This is NO LONGER A LOVE STORY. Enjoy. Comment. Kiss your computer. I don't own Evanescence/Together again, either, lovelies.
Ch. 1
I was watching the boy with the black hair. It was long enough to fly around in the wind, long enough to fly past his eyes. I didn't know what color his eyes were. 'Couldn't see 'em. He was wearing dark clothing. Black. A thermal and jeans, even though it was cold enough to have me in two layered sweatshirts with a thin plastic rain poncho over them, the kind with the hole in the middle and no sleeves. I'd cut it down the middle and used woven rainbow-color rope (that I'd proudly made myself, with the assortment of multicolor old ropes in the basement) as a sash. Also cut open arm holes, and sewed on sleeves made from strips taken from the bottoms of the poncho.
My hair was under the hoods. Couldn't see it. I'd zipped up the bottom hoodie; top's was broken. I'd also tied the sash. Was starting to rain. My messenger bag was under the poncho, but not the hoodies.
The boy was walking down the sidewalk of the Bridge. It was a concrete number, industrial, over a river set to rushing and rapids with winter, the homeless usually camping under it deterred by overflow. The Bridge was in an old, out-there part of town. Not Town. Out here, I knew everbody who went by, even if I didn't live out here. I'd made it my buisness to know everyone out here. Always have an escape plan, Nicholas always says.
The boy stopped walking. I was looking after him curiously, but made my glance far, as if just looking at the scenery. The heavy trees and rushing water and water droplets aloung concrete.
I was the only one on the Bridge.
The boy placed his hands on the concrete of the Bridge's railing, seemingly took a deep breath, and boosted himself up, catching himself with his knees.
I began to run. Silently. When I got to him, I wasn't breathing hard; he was on his feet, looking down at the fall. I saw him gulp.
"Are you gonna jump?" I asked blankly. Not too rude. Not too curious.
"Jesus!" Exclaimed the boy half-heartedly. "Do you often sneak up on people in such comprimising positions?" He didn't look up at me. Mock surprise. Or he just really didn't care.
"Depends."
"On what?"
"Are you gonna anwer my question?"
His mouth twitched. "Are you gonna answer mine?"
"I asked first."
"Are you often this childish?" He asked. I was silent. "Alright, fine, yes," he said after a moment. "I came here to jump."
"Nicholas says I'm extremely childish all the time, unless I'm preforming attempted murder or dying from migraines." After a minute, the manners instilled by my southern-born mother caught up with me. "Oh, Nicholas is my brother."
"Is he a good brother?" The boy seems curious. Not threatening to jump at the moment.
"He's a bit of a bitch. But I love him. He loves me. Wants to be in the military."
"Parents?" Is that the problem, then?
"Both alive. Mom's born in the south. Moved to Cali at fourteen 'cause she realized she hated it down there. 'Course, with her family. Met dad, who was cute, nice as Hell, and in a band. Two months, and she was pregs with Nicholas. Sixteen. I came two years later. No one else but grampa on dad's side and cousins Alice and Vivilisa. Fraternal twins. How about you, then? Your family assholes?"
A dry laugh. "Yeah. How'd you guess?"
"I like analysing people."
His chin lifted in a stubburn expression. "And what have you analysed."
