to burn it. To watch it burn. To hope that the fire would spread to the rest of the apartment and take him with it.
But he can't. He could never destroy anything of hers. He's destroyed himself plenty, but he could never destroy her. He never believed he had the power to, and he still doesn't. But she destroyed him. It was easy for her. She could always destroy him with a glance. A glance to or away from him, it doesn't matter. But no matter how much he pushed her away, how much he tried to force her to leave, she never would. So he left.
It's something he regrets every day.
He had convinced himself that she had forgotten about him. That he was just a passing ship in the night. But this letter proves otherwise.
He is euphoric.
He is angry.
He is miserable.
Above all, he is terrified.
Each day she goes home during her lunch break to check her mail. At work, she checks her email and her voice mail, her cell phone, each time losing faith.
She was in a bookstore searching for hidden treasures and there it was. She hadn't known that he had written a book. A novel.
It was his masterpiece. She knew he thought it was crap. She hadn't seen or heard from him in almost two years, but she knew him well enough to know this.
She read it in one sitting. She cried through most of it. Though it wasn't a particularly sad book. She had never been able to convince him that he was good enough, but here was the proof. And yet, she knew he still didn't believe.
She loved reading what he had written. There was an openness about it that she had never experienced with him. She felt that after all of those years, he had finally let her in. She was never one to be assuming, but she knew that the book was about her. It wasn't a love story. It was a story about a boy who grew to be a man. Regardless, she knew it was about her. When she got to the end, she stopped breathing. In the center of the final page, was a simple sentence: "I love you."
So she wrote him a letter.
He doesn't know how she got his address. He is unlisted.
He pours himself another glass of Jack Daniels. He knows it's pointless. That he shouldn't waste the glass, but the glass makes him feel more in control. He needs that control now. If he loses it, he fears he'll never get it back.
He feels sick. He knows it's not from the whiskey.
He's sick over her.
Over her cruel letter.
Its presence is cruel, not the contents.
The contents could be cruel, but he wouldn't know. He hasn't opened it yet.
He downs the last of the whiskey.
Before he can change his mind he grabs the letter and tears it open.
He stops. He can't bring himself to read it.
He's out of alcohol.
He gets up quickly and reaches into the furthest corner of his closet.
He hasn't smoked for years. But he always keeps a pack around for emergencies.
Like this.
He lights up one of the cigarettes and breathes deeply.
He lets the calmness wash over him.
He reads the letter.
Halfway through, he throws the whiskey glass across the room.
It shatters into a thousand tiny pieces.
She doesn't write the letter right away.
She wanted to, but she couldn't.
After many sleepless nights, she starts writing, promising herself that she'll never mail it.
She can't help herself.
She mails her first draft.
She hopes it's not too raw.
She hopes it wasn't a mistake.
It's always a mistake.
But they're older now, and things were never bad.
[PG] Parental Guidance Suggested
Comments & Reviews ^topI believe that it would be a mistake to analyze this work as simply a story.The author is obviously in the early stages of developing plot and character.It is at present an elegant introduction to what will certainly be a significant piece of writing. On another level,however,it stands as a complete rumination on the nature of love.The author demonstrates eloquently how our passions that cause us to reach out to another collide with our fears that lead us to erect barriers.As Talli shows we are the creators of our own solitude.
 Orsino Aug 06, 2009 09:10 reply spam this is very poetic. i think its really nice but its still vague so i don't understand 100% about what's going on in the story.
xo. A  xcherrikisses Aug 06, 2009 05:03 reply spam Again, vote please! I'm submitting as many as possible into the contest! Like "How I Died", this is just a sample. I'm planning on releasing the full novels via Kindle and such for a small price ($2 or so.) This one will actually be a short novel, maybe even a novelette.  talli_b Aug 05, 2009 20:25 reply spam |
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