Here’s a story I found in one of my old school folders from ‘07. It’s supposed to be like a page ripped from a novel…
"Let me get it for you, Jay," he said staring at the capsule on the floor. ”Paul!” she paused for a moment, grasping her abdomen. “I know I’m hurt… but I need to be trying to do things a little more on my own.” She tried to sit up; the expression on her face showed her lack of ability to do so. He reached over. It was a strained action for both of them to sit back up. She had a serious look. “Since we got in the accident, you have treated me like you do Lily. I’m not 5!” Paul looked at her, somewhat surprised. She’d never spoken to him like that before. ”I’m… sorry,” he muttered. He could hardly stand the tension in the room. He was sure they had both been through enough in the last week to make anyone exhausted. She still had the same braids in her hair from two days ago. They were from before her surgery, straggling strands and all. She’s only been home for a few hours, and she still had the smell of disinfectant and medicine on her clothes. In the last week, he had grown to hate the smell of the hospital. There were just too many bad memories there for him. ”Look, I’m gonna leave you alone for now. You need to rest.” Seeming a little skeptical, he got up and wandered across the room. “Call me or text me. Anything you need, please just tell me,” he really meant it. “Even if it’s only a sneeze…” Jaymie’s little blue Honda (which sat mangled in the driveway) was only a testament to their injuries. For once, his music was off as his truck crept up the road.
He drove home in his father’s volkswagon, the smooth, slick car gliding across the road as he subconsciously directed himself home from work. His tired mind sifted through the thoughts in his head, brushing aside the ones that were dusty and worn with contemplation, trying to find something new to think about, worry about. He found nothing new, so instead he brought his eyes to the horizon. The dry lightning flashed around him, arching, even dancing across the sky like two dancers moving erratically, spontaneously, but beautifully in improvisation. He felt like the moment was epic, he wanted to lose himself in it. So he took his sleek iPod, plugged it into to the car stereo, a sleek move to say the least, and searched for that perfect song, whipping his eyes from the road to his iPod in such quick movements that his pupils seemed to blur. He finally found the song, sleek, it could be described. The synthesizers rose amid a bold drum beat, guitars slowly, but surely breaking through the looped beats and computerized chord progressions. He set his eyes on the road, the dry lightning, released the tight grip his troubled thoughts had on his mind, and sank in the car, the lightning, the music. In that moment, in that beautifully crafted car, with his beautifully expensive iPhone, with that beautifully produced pop song, and the beautifully poetic storm swooping in on him, he felt perfect. He felt himself apart of everything, the car, the ipod, the song, and the weather. He felt bold, brave, attractive. He didn’t think, he only felt. Because that’s what he needed, to have feelings he didn’t have to put thoughts to
“I’m here. I love you. I don’t care if you need to stay up crying all night long, I will stay with you. There’s nothing you can ever do to lose my love. I will protect you until you die, and after your death I will still protect you. I am stronger than depression and I am braver than loneliness and nothing will ever exhaust me.”—Elizabeth Gilbert