My Silent SideA Story by Psycho Project Timothy probably thought nothing would happen, but that was so like him, so otherworldly optimistic Perhaps they will tell you that I was just there at the wrong moment. That I walked up too fast, that I stood a little too long, that I stayed too silent, too still. Maybe they’ll say it was an accident. Maybe they’ll say it was my fault. Maybe they’ll blame my murderer. Who knows what they’ll say. I won’t be around to hear it. Timothy grinned when he saw the SUV speeding towards me, smiled like the Chesire cat, for once not saying a word. He was a trickster, always spinning words and shouting out things when the situation called for silence. He probably thought the car would stop before it even so much as tapped me. He probably thought that everything would be fine. But that was so like him, so otherworldly optimistic. Mary gasped, her flower-covered sun dress flowing around her as she stilled in her tracks. I had turned back to look at her, unable to even ask her what was wrong when the grill of the vehicle came slamming into me. Bradley stayed silent as my blood sprayed and fell all around him. But Bradley was always silent, so I didn’t expect much more than that. He did look slightly concerned, which was better than I could hope for honestly. But there wasn’t much I could say as Mary came running towards me, fear streaming over her body in waves like the tears running their way down her face. There wasn’t much I could do at all actually, the way my body was torn to pieces on the asphalt floor. Like I’d walked off the edge and pulled the ground up towards me really fast. It felt like I had been pitching a line and went fishing for concrete. But this was different than a suicide attempt. This was different in the way that the ground was not my killer. It was no more than my death bed. There was a thrumming roar in my ears, distilling in the way that it was exploding yet still and comforting. Somehow, I blinked. You know when your vision begins to darken when you stand up too fast and you get that head rush? It was like that, only it took longer. It was slower. I could see people entering my field of vision, screaming for help and a few seconds later the roar of sirens from the nearby fire station. No, didn’t they know? When you’re hit by a car a fire truck only crowds the way. I sighed, feeling the breath being pulled from my lungs, more rapidly each time. My consciousness was fading, Mary stepped back, sidestepping an incoming onlooker. She had gone pale, screaming so loudly it drowned out the ambulance when it finally rolled around. Why was no one comforting her? Clearly she was more distraught than I was. Maybe it was the shock, maybe that’s why I wasn’t begging for my life even though I could feel it fading. Fading, what a weird word for life being lost. Because it’s not like you slowly lose yourself, it’s more abrupt. One moment, you’re there. The next, you’re not. This is not the story of me, that would assume I’m the main character, and a story ends when the main character dies, that’s obvious. But seeing as how I just died, clearly this is not the story of me. This is the story of Timothy, Mary, and Bradley. My only friends in the world. Timothy was a child, with skinned knees and a talk-back attitude. He was over-alls and short hair, elbow pads and training wheels (though he’d never admit it). He was fun first-safety later. Talking before thought. Action before asking. He was shouting when the world was quiet and quiet when you wanted answers. He was unique, the color orange, like few people are. He was intense, deep placed eyes that saw into everything and everyone. If you weren’t careful, it felt like your soul was being sucked in. He was the citrus smell of household cleaners, itchy to your nose and annoying to your lungs. He was the supple youth of a new fruit, the skin still soft and unripened. He shouted loudly, dared to be seen and heard. Timothy was life and the warmth on your back from a sunny day. He was like so few were, somehow hard to hate. Maybe it was the way he smiled, the dimples in his cheeks giving off that relaxed feeling. Maybe it was the way he pushed his hand through his hair, gently giving off the aura of a man. Or maybe it was just him, the entirety of him, that made it so hard not to love him. Mary was the princess type, always in a skirt or a dress. She was in flowers whenever she could and wore her hair up, showing off her thin neck and womanly shoulders. She was the biggest envy of my life. I wanted to be like her, but instead I wore jeans and a hoodie almost everyday. She also had a way with words to the point you would give her your socks if she asked for them, and wouldn’t even be mad when she lit them on fire and threw them away. She was a fashion freak and she often did ask people for their articles of clothing, which they promptly gave. She simply wouldn’t stand for anyone not wearing the latest and up to datest. Mary was the embodiment of the color yellow. She was a sunny day, while enjoyable at first, stung at your skin and left you feeling like you ran a mile. She was the warm sun while a cool breeze blows on your face. Yellow is exciting without being loud or angry, and that’s what she was. Mary was the warmth of sunlight in springtime streaming through a window warming up a patch on the carpet. She was a sunflower, the one always in the light, the one always standing tall, the one that deserved glares of jealousy (that she seemed to never get). She was simply cheerful, bouncing and ricocheting off every wall that crossed her path. She was bubbly in the way that made you want to throw up your lunch when you had an uneven stomach, but somehow, she was untouchable. She was fiery, with a passion you don’t see often anymore. Mary was simply Mary, perfect but for few flaws. A diamond with a chip on its shoulder. Mary’s only flaw was her constant need to one-up people, her need to control every situation, her desire to make others conform to her will. Bradley was the tall, dark, and handsome type. Pale with black hair, blue eyes that found their way into your heart. He was a heart-throb, someone to swoon over, someone to get star-struck over. He wore shades in the middle of the night, a leather jacket that was a little tight around his biceps, and the spiked hair-do that he somehow pulled off. He was a man of few words, but when he spoke, they meant the world. Bradley was the color blue. It's like the taste of blue raspberry popsicles. It's the air on a crisp cloudless day. It's the thrill you feel when something inspires you, but also the lonely bite of feeling down and by yourself. He could be as deep and fathomless as the deepest oceans, almost as dark as the blackness of night, or light and airy as the tickle of a feather. He was the color of our healing bruises. The tart tang of fresh blueberries. The color of baby boys' blanket, soft against the callouses of your hands. He was soft, yet cold, reliable, loyal, yet lonely to be around. He was my friend though, through thick and thin. But none of that mattered, they may have been my friends, but that’s all they were. Friends. They didn’t have lives outside of mine. I was their sun, them the planets, they revolved around me. That’s all they existed for. They were whispers in the real world, figments of imagination. Because that’s all they were. That’s all they were. My mind displaying what I couldn’t have. My heart screaming for some company. They were mere hallucinations, figments, echoes. Unreal and undefinable by the common person. They didn’t exist, but they were real to me. © 2016 Psycho ProjectFeatured Review
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Added on February 23, 2016Last Updated on March 8, 2016 Tags: tragedy |
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