Anyway, second or third revision of a story I wrote for a class last semester. It should ring true to the suicidal emo teenager, as much as I tried to avoid that. Oh well. It's pretty short for me. I was working on curing the diarrhea of the keyboard I get sometimes (just look at this post...). Feel free to tear it apart. Go ahead, strike me down! Then I shall become more powerful than you can imagine!
Following the slow moving column of people to the front of the isle in the rain, he shifted his soaking coat jacket over his shoulders. Every step he took seemed to take forever, the scene slowing in his mind until someone nudged his back.
"Careful," he said, "I’m trying to write." She sat back to back with him, their legs dangling over the arm rests of the large chair. After drawing a few more lines in the sketch pad in her lap she nudged him again, his pen striking haphazardly through a paragraph of the story he had been working on. Grinning, he turned his head when she did. Their smiling cheeks made contact as they pushed their backs against each other, each trying to see what the other was working on. All he saw was that her wrists still bore medical bandages, a fact he acknowledged with a smile. She laughed when he continued to push her until she was almost doubled over, trying to see what she was drawing.
"Why is there blood on your picture?" he asked, coming up behind her. She started to move her hand across the table, drawing it back to herself, but he pinned it to the table before she could and turned it so the underside of her wrist was facing the ceiling. "Why is your sleeve wet?" he asked. She stood up and tugged her arm out of his grasp, knocking him backwards in the process. "Fuck off" she said before storming out of the room. When she was gone, he slammed his fist into the wall then sat down at the table.
"Why?" he asked gently, sitting across the table from her. She only stared at the first aid kit sitting in front of her, but he kept asking her until she said, "I don’t know." He stood and slowly rounded the table, coming up behind her. She shied away when he touched her shoulders, but she relaxed when he started to gently rub them. He worked his way down to her elbows and lifted both her arms onto the table. It took a few minutes to comfort her, but she allowed him to apply gauze and medical bandages to the cuts on her wrists. When he was done, he asked, "Will you promise me not to do it again?" When she didn’t answer, he took her hands into his and got down onto his knees, prepared to beg. "Please," he said, "for me?" She said nothing. Her dark eyes, now rimmed with tears, were offering no promises. Instead, she picked up a pencil and opened her sketch pad.
"I didn’t know you could draw." He said, looking over her shoulder. She quickly slammed the book closed and stood up from where she sat with tears in her eyes. “Are you ok?” he asked as she brushed past him, but she didn’t answer. "Should I come back tomorrow then?" That made her stop and turn around, gripping her sketch pad like she was going to beat him with it. "What do you want?" she said in a wavering voice. "To see what you drew. Oh, and to buy you a cup of coffee." He replied. Wordlessly, she gave him the sketch pad and with a mysterious but small grin, she said, "I take it black." After putting in the order, he opened up the sketch pad to find a sketch of a funeral procession during a rain storm.
He finally got to the front of the column, which was conveniently under a tent, and placed a hand on the smooth wooden casket. He opened his mouth to speak, but he realized there were no words left to say. Not even goodbye. With a sigh he wiped a small puddle of rain off of the otherwise dry casket, turned around and started walking back to the parking lot.