l o v e l y ' s - s t o r i e s

Imagine dull colours, imagine trembling hands; shuddering breath, deadened eyes. Imagine my life. Imagine the eyes really were windows to the soul. Everyone around me, there’s not light there. They’ve pulled down the shades.
     Why can’t I? Why do I feel like I’m transparent? Everyone around me can see right through, walk in as they please, study my thoughts. Do they want to hide as badly as I do?
     Everything around me moves in slow motion, and I’m afraid. The cold air is stinging my face. I know if I stop walking, I’ll start to shiver, and then I’ll be paralysed. I can’t stop now.

Ashleigh Mason wanted it to be cold. She wanted to shiver and have people think it was the temperature causing it, rather than the fear that was growing fast inside her. The day was far too sunny for the mood. The day of a funeral should be dark, depressing, stormy… the fact that a butterfly had just fluttered over the coffin just didn’t seem right to her.

      ‘We’re here today,’ said the priest in a sombre voice, ‘to remember Corey Fuller…’

      Ashleigh pulled her folder to her chest, (she had just come from university) and resisted the urge to shudder at the memories flooding into her mind… finding Corey dead… and knowing exactly what happened.

She couldn’t prove he did it… but she knew it was him. He had always been that way, going to any lengths for revenge. He killed Corey, and made sure that Ashleigh would be the one to find him. The worst part of it was that it needn’t have happened. She didn’t love Corey, and she shouldn’t have said that she did. There was no reason for his jealousy… Corey didn’t have to die.

      But it was too late now; and knowing that her choices, her mistakes had led to where she was right now… it made her sick.

      He didn’t have to die.

I’m sitting here, inhaling thick, smoky air. My surroundings are dense, murky, there’s a thumping in my head; it might be the bass. His music makes me think of dirty back alleys, treading dark streets where I can see my breath in the cold air, a distant sound of a car screeching its brakes.

I wonder if he would notice me leaving right now. Am I just another person sitting here, no more important than the rest? Am I that insignificant? Look at me!

The night’s ending soon. I never stick around to say goodbye. Neither of us acknowledges that I come here every Friday night. Sometimes I can’t bear to watch him. That’s when I write.

It’s funny, I used to write all the time; journals, novels, short stories, poems, songs – now all I write about is him. Right now, sitting in my lonely corner scribbling on the place mats, I feel pathetic. Nothing new.

The music’s stopped, I didn’t even realise. He’s still up on stage. He’s not looking at me, he never does, but I know he knows I’m here.

I wonder if he would notice me leaving right now.

© mandi gilholme

Everyone has gone home, but I’m still here in this stupid club. Just an hour ago, I was up on stage, playing the same old song again. I wrote it for her, you would think it wouldn’t lose its meaning; but it has. Maybe it’s because she doesn’t even know it’s for her. I thought she would be able to tell, but obviously she can’t, or she would have spoken to me by now.

     She’s here every week. At first I thought that this was a good sign, but maybe it’s a coincidence. I’m always watching her, out of the corner of my eye. She doesn’t look at me. She’s always writing.

     I’ve written another song. It’s about how stupid I was to let her go. But I’m too afraid to sing it, because I know that she is always here. Why am I afraid of her hearing when I want her to know how I feel?

     I have no idea.

     I’d better leave now. I watched her leave, and I’ve been replaying the sight over and over in my head. There’s something about the way she walks …

     She didn’t see me watching her, she never does. What I would give for her to meet my gaze, and for her to see it in my eyes that I still love her. Then, maybe I would have the guts to beg for her forgiveness.

     But I know that won’t happen.