My main issue: The first part and last part are both in present tense, but the last part takes place 3 years later. Tips on anything else would be lovely ^.^ (I would be posting in the WGG too, but it doesn't seem like it's all that active, and I at least know there are a decent number of lurkers here that can be dragged out of their caves...>.>)
Quote:
Working Title: Love is a Game
The music blares on the radio as I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling. A feeling akin to anger and sorrow builds up in my chest and my thoughts swirl like the sky before a tornado. My room is stuffy, but I don’t dare open the window, for fear of what I might hear outside. A love song comes on the radio and makes me even more depressed. I drag my self to the radio and turn it off. The silence suffocates me. The feeling suffocates me. I lay back down on my bed and resume staring at the ceiling. I hate this feeling. I hate being in love. I hate not being loved back.
I glance at the digital clock on my bedside table. Eleven thirty. Prom’s probably over. He’s probably at the after party. He’s probably there with her. He’s probably kissing her, and she’s probably kissing him back. And now he’s probably going to his car, and she’s probably going with him. And then he’ll probably decide not to wait until they get to his house, or her house, or the hotel or motel or wherever the ******** they’re going, so right there, in the car, they’re probably.....
I curl up on my side and bury my head in my arms, pressing my face into my pillow. Somewhere in the house I hear the phone ring. I don’t feel like moving, so I let someone else in the house pick it up. I hate this. I hate this I hate this I hate this. I hate being in love with him. I love him so much that it hurts. It hurts so much that I want to die. I want to die so much that it scares me. I love him so much that it scares me.
My mother knocks on the door of my room, and I tell her to come in. She has a sad look on her face as she gives me the phone. I take it from her, confusion and worry and fear flooding through me. Who could be calling me at this time of night that would cause my mother to give me such a look? It’s his mother.
In the beginning, it was just a game. When we were in preschool, we would play at getting married. We were still playing house in the second grade. We were best friends, and nothing could tear us apart. I wanted things to stay that way forever; I honestly believed that they would. I couldn’t even perceive a world without him. But as we grew older, things changed. At first I couldn’t put my finger on it; all I knew was that something had changed. He joined sports teams and had friends who were guys. I went to sleepovers with my girlfriends. But we always made sure to make time for each other. We would hang out at his house and watch a scary movie on a friday night. Or ride our bikes in the park. I was never happier than when I was with him.
I remember when I realized I was in love with him. He had just started dating this girl in his class; she was his first girlfriend. I couldn’t understand why I was so angry, why I hated this girl so much. I didn’t even know her! And then it hit me. And it tore me apart because he didn’t love me back. Or at least, I didn’t think he did. And I was too much of a coward to find out. I was afraid that if I told him how I felt, I would lose him forever. And if he did return my feelings, and we went out for a while, and then broke up, I was afraid our friendship would never be the same. And I liked the way things were. I was content to just be his best friend.
---
As I stand before his grave, I wonder if I made the right choice. If I had told him I loved him, would he still be alive today? If I had told him not to waste those years of his life on that lying, cheating skank he had been dating since our sophomore year of high school and so foolishly fallen in love with, that I would be so much better for him, would he still have drunk himself half to death the night of our senior prom and then driven the rest of the way? It’s been three years since that painful night when his mom called to tell me what had happened, and I still don’t know the answer. Maybe I never will.
The music blares on the radio as I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling. A feeling akin to anger and sorrow builds up in my chest and my thoughts swirl like the sky before a tornado. My room is stuffy, but I don’t dare open the window, for fear of what I might hear outside. A love song comes on the radio and makes me even more depressed. I drag my self to the radio and turn it off. The silence suffocates me. The feeling suffocates me. I lay back down on my bed and resume staring at the ceiling. I hate this feeling. I hate being in love. I hate not being loved back.
I glance at the digital clock on my bedside table. Eleven thirty. Prom’s probably over. He’s probably at the after party. He’s probably there with her. He’s probably kissing her, and she’s probably kissing him back. And now he’s probably going to his car, and she’s probably going with him. And then he’ll probably decide not to wait until they get to his house, or her house, or the hotel or motel or wherever the ******** they’re going, so right there, in the car, they’re probably.....
I curl up on my side and bury my head in my arms, pressing my face into my pillow. Somewhere in the house I hear the phone ring. I don’t feel like moving, so I let someone else in the house pick it up. I hate this. I hate this I hate this I hate this. I hate being in love with him. I love him so much that it hurts. It hurts so much that I want to die. I want to die so much that it scares me. I love him so much that it scares me.
My mother knocks on the door of my room, and I tell her to come in. She has a sad look on her face as she gives me the phone. I take it from her, confusion and worry and fear flooding through me. Who could be calling me at this time of night that would cause my mother to give me such a look? It’s his mother.
In the beginning, it was just a game. When we were in preschool, we would play at getting married. We were still playing house in the second grade. We were best friends, and nothing could tear us apart. I wanted things to stay that way forever; I honestly believed that they would. I couldn’t even perceive a world without him. But as we grew older, things changed. At first I couldn’t put my finger on it; all I knew was that something had changed. He joined sports teams and had friends who were guys. I went to sleepovers with my girlfriends. But we always made sure to make time for each other. We would hang out at his house and watch a scary movie on a friday night. Or ride our bikes in the park. I was never happier than when I was with him.
I remember when I realized I was in love with him. He had just started dating this girl in his class; she was his first girlfriend. I couldn’t understand why I was so angry, why I hated this girl so much. I didn’t even know her! And then it hit me. And it tore me apart because he didn’t love me back. Or at least, I didn’t think he did. And I was too much of a coward to find out. I was afraid that if I told him how I felt, I would lose him forever. And if he did return my feelings, and we went out for a while, and then broke up, I was afraid our friendship would never be the same. And I liked the way things were. I was content to just be his best friend.
---
As I stand before his grave, I wonder if I made the right choice. If I had told him I loved him, would he still be alive today? If I had told him not to waste those years of his life on that lying, cheating skank he had been dating since our sophomore year of high school and so foolishly fallen in love with, that I would be so much better for him, would he still have drunk himself half to death the night of our senior prom and then driven the rest of the way? It’s been three years since that painful night when his mom called to tell me what had happened, and I still don’t know the answer. Maybe I never will.
So...comments? Tips? Praise? ninja
Edit: Disclaimer: THIS IS FICTION! This story is basically a much worked over version of a journal entry from my creative writing class last year, and when I read the original thing in class, the whole room was silent because everyone thought it was true. sweatdrop
