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![ecstasy [one-shot] Empty](https://2img.net/i/empty.gif)
You miss it, don't you? The feeling of ecstasy when she slid her fingers across the back of your neck. The subtle way your breathing escalated whenever she was near, just so you could smell her. The glances you'd sneak while you watched TV, hoping to catch her staring.
It was addicting. She was addicting. She was a black hole, and she sucked you in so easily. She infected you like a disease, a horrifying, viral plague that couldn't be cured. Like cancer, but at least with cancer you can die. You couldn't die from too much of her.
She's everywhere. Her sweater hangs from the top of your bathroom door. Her scent lingers on your sheets and pillows that were so very rarely used for sleeping. Her notes, the lists from the last few months you got to spend with her.
How forgetful she had become towards the end. She wrote reminders on post-it notes and hung them everywhere. On the dresser, the bathroom mirror, the kitchen sink, the coffee table in your living room, anywhere they would stick.
They're still there. You can't take them down, not without worrying that she'll be looking for them come tomorrow when she can't remember where she left her favorite scarf. You're so hopeful, so full of lust and love and longing that you just know she'll have to come back.
You're crazy with grief.
She didn't want you; that was why she left. You weren't enough to keep her grounded, to give her what she needed. She didn't trust you as much as you had thought. She didn't love you as much as you had hoped.
If she had, you wouldn't have to carry her image around in your head every single day. It's not a particularly flattering image, her body hanging limp from the shower curtain rod.
At first you were disturbed, horrified, crushed. You knew she was depressed, and you could see she was dwindling; that time was running out. But you didn't ever speak up because you're so selfish. You wanted her to be yours and yours alone.
It's only fair, right? That she belong to you? Because you belonged to her in every way possible. She had you trapped body, mind and soul. It's only fair that you wanted her to be the same way.
But she was never like you. She was a flight risk with a taste for spontaneity. She was a mockingbird of the worst kind. She landed, but she never settled. Her feathers ruffled and she had the ticking urge to fly; to soar high above everyone else, completely out of reach.
You wanted to move out, at first, to escape the memories. They swirled around you, engulfed you, choked you as you tried so terribly to just move on. But that's just it, isn't it?
You like the reminders. You like the pain and suffering because you know you're relating to her in some way. She suffered, and so you must suffer too. Suffering seems like such an easy outlet, and you'd gladly suffer if it means getting closer to her.
You blame yourself more often than anything else. If you had only... If you had just... If, if, if. You just want her back.
You want her somehow-always-freezing toes to smash against your legs in the middle of the night. You want her laughter to fill the apartment. You want the long sleepless nights when you just sat with her; wanting to be happy but not able to because she was so sad. You want her fingers to slip down the collar of your shirt; you want the escalated breathing, the goosebumps, the ecstasy of her.
You miss it, don't you?
AN: Honestly, I have no clue. I just really let go with this one. The italics are just for funsies. I think they make it sound cool if you emphasize in the right places; at least to me. x]
It was addicting. She was addicting. She was a black hole, and she sucked you in so easily. She infected you like a disease, a horrifying, viral plague that couldn't be cured. Like cancer, but at least with cancer you can die. You couldn't die from too much of her.
She's everywhere. Her sweater hangs from the top of your bathroom door. Her scent lingers on your sheets and pillows that were so very rarely used for sleeping. Her notes, the lists from the last few months you got to spend with her.
How forgetful she had become towards the end. She wrote reminders on post-it notes and hung them everywhere. On the dresser, the bathroom mirror, the kitchen sink, the coffee table in your living room, anywhere they would stick.
They're still there. You can't take them down, not without worrying that she'll be looking for them come tomorrow when she can't remember where she left her favorite scarf. You're so hopeful, so full of lust and love and longing that you just know she'll have to come back.
You're crazy with grief.
She didn't want you; that was why she left. You weren't enough to keep her grounded, to give her what she needed. She didn't trust you as much as you had thought. She didn't love you as much as you had hoped.
If she had, you wouldn't have to carry her image around in your head every single day. It's not a particularly flattering image, her body hanging limp from the shower curtain rod.
At first you were disturbed, horrified, crushed. You knew she was depressed, and you could see she was dwindling; that time was running out. But you didn't ever speak up because you're so selfish. You wanted her to be yours and yours alone.
It's only fair, right? That she belong to you? Because you belonged to her in every way possible. She had you trapped body, mind and soul. It's only fair that you wanted her to be the same way.
But she was never like you. She was a flight risk with a taste for spontaneity. She was a mockingbird of the worst kind. She landed, but she never settled. Her feathers ruffled and she had the ticking urge to fly; to soar high above everyone else, completely out of reach.
You wanted to move out, at first, to escape the memories. They swirled around you, engulfed you, choked you as you tried so terribly to just move on. But that's just it, isn't it?
You like the reminders. You like the pain and suffering because you know you're relating to her in some way. She suffered, and so you must suffer too. Suffering seems like such an easy outlet, and you'd gladly suffer if it means getting closer to her.
You blame yourself more often than anything else. If you had only... If you had just... If, if, if. You just want her back.
You want her somehow-always-freezing toes to smash against your legs in the middle of the night. You want her laughter to fill the apartment. You want the long sleepless nights when you just sat with her; wanting to be happy but not able to because she was so sad. You want her fingers to slip down the collar of your shirt; you want the escalated breathing, the goosebumps, the ecstasy of her.
You miss it, don't you?
AN: Honestly, I have no clue. I just really let go with this one. The italics are just for funsies. I think they make it sound cool if you emphasize in the right places; at least to me. x]
Last edited by sb on Sun Sep 26, 2010 11:05 pm; edited 1 time in total
you totally just stole my favorite part
