I saw Lydia riding her bike down the hill this morning on her way to school. In that split second I would have given anything to make myself disappear into thin air.
To be honest I don't remember much of our impending conversation outside of how each syllable burst into flames as it left her pretty pink lips. All I can remember thinking was, "We could build a mansion with our million dollar words."
Words aren't even real. They are simply a man-made conception proven worthless.
She led me by the hand to the gates of our old school, and everyone was already waiting. Into the arms of our comrades, the human wreckage we were once proud to know and love as our best friends. A halo of grinning mouths and azure skies, our words barely audible over the laughter and the screams.
(For the sake of anonymity, I shall list no names. In reference to your own reality, however, you will know exactly who these people are.)
The years did pass, and so did we, but this moment . . . it's not quite right.
"You never meet the same person twice," I warned her, once we had broken away from our audience. "It is physically impossible: The only constant is change."
Lydia reached for a notepad and pulled out a pen from her purse. After a moment of scribbles, she slid me the notepad from across the room. I picked the pad up and opened it, curious as to what it might say.
"It would be safer to converse in writing. Everyone is watching"
Something was not right, and it took me a second to pick up on it: The eyes - they were fucking everywhere. Like thieves peeking through windows, or the way a deaf man can hear a sound in darkness.
Something was definitely wrong. I rewrote my previous sentiment and quickly passed the notepad back to her. After several minutes of frantic writing, Lydia passed me the notepad.
"This is the part where the hopes and dreams that once kept us alive begin to slowly tear us apart. We built these dreams out of splinters and a fistful of scars, armed with the intention of them taking us anywhere but here . . . but this isn't a boat, it's a coffin. The end is coming like a flood, and I don't want to be all alone when these oceans begins to rise."
Words are bastards, in every sense of the word. A part of me wanted to stand up and deny everything Lydia had told me thus far: To call her out as a liar, a condescender, in front of this room full of murderers and queens.
But at the very root of me, I knew she was right.
So instead I remained anchored in my seat, upright and motionless, choking on my tongue.
After a moment of quiet contemplation, I calmly wrote her a response:
"In this part of the story we are the ones who die . . . the only ones."