the story of us |h.s.|

23 - back to december

"this is me swallowin' my pride
standin' in front of you saying i'm sorry for that night
[...]
it turns out freedom ain't nothin' but missin' you
wishin' i'd realized what i'd had when you were mine
[...]
i'd go back in time and change it but i can't"

*hey, hi ! disclaimer: finn briefly talks about his past and his journey throughout the five years he's been gone. in this, he discusses his self-improvement journey, a major part of which is the impact therapy had on him. i know we don't like/trust him yet, but please be considerate. trust me, trust nadine. be thoughtful and give him a chance, okay ? thank you.*

Nadine.

This morning felt like a dream, one that stays imprinted in your brain like a heavy, slow-moving fog hanging over the room.

Not a good dream, quite the opposite actually. The dream where the feeling in your gut is so strong that it's practically screaming words of aversion at you. The one where you think, I shouldn't be here, and yet you are.

Perhaps it's more like a horror film, one of those old slasher flicks, where a group of friends venture into the woods under the guise of staying at a completely remote mansion that belongs to one of the companions for the weekend, only to be picked off one by one. Of course, this is your film so you've survived every attack thrown at you thus far. Your plot armour has served you well, so well in fact you decide to take matters into your own hands.

Carefully, cautiously, you make your way back into the house, ready to end it once and for all. Everyone in the audience is screaming, begging, pleading for you to turn around, to get out of there, to run away and never look back. Save yourself! But you can't hear them, how could you? No matter how loud they get, nothing is ever able to pierce that fourth wall.

You're alone, tip-toeing around the house you share with a murderer. The only company you have is your own intuition, which is telling you that you don't belong here. I should leave, save myself, you think but never do. You've convinced yourself invincible, one that won't go down without a fight.

Still, you're scared. Alone, terrified of every creak of the floorboard beneath your feet, every tree tapping its branches and leaves against the glass window panes, every gust of wind that leaves a trail of goosebumps on your skin. The writing is on the wall, you should leave now while you still can, yet you continue to venture further into the house, strong in your resolve, determined to do what you set out to do. You fulfil the promise you made, at any cost.

I found myself feeling that way this morning. I know I shouldn't have agreed to attending this funeral with him. I know I had every right to refuse him, and yet I didn't. I've never been good at saying no. This will end up being one of those things that I should've turned away from but instead turned towards.

I could just not show up, I think. But that thought is quickly shot down. I am an honourable woman, or at least I try to convince myself that I am. Which is why I found myself getting ready for a funeral I'd rather do anything else than attend.

Rain hit the window pane, its monotonous repetition oddly calming, and equally as fitting, as I dressed myself in a fit of all black. Somehow, I think the weather knows what a day will consist of and moulds itself to fit as to what the plans are. It's raining today, and it rained the last time I went to a funeral. Maybe it's supposed to rain whenever you go to a funeral. Like how it's supposed to be sunny on your wedding day, and snowy on Christmas.

I've never been a fan of funerals, though I can't say I've met anyone who is. You're either really close with the one who has passed or invited out of proximity and/or obligation.