It Was My Story

There are purple walls here. Purple walls and golden curtains and a red bed spread. The carpet is a slightly different color than the bed, and the two clash awkwordly. Candles litter the dresser. I count 30. There are two more candles on the antique writting desk on the opposite side of the room. The main light in the room is blue, and the secondary lighting is yellow. Down the hall there is a bathroom with florescent lighting. The bathroom matches the room on color scheme. Everywhere are pictures of France. Authentic ones, not the cheep kind you buy at stupid chain stores. On the bed there is a girl. She has dark hair; the color of espresso. She is typing on her laptop and listening to the movie Rent. She looks over at me, but makes no sign that she sees me.1

That is because she doesn't. The only way she can see me now are by the pictures that hang from her walls, next to the pictures from Paris. This is because I commited suicide.2

I didn't mean to, really. I had made several attempts on my life before, and nothing had happened. I guess pills and a knife weren't as effective as a strong piece of rope.3

The girl on the bed and I used to be best friends. I had called her the night before I took my life, actually. I wanted to read her my new poem. It was to be my farewell note. No matter what, my bestfriend had always understood every poem I had ever written. No matter what. Except when I called, she wasn't there, and I didn't here back from her. That was a Tuesday night. 4

The last time I visited this room, each wall was a different color. And I was alive. If I'm not mistaken, the curtains had been purple. There were no candles and no writting desk. She had a different bed, and a different bed set. She also had a bowl chair, what happened to that? Oh yes, I remember now. We broke it. I didn't think she would get rid of it though. Well, some things change. 5

I look in the mirror and imagine I can see my reflection. I can picture my shoulder length, strawberry blonde hair fraiming my face. I always thought I had chipmonk cheeks, but that never kept me from smiling. I can almost see my sapphire blue eyes glinting back at me. Though no one took notice before, my eyes never smiled when I did. Across the brodge of my nose are a cascade of light freckles: Angel's Kisses. The rest doesn't matter. I had enough people paying attention to my body for me. No one ever just looked at ME.6

I walk over to her and get close. The girl on the bed barely resembles the girl from eighth grade. She's not so gawky anymore, and she has found her personal style that works for her. She has become more orriginal than I ever was. I smile at her, but get no response. She just continues to type away at her laptop.7

I climb on the bed and lie down next to her. She won't notice. 8

Out of curiosity, I look at what she is typing.9

My eyes bulge. Oh my God...