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By forsakenwordsmith All Rights Reserved ©

Romance / Drama


The bits of paper flutter out the window and into the wind. The girl that is letting them go stands next to the glass, staring out into the city she might never see again.

She has one day before their flight leaves, and one day only. She's said many of her goodbyes already; to good friends and to people she's never met before. When she leaves the school, whispers of "killer" and "dyke" follow her out the door as final insults to add to her burden.

She doesn't really care anymore. Not really. Not after what had happened. She tosses the rest of her confetti out of the window, watching it disappear, floating into and around the buildings around the seventh floor balcony she stands on. She uses confetti too often, she thinks. It's a way of forgetting what she doesn't want to remember, but some things are worth remembering (a happier time. Golden days. Sitting under a tree on a fall day, watching the leaves fall into her hair as she laughs that beautiful laugh).

She can't stand the feeling of old memories lingering where they shouldn't be, and she grabs the keys and runs out the door.

Her bike is small, but sturdy nonetheless. Maneuvering through the usually busy streets is not hard on a sleepy Thursday morning. She bikes to the cemetery, legs pumping in a repetitive motion. (Riding on a bike for two, but lack of coordination sends them spinning into a car that sets of the alarm. They ride away, laughing. Her perfume in the air).

The cemetery is barren as well. They should have buried her somewhere where she would rest well. This place was grey and lifeless. Meg should have been buried with the sun and the flowers (and the golden leaves of autumn). She deserved that kind of memory. Instead, hers was just another name in the bleak stone.

She reaches Meg's tombstone, and leaps off of the bike. She doesn't bother locking it. There's nobody here anyway. (There was. A beautiful smile. The smell of vanilla in the air. The taste of lip gloss the first time they—)

Meg's tombstone is covered in mosaic. It's likely the most decorative one there. The mosaic reminds her of the confetti, and she hugs herself guiltily. (She shouldn't want to forget Meg.)

(But it hurts so much).

She sits, legs crossed, and talks.

"Hi." There's no response. She didn't expect one, but in her heart, she knows that she wishes that the gravestone were her friend (more than a friend.) She would be alive and well, and they would talk, just like before. Just talking (and maybe more).

"It's been a week. I'm surprised that they managed to get all of this together in a week. Then again, I guess they wanted it over with before I left." She smiles, but it turns out as more of a grimace. (She shouldn't leave Meg in this dark city).

"I cut up all of our old photos. And that collage we made, and the poster from sixth grade, and that paper airplane from eighth grade." Little memories she wanted to be rid of. She didn't want to remember the times she spent with Meg. She didn't want to remember anything. (It hurt too much to try). Hell, she didn't want to remember Meg.

"They're out in the city somewhere right now, floating away." She smiled softly. "They're our last hurrah." Meg always wanted her ashes to be thrown into the wind like confetti. Like her confetti. Instead, her body was in the ground (buried, heavy, gone).

"I guess I should be out, seeing the sights before I never see them again." Her flight leaves in eighteen hours. She should be going around the city to visit the places she's never going to see again. (She'll never see Meg again).

"I just don't want to leave without seeing you one last time." She remembers the last time she saw Meg. Alive, that is. She was smiling, laughing as she ran away from her friend. It was the kind of moment that you would photograph, the kind of moment that glows in your mind. (She wants to get rid of those memories. She wants to get rid of all of them).

"I don't really know if I want to go or not." She lies down on the cool concrete, feeling empty and alone.

"I don't really know about anything anymore." She smiles softly and rolls over to face the tombstone. (If only those were Meg's eyes, nose, smile, lips).

"I'm sorry." Her eyes start to water, and she tries to keep it in, she really does, but all of a sudden all she can do is cry. She sobs, leaning against the tombstone to try and keep a grip upon what's real and what's memory.

"I'm so sorry." She was chasing Meg. Running, running, running down the hill.

"It was all my fault." Down the hill and onto the sidewalk.

"Please come back, Meg." Off the sidewalk and onto the street.

"Please." She can't remember what really happened. Someone pulled her back from the street. Meg fell to the asphalt. The driver was going too fast to stop.

And then it happened. The car— 

Blood. (Meg's face) What was happening? What was going on? What's that sound it soundslikesirenswhat'sgoingonwhat'sgoingonwhat'sgoingon-

She blacked out. 

By the time she woke up, funeral arrangements had been made and plane tickets bought. They were leaving, and Meg would be buried the next afternoon. She was given five days to prepare everything. There was not much time to pack, and all of their other belongings were to be shipped to their old home overseas.

She sat blankly at a desk for hours, wondering about what would come next. Then she started cutting confetti. It became an obsession, to cut everything and anything that reminded her of Meg into pieces upon pieces. (Anything to bring Meg back).

When Monday rolled around and she had to go to school, she didn't know how to react when everyone came in with accusing looks and biting remarks. She spent half of the day in the music practice room (where it's dark and a little claustrophobic) and cried.

She's still scared.

Sitting here now, she's still scared as hell to leave everything she loves (the one she loves).

She's scared to leave her confetti behind.

But if it's the last day, hell, if it's at least one day, she could maybe pretend that Meg didn't—

Maybe pretend that Meg is still there with her.

Maybe just pretend that nothing's wrong.

It's too late, isn't it?

The confetti's in the wind.

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