Title: Fragments
Author: RedRoze68
Rating: YTEEN
Category: Rotating POV
Disclaimer: I don't own anything, so please don't sue.
Summary: A short story. Basically, just everyone's thoughts after Departure.
Liz POV
I am broken.
Ten minutes ago my world exploded as she left with his son, leaving behind a pile of rubble, fragments of rock and fragments of people.
It’s eerily quiet now, like after any other tragedy. Unsure whether we should leave, as if taking one step would make everything real. Unsure of what to say, because there is really nothing that can be said.
Besides, at the moment, it’s impossible to move.
It’s impossible to speak.
It’s impossible to breathe.
Most people think that the end of the world is a one time thing. It’s a second, a moment in time, and then it’s over. For me, it’s a continuous process, repeating over and over, every minute of every day. My world, everything it consisted of and everything that I once was, is now gone. Or if it’s still there, it’s no longer recognizable.
I am broken. I have shattered, collapsed into millions of tiny particles that can never be put back together into the whole shape that I was before. I am dust, and I feel as if one strong gust of wind will blow all of my pieces away. And if that happens, I don’t think I will ever be able to retrieve them.
I have been broken for longer than I care to remember. Large pieces, jagged and sharp like glass, cutting and shredding, tearing me apart. But still they grow smaller with time. Becoming grains of sand so tiny that it will take thousands of them together for them even to be noticeable.
No one notices.
I wonder how many people are out there, living like I am. I wonder how many are halves and how many are really whole. I wonder how many are chipped and cracked, and how we would all look together side by side.
Whether it would just compound the ugliness, or perhaps, make it into something a little more beautiful. Perhaps the whole would be greater than the sum of its parts.
I hope that I am greater than the sum of my parts.
He wants to pretend it’s still there. He wants to tape it together and paint over it. He wants to put a band aid on it, and claim that it is healed.
He wants to pretend it never happened.
I just might let him. I might let him play pretend, and decorate it with pretty colors, light yellows and soft pinks, bright blues and vivid reds.
He wants to frost it, hide any and all imperfections, and start anew on top of a fresh layer.
Underneath though, I will still be broken.
But I will wait. I will gather my strength, and search for my lost pieces, digging through piles of rubbish and searching in dark corners for crumbs. I will let him play make-believe while I gather up every piece of who I am.
I cannot rebuild it. I will never be as I once was. The shape won’t be as lovely, it won’t be as thin or as delicate. I won’t shatter again. The walls I build will be sturdier, made of grains of sand and shards of glass and twisted pieces of steel. It will be different than before, perhaps unrecognizable.
But, perhaps it will still be beautiful all the same.
And maybe, one day, I will no longer be broken.
Fragments *(Rotating POV )* CC* YTEEN {COMPLETE}
Moderators: Anniepoo98, Rowedog, ISLANDGIRL5, Itzstacie, truelovepooh, FSU/MSW-94, Forum Moderators
Fragments *(Rotating POV )* CC* YTEEN {COMPLETE}
Last edited by RedRoze68 on Thu Jul 15, 2004 11:04 pm, edited 6 times in total.
Kyle POV
I am stained.
Ten minutes. Yet we still stand here, silent after his announcement. “I have to save my son.”
His son.
Her son.
I am disgusting. I am unredeemable, and not worthy of the air I breathe. Because, for a moment, I am jealous.
For a moment, I still wish it was me that she had loved. That she had given herself to.
For a moment, I still love her.
Buddha help me, I loved a cold-blooded murderer. As more than a sister, as more than a friend. As more than anything I’ve ever dreamed of.
I am stained. I will never be clean. My fingers itch now, as I remember carrying his body. I rub my hands together, trying to wipe off the layers of filth that cover me, trying to rid myself of all the soil and grime that aren’t visible to the naked eye.
I can’t see it, but I can feel it.
I will never be clean.
I will go home and scrub myself with disinfectant, wash myself in scalding hot water until I blister. It won’t be enough. It will never be enough.
I’m going to have to touch her things. I’m going to have to move her personal belongings out of my room.
I’m going to burn them, and watch the smoke rise into the air and dissipate into nothingness.
It won’t cleanse me. It won’t even cleanse the room.
But it might just let us start to heal a bit. It might lessen some of the pain.
It might scour off one layer of grime.
There will still be dozens of layers left though.
I feel dirty, from the inside out, from the outside in. Every inch of skin, of muscle, of bone, every crease and crevice, is contaminated, infected with her disease.
I turn away from the others and throw up the contents of my stomach, and then continue to dry heave.
My gut is turning inside out trying to get rid of everything inside of me that is tainted. Beads of perspiration slide down my face.
For a moment, I feel better, lighter.
But I am still unclean.
I think, with time, the marks will fade, and the filth that I am covered in, the filth that I am, will eventually lighten too.
But I will still be able to feel it. It will still be there.
I carried his body.
I loved her.
I will always be stained.
I am stained.
Ten minutes. Yet we still stand here, silent after his announcement. “I have to save my son.”
His son.
Her son.
I am disgusting. I am unredeemable, and not worthy of the air I breathe. Because, for a moment, I am jealous.
For a moment, I still wish it was me that she had loved. That she had given herself to.
For a moment, I still love her.
Buddha help me, I loved a cold-blooded murderer. As more than a sister, as more than a friend. As more than anything I’ve ever dreamed of.
I am stained. I will never be clean. My fingers itch now, as I remember carrying his body. I rub my hands together, trying to wipe off the layers of filth that cover me, trying to rid myself of all the soil and grime that aren’t visible to the naked eye.
I can’t see it, but I can feel it.
I will never be clean.
I will go home and scrub myself with disinfectant, wash myself in scalding hot water until I blister. It won’t be enough. It will never be enough.
I’m going to have to touch her things. I’m going to have to move her personal belongings out of my room.
I’m going to burn them, and watch the smoke rise into the air and dissipate into nothingness.
It won’t cleanse me. It won’t even cleanse the room.
But it might just let us start to heal a bit. It might lessen some of the pain.
It might scour off one layer of grime.
There will still be dozens of layers left though.
I feel dirty, from the inside out, from the outside in. Every inch of skin, of muscle, of bone, every crease and crevice, is contaminated, infected with her disease.
I turn away from the others and throw up the contents of my stomach, and then continue to dry heave.
My gut is turning inside out trying to get rid of everything inside of me that is tainted. Beads of perspiration slide down my face.
For a moment, I feel better, lighter.
But I am still unclean.
I think, with time, the marks will fade, and the filth that I am covered in, the filth that I am, will eventually lighten too.
But I will still be able to feel it. It will still be there.
I carried his body.
I loved her.
I will always be stained.
Max POV
I am haunted.
Ten minutes after she left, and she is still here. A shadow looming over us. She is still in the air, lingering, taunting.
She is still in me.
We are connected by our son. We always will be.
She will never really be gone.
I am haunted. She torments me, like a wraith, slipping icy fingers on my back and making me physically ill. She hovers, shifting, changing, but always present.
I am responsible. I failed, and he died because of me.
Another is living because of me. Because of us. Because of a desecrated act with someone whom I trusted, cared for.
I am responsible.
I was tricked, lied to, used, damaged.
I was tricked, lied to, protected, loved.
In both cases, I was fooled.
I was blind. What was right became left, and up became down. I lost my compass, and every yes became no, and everything that I knew to be true was proven wrong.
I didn’t trust what I knew. I didn’t listen to my heart. That was my downfall.
I lost myself, and she clung to that, using that fact and manipulating it for her own purposes. I let myself get used, get taken in. I let myself feel needed, feel wanted. I let myself be deceived.
I must save my son. No more innocent people will be hurt because of my mistakes. Because of my stupidity.
Because I turned towards someone whom I should never have trusted, and turned my back on the one person whom I should have trusted the most.
I have to right this somehow. It’s my responsibility. It’s always my responsibility, and when I ignore that my problems compound, increase by the tenfold.
Some of these problems will never be solved.
For some, it is too late. I cannot save him. I couldn’t save him then from her, but I’ll be damned if I can’t save my son from her now.
This is something I have to do. I need to find away to chase away her ghost, and loosen her steely grip on me.
She will never be truly gone. Even if I save the day, rescue my son, and finally give her what she deserves.
She will fade, but never disappear completely. Echoes of her mirthless laughter will continue to ring around me for as long as I live. When I close my eyes I will see piercing blue eyes and a triumphant sneer. Her ghost will continue to hover around us, chilling us and casting shadows on our lives, no matter what I do.
I will still do everything that I can to exorcize her ghost from our lives.
But I will continue to be haunted.
I am haunted.
Ten minutes after she left, and she is still here. A shadow looming over us. She is still in the air, lingering, taunting.
She is still in me.
We are connected by our son. We always will be.
She will never really be gone.
I am haunted. She torments me, like a wraith, slipping icy fingers on my back and making me physically ill. She hovers, shifting, changing, but always present.
I am responsible. I failed, and he died because of me.
Another is living because of me. Because of us. Because of a desecrated act with someone whom I trusted, cared for.
I am responsible.
I was tricked, lied to, used, damaged.
I was tricked, lied to, protected, loved.
In both cases, I was fooled.
I was blind. What was right became left, and up became down. I lost my compass, and every yes became no, and everything that I knew to be true was proven wrong.
I didn’t trust what I knew. I didn’t listen to my heart. That was my downfall.
I lost myself, and she clung to that, using that fact and manipulating it for her own purposes. I let myself get used, get taken in. I let myself feel needed, feel wanted. I let myself be deceived.
I must save my son. No more innocent people will be hurt because of my mistakes. Because of my stupidity.
Because I turned towards someone whom I should never have trusted, and turned my back on the one person whom I should have trusted the most.
I have to right this somehow. It’s my responsibility. It’s always my responsibility, and when I ignore that my problems compound, increase by the tenfold.
Some of these problems will never be solved.
For some, it is too late. I cannot save him. I couldn’t save him then from her, but I’ll be damned if I can’t save my son from her now.
This is something I have to do. I need to find away to chase away her ghost, and loosen her steely grip on me.
She will never be truly gone. Even if I save the day, rescue my son, and finally give her what she deserves.
She will fade, but never disappear completely. Echoes of her mirthless laughter will continue to ring around me for as long as I live. When I close my eyes I will see piercing blue eyes and a triumphant sneer. Her ghost will continue to hover around us, chilling us and casting shadows on our lives, no matter what I do.
I will still do everything that I can to exorcize her ghost from our lives.
But I will continue to be haunted.
Isabel POV
I am responsible.
She left ten minutes ago, and part of me is glad that she did. I’m glad that she is gone from our world, and I hope that I never see her face again.
A bigger part of me, though, wishes that she hadn’t left. A part of me craves retribution. I want to hurt her like she hurt him. I want her to suffer.
It disgusts me now. She was like a sister to me, if only because she was the only one like me. The only one who could possibly understand.
But I only thought that she understood.
I wanted her to be my friend. When she first arrived and we knew who she was, I had been happy. Sure, at times it seemed like something about her was off, something about her was wrong, but I ignored it.
I brought her into the group, forcing everyone to accept her.
I ignored all of the signs, which were both subtle and glaring in turn. I was used, and I let it happen.
I am responsible for his death.
I might as well have loaded a gun, handed it to her, and pointed her in his direction.
I let her hurt him, the one person who was consistently there for me, no matter how hard I pushed him away or froze him out.
I think I loved him.
She murdered him. I don’t know how or why anyone would ever hurt him.
Of course, I hurt him numerous times, almost without remorse.
I am the same as she. I used him over and over again, and then threw him away when I was done. I didn’t appreciate him.
Except, I am worse than she is, in some ways. Because I loved him, and I hurt him anyway.
You aren’t supposed to hurt the ones you love.
I was just beginning to understand this concept, just learning to wrap my head around it. Just, tentatively, reaching out to him again, starting fresh, starting something that could have possibly been beautiful.
It was too late.
Like a parasite, she worked herself into his brain, using him for her own purposes. She killed him slowly, hurting him over and over again.
I never saw it. I was blind, and I never noticed that he was suffering.
He was supposed to meet me that night. I was so excited, so happy. I can’t even remember a time when I’d been happier.
We were starting something new, and this time, I wasn’t going to screw it up.
We were ending. It was over before it had even really started.
He was gone.
He’d be so angry if he knew that I was thinking like this. He’d tell me that it wasn’t my fault, that I couldn’t have known. That I’m not responsible.
But the fact is, I am. I don’t know if I can bear it, if I can live with the crushing guilt. I will have to though. I deserve it.
I deserve every bad thing that comes my way, every burden, every hardship.
Because I am still alive. And the most innocent, good person I know, is not.
I am responsible.
I am responsible.
She left ten minutes ago, and part of me is glad that she did. I’m glad that she is gone from our world, and I hope that I never see her face again.
A bigger part of me, though, wishes that she hadn’t left. A part of me craves retribution. I want to hurt her like she hurt him. I want her to suffer.
It disgusts me now. She was like a sister to me, if only because she was the only one like me. The only one who could possibly understand.
But I only thought that she understood.
I wanted her to be my friend. When she first arrived and we knew who she was, I had been happy. Sure, at times it seemed like something about her was off, something about her was wrong, but I ignored it.
I brought her into the group, forcing everyone to accept her.
I ignored all of the signs, which were both subtle and glaring in turn. I was used, and I let it happen.
I am responsible for his death.
I might as well have loaded a gun, handed it to her, and pointed her in his direction.
I let her hurt him, the one person who was consistently there for me, no matter how hard I pushed him away or froze him out.
I think I loved him.
She murdered him. I don’t know how or why anyone would ever hurt him.
Of course, I hurt him numerous times, almost without remorse.
I am the same as she. I used him over and over again, and then threw him away when I was done. I didn’t appreciate him.
Except, I am worse than she is, in some ways. Because I loved him, and I hurt him anyway.
You aren’t supposed to hurt the ones you love.
I was just beginning to understand this concept, just learning to wrap my head around it. Just, tentatively, reaching out to him again, starting fresh, starting something that could have possibly been beautiful.
It was too late.
Like a parasite, she worked herself into his brain, using him for her own purposes. She killed him slowly, hurting him over and over again.
I never saw it. I was blind, and I never noticed that he was suffering.
He was supposed to meet me that night. I was so excited, so happy. I can’t even remember a time when I’d been happier.
We were starting something new, and this time, I wasn’t going to screw it up.
We were ending. It was over before it had even really started.
He was gone.
He’d be so angry if he knew that I was thinking like this. He’d tell me that it wasn’t my fault, that I couldn’t have known. That I’m not responsible.
But the fact is, I am. I don’t know if I can bear it, if I can live with the crushing guilt. I will have to though. I deserve it.
I deserve every bad thing that comes my way, every burden, every hardship.
Because I am still alive. And the most innocent, good person I know, is not.
I am responsible.
Michael POV
I am lost.
Ten minutes, and the world is still mad. It feels like something out of a bad movie, and any minute now, Rod Serling’s voice is going to announce that we have now entered the Twilight Zone.
The blonde witch is gone. Mr. Responsible himself slept with the enemy and got her pregnant, all the while practically spitting in the face of his professed soul mate. He now has the task of cleaning up the mess he made. I’m not thinking that an “Oops. My bad.” will cover it either.
And me, I gave up my chance to leave. For all of my life, all I’ve ever wanted was to leave, go home to some distance planet, where everyone would welcome me with open arms.
For all my life all I’ve ever wanted was a family. A home.
I found that home here on Earth, ironically enough. In her arms.
Home is where she is.
It’s sappy, I know, but true. Feels like everyone has switched roles. Suddenly I’m Mr. Responsible and Sensitive, and our fearless leader is the screw up.
It feels strange, and I’m not sure whether that’s a good thing or not.
I’ve been jealous of him all my life. He had everything I longed for, complete with a white picket fence.
He was everything I wanted to be.
I’m glad that I am no longer the guy who fouls everything up. And, honestly, a small part of me relishes in the fact that he has fallen off his pedestal, and is on the muddy ground with the rest of us.
Does that make me a horrible person? Probably.
But at least I’m honest.
Even though a small, sick part of me is almost happy at the fact that he has failed, a larger part is disgusted, confused. Shaken.
I am lost.
I am unfamiliar with this new world, where white has become black, and black has become gray. Where your friends become members of your family, while a member of your family becomes a killer. Where the hero doesn’t save the day, and certain things can’t be fixed.
How the hell am I supposed to follow this, and know which end is up?
How am I supposed to know what to do?
Right now, I honestly can’t even tell you what day of the week it is. Monday, Tuesday, Friday... no idea.
And then there’s the silence. I think this must be a new record for Motormouth. She hasn’t spoken in over ten minutes.
I wish she would say something.
The world is starting to spin and blur, images and feelings melding together as they rush by, making me sick. I fall into myself, falling... falling...
And she grabs onto my hand, squeezing it tightly.
And the falling stops. The spinning stops.
I am no longer lost.
I am home.
I am lost.
Ten minutes, and the world is still mad. It feels like something out of a bad movie, and any minute now, Rod Serling’s voice is going to announce that we have now entered the Twilight Zone.
The blonde witch is gone. Mr. Responsible himself slept with the enemy and got her pregnant, all the while practically spitting in the face of his professed soul mate. He now has the task of cleaning up the mess he made. I’m not thinking that an “Oops. My bad.” will cover it either.
And me, I gave up my chance to leave. For all of my life, all I’ve ever wanted was to leave, go home to some distance planet, where everyone would welcome me with open arms.
For all my life all I’ve ever wanted was a family. A home.
I found that home here on Earth, ironically enough. In her arms.
Home is where she is.
It’s sappy, I know, but true. Feels like everyone has switched roles. Suddenly I’m Mr. Responsible and Sensitive, and our fearless leader is the screw up.
It feels strange, and I’m not sure whether that’s a good thing or not.
I’ve been jealous of him all my life. He had everything I longed for, complete with a white picket fence.
He was everything I wanted to be.
I’m glad that I am no longer the guy who fouls everything up. And, honestly, a small part of me relishes in the fact that he has fallen off his pedestal, and is on the muddy ground with the rest of us.
Does that make me a horrible person? Probably.
But at least I’m honest.
Even though a small, sick part of me is almost happy at the fact that he has failed, a larger part is disgusted, confused. Shaken.
I am lost.
I am unfamiliar with this new world, where white has become black, and black has become gray. Where your friends become members of your family, while a member of your family becomes a killer. Where the hero doesn’t save the day, and certain things can’t be fixed.
How the hell am I supposed to follow this, and know which end is up?
How am I supposed to know what to do?
Right now, I honestly can’t even tell you what day of the week it is. Monday, Tuesday, Friday... no idea.
And then there’s the silence. I think this must be a new record for Motormouth. She hasn’t spoken in over ten minutes.
I wish she would say something.
The world is starting to spin and blur, images and feelings melding together as they rush by, making me sick. I fall into myself, falling... falling...
And she grabs onto my hand, squeezing it tightly.
And the falling stops. The spinning stops.
I am no longer lost.
I am home.
Maria POV
I am brimming.
Ten minutes after the gerbil made her get away, and I am still at a loss for what to do or say.
In fact, I’m even at a loss as to what to think.
I am brimming, saturated and overflowing with emotions. I’m a mixed grab-bag of feelings right now, and I really wish I had my cedar oil. Deep breaths though, as I try to sort everything out.
I’m angry of course. Pissed off as hell. We let that witch into our lives, accepted her, changed the future to make sure that she would stick around.
She gives us her thanks and love by murdering one of us.
By murdering one of my best friends.
I wish she hadn’t left, so I could tear her to pieces. They don’t call me Hurricane Deluca for nothing. I swear to god, when I finish with her, all that will be left of her will be scraps of clothing.
Beneath the anger is guilt. I contributed to this madness, by not slapping girlfriend upside the head and then punching his lights out for the way he treated my chica.
I contributed by not knowing that anything was wrong, and I didn’t even believe my best friend when she told me that he was murdered.
Of course he was murdered! He would never kill himself.
Overpowering the guilt is the sadness. The gut-wrenching, soul-ripping anguish. He’s gone. We were the three musketeers, best of friends. I was the zany one, she was the logic, and he, he was our rock.
What are we going to do without our rock? Everyone knows that the rock is the foundation of everything.
Without the foundation, everything else crumbles.
We crumbled.
We all did.
I found strength though, and something to cling to.
After all, a Stonewall is made of rock too.
He’s been my rock, my shelter, my shoulder to cry on. He’s been the best support that a girl could ever ask for.
Which is why, coexisting with the other myriad of emotions, is happiness. Blissful, crazy-in-love happiness.
He stayed for me.
Words cannot express how that made me feel. Makes me feel. I feel...
like I could fly.
This, of course, brings on more guilt.
How can I be happy when my best friend is gone? How can any of us be happy?
I hear the sound of someone retching behind me, and I grab my lover’s hand.
Lover. How strange a term. How unfamiliar.
How appropriate.
I think that it’s time that we leave this place.
I begin to walk towards the car without bothering to check to see if anyone is following. I know they will.
They do.
I climb into the driver’s seat of the Jetta, and wait as the others pile in.
One, two, three, four, five, six of us. Three in the front, three in the back. It’s a tight fit.
It should be a tighter fit.
There should be seven of us.
Then, like a great exhale, the multitude of emotions drain out of my body, leaving behind only grief.
I turn the key, which I had left in the ignition.
As the engine noisily roars to life, another part of me quietly dies. I am left empty, a shell containing only bittersweet memories and unshed tears.
I begin to drive as I glance at the others in the car with me. The looks on their faces match how I feel.
The hollowness inside me grows.
I’d rather be brimming again.
End.
I am brimming.
Ten minutes after the gerbil made her get away, and I am still at a loss for what to do or say.
In fact, I’m even at a loss as to what to think.
I am brimming, saturated and overflowing with emotions. I’m a mixed grab-bag of feelings right now, and I really wish I had my cedar oil. Deep breaths though, as I try to sort everything out.
I’m angry of course. Pissed off as hell. We let that witch into our lives, accepted her, changed the future to make sure that she would stick around.
She gives us her thanks and love by murdering one of us.
By murdering one of my best friends.
I wish she hadn’t left, so I could tear her to pieces. They don’t call me Hurricane Deluca for nothing. I swear to god, when I finish with her, all that will be left of her will be scraps of clothing.
Beneath the anger is guilt. I contributed to this madness, by not slapping girlfriend upside the head and then punching his lights out for the way he treated my chica.
I contributed by not knowing that anything was wrong, and I didn’t even believe my best friend when she told me that he was murdered.
Of course he was murdered! He would never kill himself.
Overpowering the guilt is the sadness. The gut-wrenching, soul-ripping anguish. He’s gone. We were the three musketeers, best of friends. I was the zany one, she was the logic, and he, he was our rock.
What are we going to do without our rock? Everyone knows that the rock is the foundation of everything.
Without the foundation, everything else crumbles.
We crumbled.
We all did.
I found strength though, and something to cling to.
After all, a Stonewall is made of rock too.
He’s been my rock, my shelter, my shoulder to cry on. He’s been the best support that a girl could ever ask for.
Which is why, coexisting with the other myriad of emotions, is happiness. Blissful, crazy-in-love happiness.
He stayed for me.
Words cannot express how that made me feel. Makes me feel. I feel...
like I could fly.
This, of course, brings on more guilt.
How can I be happy when my best friend is gone? How can any of us be happy?
I hear the sound of someone retching behind me, and I grab my lover’s hand.
Lover. How strange a term. How unfamiliar.
How appropriate.
I think that it’s time that we leave this place.
I begin to walk towards the car without bothering to check to see if anyone is following. I know they will.
They do.
I climb into the driver’s seat of the Jetta, and wait as the others pile in.
One, two, three, four, five, six of us. Three in the front, three in the back. It’s a tight fit.
It should be a tighter fit.
There should be seven of us.
Then, like a great exhale, the multitude of emotions drain out of my body, leaving behind only grief.
I turn the key, which I had left in the ignition.
As the engine noisily roars to life, another part of me quietly dies. I am left empty, a shell containing only bittersweet memories and unshed tears.
I begin to drive as I glance at the others in the car with me. The looks on their faces match how I feel.
The hollowness inside me grows.
I’d rather be brimming again.
End.