#also can we talk aboht how i only write loops

[firefly-lemons]

@writing-prompt-s you probably won't see this but I'm too lazy to scroll back to prompt to reblog it, it was the one with the dead co-working coming back into work.

I sigh as my cereal swirls, surrounding my spoon. The milk ripples. It's beautiful, the patterns it makes. As the milk swells, it almost makes me forget abou- suddenly I see it.

The image. 

That image.

It keeps replaying itself in my mind. Lurking in the corners of my eyes, cautiously creeping in. Crashing into my thoughts. It sends me spinning down. Down. 

Down. I need to talk to someone.

I need to talk to her.

I rub my eyes, scrubbing them, trying to rid myself of the dirt staining my eyes. I fish for the last few Cheerios (with varying success). God I can't believe they're making us go to work after . . .

I quickly stand up, holding the table to stabilize for a second as my vision blurs before grabbing my bowl and falling more than walking back into the kitchen. I carefully stack the bowl on top of the growing heap of dirty plates, bowls, spoons and who knows what else buried there. The pile heaves a second, groaning with the added weight before settling down. (I'll get to them later) God. That's what she would've thought before . . .

God. Clarissa. 

Job.

Work.

Shit.

Shit. Shit. Work. I snap my eyes to the stove. 8:34. Fuck. Please. Please, Please be a late bus. I fly past the sink, past the couch, out the door. Shoes half on. Bag hanging off shoulder. Frizzy Hair flapping.

I quickly lock the door and dodge through the strangely empty sidewalks. Left. Right. Left. Right. Almost There. Left. Right. Person. Left. Right. Sign. Left. Right. Left. Fuck bike. stay in your lane. You're going to get hit idiot. Right. Left. There's the bus. Right. Sigh. Left. Slow. I Dive through the automatic doors. Made it! I gasp in relief, panting heavily as I sag onto one of the surprisingly empty seats. This is the A, the standing room only - beating heart of commuter travel - bus. Love it or hate it. She loved it. I never understood why.

My heart pounds heavily in my ear. I look around trying to find something to focus on. Ooo, I try looking out the windows (she loved the windows). The city flies by, the trees, the people, the constant motion soothes me. I sort of see it. The beauty in this creaky thing.

It slithers in, the image. So slowly that I don't catch it until it's to late. It sneaks in from the reflection dancing on the windows (covered in grubby graffiti scratches), the edges of that strange guy I don't recognize (drinking himself dead in the front, beer forming rivers around him). I see why she loves it now. I wish I hadn't teased her relentlessly about it. That image creeps itself to the front. I don't know how or when I stopped thinking about the windows. 

Every detail of this trip from yesterday floods in vividly. Washing through my thoughts. The Bus. The angry guy who didn't want to pay. Work. Clarissa stuck in a meeting. The smell of the rubble, the smoke, the...

I look out the windows again, diverting my attention. It's fine I only need to get through one day at a time. If I don't think about it. It could almost not have happened (ha if it were only that easy). I remember the grit flying into my eye . . .

Window.

The tall autumn trees blur together as the bus rushes past. I rub my eyes trying to get the muck stuck to them like glue. The colorful storefronts rush past, run down, but still fighting tooth and nail for attention. A person fallen in the street. Wait, I glance back. Nothing. The flashy neon signs declaring buildings "Open" (like anyone would go in there). The rows of houses peaking through crossroads. The fuck is that car doing, They're going to get themselves killed. Oh 45. That's me. I pat down my hair and sling my bag over my shoulder. The bus slows down to a stop. I get up. forcing myself out of my sweet and drag myself to the doors. I plaster on a fake smile "everything's fine smile" before making my way to the doors. I nod at the new doorman. Gritting my teeth as the smile claws up my face tearing into me, I try to pretend everything is normal.

Everything is fine. Except 

Except her.

A torrent tugs at my eye. Not here, not now. I plead with myself as I check in, swearing I could see her in the staircase window. I force myself not to look up. I focus on the weight of the pen in my hand, the smooth paper the - curiosity overtakes me. I glance up expecting nothing but wanting so much. -

A beat passes.

Nothing.

I stare at the window below before looking away. All at once my heart races as she passes by.

"Clarissa?

Clarissa!" I yell

I . . .

isn't she . . .

But she's there . .

She's here.

She enters the lobby.

She's walking briskly.

She's alive.

I freeze. The tears slip out slowly, washing some of that dust away. I stare at the window. Feeling each drop slide down my silky skin. 

I almost run towards her. I squeeze her tightly trying to tether her to me.

Wait.

Isn't she?

I sob into her shoulder as she pulls me in squeezing me tightly.

I take a few moments before pulling away to look her in her eyes.

"Clarissa, how . . .

how the fuck are you alive?" I say (a few people I don't recognize throw me dirty looks)

She pauses and takes a moment before I finally hear her say

"You were looking pretty pale after that day too", with a drop of knowing dancing in her eyes just out of reach.

A beat passes.

"Maybe a little too pale."

She doesn't say any more but she smiles softly wrapping her arms over me like a scarf. I sigh. The plastered smile fades into the real one. I could live in this moment. Her arms warm and comforting. Her heart beating with mine. Just feeling her breathing next to me again. In and out. Back and forth. Gently rocking like the A. Breathe in breathe out. The air feels fresher. In and out. Back and forth.

She slowly raises her arms off of me raising them, like I was some scared stray cat she was trying not to startle. Lost and alone. (Maybe I was.)

"Please don't go"

A beat

"I have meeting now darling" 

Her words rip though me, letting the fake smile wrap my lips up again. The "please don't leave me again" hovering on the tip of my tongue. Suddenly I hear someone yelling my name exasperatedly, I look around. Fucking Gerald.

Let me have my moment.

I sigh turning back.

She's gone.

Gerald storms over.

I, in Geralds very colorful words "get the fuck to work."

I go to the elevator. Push a button. Any button. Slam my fist into the buttons. They light up like my insides. I sigh. The elevator goes up. Beeps. I draw a frowny face. Goes up. Beeps. Goes up. I shouldn't have done that. I sigh. I get off. I make my way to my desk.

Work. 

Work work work.

So much work

I see her through the glass of a meeting room.

She had a meeting that day. 

Yesterday. 

The day when.

When she.

I bolt up.

The explosion echos in my ears, little bits of shrapnel lodging themselves in my eyes. I see Clarissa. Collapsed. Crumpled. Crushed.

A lifeless heap.

The explosions echo. My vision fades in and out.

The image stains my mind.

The explosion echos. I wake up. Get out of bed. Pulling on clothes. Dragging myself into the kitchen. Make cereal. Bringing it into the dining room. I sit down in a chair, pull the other one out, and push it back. I don't know how long I sit there looking at that empty chair.

I sigh. My cereal swirls, surrounding my spoon. The milk ripples, it's beautiful the patterns it makes as it swells it almosts makes me forget abou- suddenly I see it. 

The image. 

That image.

It keeps replaying itself in my mind. Lurking in the corners of my eyes, cautiously creeping in, crashing into my thoughts. It sends me spinning. I need to talk to someone. I need to talk to her.