Waiting for Her

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic


This is my short story of two people, unnamed. One is damaged and the other is in love with them. But if there is no happiness for her here, where is there happiness?

Submitted: June 28, 2018

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Submitted: June 28, 2018

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Waiting for Her

Her. That’s what this is about. What everything is about to me. The girl with skin so doll like that it has cracked. A woman who needs comfort and help but has nowhere to find it. I will wait. I always will wait, because when I am with her, I am found. But people who aren’t worthy keep picking her up and then dropping her onto the ground without a good reason. This has made her weep; therefore, she is at a point she thinks she cannot continue from.

“I keep waiting for her to call me. In the middle of the night, crying, to tell me she’s sorry. To tell me she made the greatest mistake of her life. I keep telling myself that one day she’ll come back, that she’ll give me a reason to trust her again. That one day, she’ll come back and make me fall in love all over again.” She admitted. “I know it’s stupid, and I know I’m an idiot for believing that things like that happen outside of stories. But as much as my head knows that, my heart still leaves my phone on full volume every night.”

Her head bowed, and her tear fell. Trickling down her face like a last hope slowly being let go, dropping, not ready so trying to hang to her face, but realising it’s fate and deciding there was no other way. With a gulp and a heavy heart, she looked at me and whispered, almost worried that if it was too loud it would become a reality, “but she says it meant nothing, that she was ‘experimenting’ and doesn’t feel anything towards me.” Her almost inexpressive veil broke and she swallowed, as if trying to keep her emotions down. Then she continued to quote the line that made her break, “’I’m not a freak like you’, she said that, looking me dead in the eye.”

By this point she clutched to me, with fear in her eyes, fear of possibility. I looked at her square on and spoke in a calm neutral voice “You are not a freak. You are perfect. Sometimes you must let some people go” This made her suddenly realise she was being confrontational, she looked at her hands and slowly unclenched them from my shirt. As always, she put her oversized hoodie over her hands. She pulled these delicate hands towards her chest. Then a strand of her hair fell across her face.

She doesn’t realise what she means to me. All I want is her; porcelain face with some cracks from her pain. A delicate small nose, that looks amazing with or without the glasses that she thinks make her look ‘ugly’. She has a tattoo, a perfect little tattoo, it is small and unique just like her. There are two, but I only ever see one, she has a black heart with some of it filled, to symbolise the darkness people have left her heart in. I know for a fact she has another tattoo, she spoke so often of it, until she stopped talking about it. ‘enough’ although it is simply a word it created a deeper meaning to her. So, I spoke, in the softest voice to soothe her but show my sincerity, “You. Are. Enough.”

I moved my position to adjust her hair, but she saw my advance so quickly did it herself. But our hands brushed past each other, such delicate and soft hands. She glanced towards me with her hazel eyes, eyes of beauty and of trauma. We made eye contact, so she turned her head and moved her hand over to her face to rest her head. But as she did this, she stopped being conscious of her sleeve dropping. I saw all the marks, her scars, I knew of them because if anyone brushed past it she would flinch; she is still perfect and it’s a part of her, so it’s also perfect.

The look in her eyes, I knew it. Just our expressions were talking by this point. Her eyes clearly stated “I already said too much. I already shared too much, and I want all my secrets back. I do not want to be hurt again. I hate getting close to people these days, I always end up regretting it. Sharing too much. Feeling too much. Scaring too much.” At that second, she stood, bringing her baggy jumper sleeve to her face and wiping, trying to hide what was happening in her head. She faced her feet, as she does when she’s shy or scared. “I… I need to go. Bye.”

She stood up, untangling her legs and trying to untangle her emotions. When she stood up, she went to the door as quickly as she could; I knew she was trying not to break whilst in front of me. I could see as she opened the door, the sun’s gleams caught her tears. Even her pain was beautiful, it glimmered, shone even. But she couldn’t see it how I do, she never does. Her image and shape are one of a goddess, but her doubt makes her wear oversized clothes, so nobody tries to take advantage of her. The mind she has is so creative and poetic, I have no doubt her name will be everywhere once day, but her awkwardness stops her from putting up her hand in class. She means everything to me. But she needs time, so I obliviously shrug my shoulders and decide to go for a walk to clear my head, assuming she has gone home.

The air is cool, very still. I am walking, just making my way around the area. But then I see her; I wave, thinking it could cheer her up a bit. Her. Just thinking about her makes me happy, but she hasn’t waved back. Then I realise, this is the opposite direction to her house. “Hey.” I decided to say, to see why she was over this side of the town. Oh, she didn’t reply, didn’t even turn her head, she mustn’t have heard me. So, I repeat, louder.  “Heeey.” Then I realise she is walking to the edge of the bridge, not to a side, to a barrier. So, in a more confused panic, I decided to yell her. “HEY. WHAT’S GOING ON?”

No response, so I start to jog, but she’s still nearing the edge. My jog turns into a run, which then turns into a sprint. My heart is pounding, my lungs are on fire. The entire time, I am yelling “HEY. HEEEEY. HEY!” But she’s so in her head that not a word gets through. She doesn’t understand how I am yelling, I need her. She must be safe. Yes. I did cry, watching all the pain and lack of hope taking over. Without her, what am I? Nothing.

I reach where she is motionlessly stood. I grabbed her hoping for an embrace or some words. But none of that happened, everything seemed… frozen. Like I was stuck in this nightmare, no way to stop this. Her face, though it was covered with mascara tear imprints, was perfect as always. The sun’s gleam once again caught the tears from her eyes. Even her pain was beautiful, it glimmered, shone even. Just as it did that day when I thought it was all fine. But it’s not okay. She’s not okay.

She’s not o-fucking-kay.

River below also glimmered, but more like little knives, knives that will cut up all my hope. Her. That’s all I need, don’t take her. The sidewalk was clear of people, the road was a ghost town. In this moment, it was simply me and her. I saw on the sidewalk, there was some paper, a... note? A suicide note, she will really do this. All my hoping that this is simply a misunderstanding, it disappeared. There was nothing left but her. I loved and always will love the way her hair blew in the breeze that day, on the bridge, majestically floating. Perfect as always.

The moment ended, out of her pure and luscious lips came the words I had uttered previously to her. She stared intensely at me, into my eyes, then spoke in a calm, neutral voice. “You are perfect.” Then she paused as if reflecting on everything, her lips quavered as if she was about to start to cry, like when you know you need to stop because otherwise you won’t be able to deal with the emotions that are occurring. Then she sharply inhaled, trying to get her voice back and emotions gone, just before she continued. “Sometimes, you must let some people go.” Her eyes continued welling up and tears started to drench my face.

She made me conscious that I was grasping onto her, but this time, no hands were going to be unclenched. However, in a moment of weakness, I thought she was going to come back down to me. But instead she escaped from me, once again she pulled her delicate hands towards her chest for what could be the last time. I beg, but she doesn’t hear a word I say…

Her. That’s what this is about. What everything was about to me.


© Copyright 2018 Maya Stretton. All rights reserved.

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