So, I wrote this and wanted some input. I know it's a bit teen angsty, but I figured it wasn't that bad. But if it really is bad, I'd like to know. Thanks in advance.
Brimming White
Symphonic rain rebounds off the umbrellas of the procession — minor scale — accompanied by the percussion of footsteps and the mournful voice of the priest as he sings his false praise to a fake god; and all of it’s a lie. It’s a funeral dirge without substance, because they never knew her, the real her, enough to write a composition she’d believe in. She didn’t believe in a heaven or a hell, and to be honest I don’t blame her. People are so hopelessly wound up in their own affairs they couldn’t bother to take the time to get to know a girl they supposedly cared about. Because that’s who’s here, right? The people who cared about her? Wrong. It’s because the people have an obligation, lest they look like faithless friends or neglectful parents. This entire orchestra is out of tune, an epitaph for a girl that never was. But then, the first movement ends, the crowds disperse, and I stand back a bit. The street is barren as the sky was colorless, empty and devoid. It’s comforting, because looking back now she never had anything beautiful in her life except herself. I can’t justify enjoying my time.
I don’t blame myself really, not even after her death. The relationship felt abusive, but she treated me the way she wanted to treat me, and I was happy when she was happy. But, it really didn’t work too well being so different. Sometimes she’d slap me if I came to her house when her parents were home, and she’d send me away, not to come back for the rest of the week. Whenever I’d walk away I’d find myself listening hard for a parent to call me back, saying “Oh, I’m so sorry. She’s been in a mood ever since ‘insert day here’ because she ‘insert something stupid and funny she did’ and she’s quite embarrassed.” Then I’d get let in the house and see her crying with her head draped over some old, rusted coffee table, and she’d come over and hug me, and I’d confess and we’d kiss and she’d confess back and we’d go out and get married and then, finally, I could get her away from all her families troubles; my thoughts were the usual imaginary cadenza mid-concerto that I only wish I knew how to play. But I’d never get any of that dream. The house remained silent as ever. That is, it remained silent until a certain point.
The first time I met her was about three weeks into the new school year. I never really cared much about girls, but I did enjoy looking at the beautiful ones, paging though imagined relationships and such. But she was special. Really special. Gorgeous, seraphic, like Helen of Troy only better looking and not as much of a hell-raiser. She had long black hair with some brown highlights. She was skinny and tall, but not so much as to dwarf me, and her figure was graceful and well-composed, a rose-like body that threatened to be crushed by the world around it raging with malevolent dis-chord. I only knew she wanted to be a guidance counselor, so she was taking the same Psych class as me, but already I wanted to be the music box on which she played out her guiding tune. It seemed too beautiful to me; the prospect of being with a beautiful and thoughtful woman was enticing. The sound of truth was a bit sharper, cacophonous, and grated the ears.
If only her personality were like her body, then I might have been able to confess. She was bitter and she was strong, which made her about as appealing and accessible as caviar; she was a delicacy in her own right, but you needed the taste of Polyphemos in order to enjoy her. But I stayed with her and kept her in my eyes for one reason: she never once, in all our time together, told me anything about her, showed me any side of her or even gave me reason to think that she were anything but hopeful. Looking into her eyes, you never saw the barren world she came from, neither the drunkard father nor the abused mother, but you saw her eyes, brimming not with tears, but with hope. She’d always be looking into the sky, looking for clouds. She liked the white puffy forms against an infinite sky. That was her future, I thought, but what happened was far beyond my imagination.
They called it suicide. Her death, that is. I was there, but they knew I hadn’t had anything to do with it. The gun, her father’s, was in her hand. The angle, they told my parents, was only possible if she had been her own killer. I don’t believe them at all. I didn’t kill her, but I wish I had been blamed. No, I wish I had killed her, because from day one I never had any control over our relationship. That would have been the final resolution of my heart, the only progress I would have made in changing her life. In order to write myself into her life, I’d have killed her, if only she had let me. But no, muzzle to her head, she smiled at me and for the first time she cried. But, before it all happened, she looked up one last time into the sky and then at me as if to tell me something. She could have said it. It wouldn't have taken too long. But I still don’t know what she meant. The harmony of the situation frightened me, preplanned like it was directed by some ghostly conductor. But it ended the same as any other death, I suppose.
I go home. I go home to a house that will never hold me again. The funeral has ended. Two hours ago. I can’t feel my legs; the rain has made them numb. Someone, I can't remember who, had carried me to the car. It hurts. Love and life seems to be too much. Looking back though, would she be happy if I just gave up here? Didn't she give up too? But, was I stronger than her? I can’t tell, but the tears I cried back then seem to have dried up. I don’t think it would be right, in memory of her, to cry anymore. As if to support me, the sky doesn't seem to be crying anymore either. Its piece is concluded, the final requiem has been played, and the clouds now begin to disperse. The sky is quite a wonderful view. I see it now. An infinite expanse, full of beacons of hope, puffs of happiness on a great beyond. Maybe this, then, is something to look forward into. This azure, this giant blue, a great sad melody, but when it all comes down to pass, it's brimming white.
