They keep telling me that I should just let her go, let that night rest and move on with my life.
They don't realise that I still wake up in the middle of the night, sobbing for Chance and sobbing for myself and sobbing for the fucked-up world with...
I toss and turn through the night, plagued by fractured memories of Chance. Haunted by the woes of her life that now reside, in note form, on my wall. The memories come in strains of music, bursts of laughter and flashes of colour.
I think that's what grief does to you. I'm not grieving.
It reaches a point where I can no longer distinguish between truths and falsehoods. But that's inconsequential. Why? — because I dream of Chance.
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"C'mon Rory." She reached out for my hand and I clasped onto hers strongly — never wanting to let go — as she dragged me through the woods.
"Where are we going?" My eyes were blindfolded; I tripped over roots and rocks that protruded out of the forest floor. Trusting Chance entirely.
In my blindness, the sounds of the forest in summertime truly came alive. The slight, warm breeze gently rustled the trees' lush green leaves, the trickling stream, and the chirping birds.
I feel so alive when I'm with her.
"My top-secret hideout, of course." She laughed, intertwining her fingers with mine.
I knew where she was taking me: her treehouse. High up in the trees and deep in the woods, I've only ever seen it from the foot of the rope ladder and inside it. Whenever we came here, she'd always blindfold me.
It was always our escape; our sanctuary whenever things got tough. Well, it was mostly just Chance for whom things got tough. But I kept her company all the same, revelling in the rustic of battered old wood, a couple of empty wine bottles, piles of pillows, and woodlice.
We must've arrived because Chance finally reached up and pulled off my blindfold.
"Thank fuck." I grinned, blinking into the bright sunlight.
"What? You're not into the blindfolding kink?" Chance's mouth quirked up at me in a smirk, folding it into the pocket of her mustard yellow shorts, ready to reappear when we left.
Calling it a blindfold might be a bit of an exaggeration. It was literally a paisley-print red and white bandana. With Chance, though, the best things were constantly over the top.
We climbed up the rickety rope ladder, thankful it was semi-tied to the tree. My knuckles whitened as I clutched the slats firmly. Chance always followed me up for two reasons: one — so I could make sure there weren't any woodlouse in the treehouse (she'd detested them since forever). Two — to make sure I didn't look at her ass.
Not like I'd actually have to be focused on clambering up the tree or anything. Not like she would be able to look at my ass or anything.
I stamped on a few already-dead woodlice and collapsed down onto one of the piles of pillows we kept in there.
