Silver Girl

"It's raining."

The first words you said to me were the same as the last. Not nearly at the same time, no; there were years in between. I wonder if you even knew, if you even remembered. I wonder if you found it as funny as I did, in that nearly morbid way you always liked. The way it's funny how different the two contexts were, yet how alike.

I was seven at the time. You were thirteen, and my little girl eyes were wide with curiosity aimed at the silver girl in the silver chair staring out the glistening window. I don't know how long I watched you, peaking around the corner of the seat on that train that I don't even remember where was headed.

It was this trail of eyes, steady glances and differing expressions: the woman in the white dress with her frail hands and her soft, old face looked on contently at the child with the stained overalls, and the sticky remains of lollipops and gumdrops surrounding his mouth; the boy looked up with admiring eyes at his handsome father, who held the kid in place with his sturdy hands as he watched the bathykolpian lady donned in all the brightest colors with lust and a hint of sadness in his own scarred blue orbs; and that woman who just happened to be my mother kept her careful gaze on me, worry hidden neatly in the folds at the corners of her mouth. Then of course, I, the little girl with stereotypical bouncing curls and a dress made of worn out lace, watched you, the silver girl, and you let your own set of soul windows stare right on through the glass.

I was naturally full of wonder, as you were older than me, and quite pretty. I thought maybe you were a princess, sad and lonely after being thrown out of your castle by a wicked step mother. Or, maybe, you were a fairy, sent to rid the world of looks like yours, bring smiles and candy and coins to little girls like me who lost their teeth.

It was while I was running through all these magical stories of my own imagination's creation that you finally felt my prying eyes; or, at least, chose to acknowledge the small child next to you. Your silver eyes shut for one slow moment, and when they opened you were looking right at me. I remember the gasp I'm sure you heard, and the feeling of finding something, someone so selcouth, though my young mind did not know of such a word to describe it at the time. I remember how you looked right into my eyes until they might have stripped the color from my own, silently. And when your lips finally parted, how your voice was so quiet I could hardly hear the almost musical voice that formed those two simple words.

"It's raining."

You told me your name was Nelipot and you were a silver goddess. I believed you.

I was sixteen at the time. You were twenty two, and my parents didn't approve of how much time we spent together; but my mother was with my new father all the time, out on dates in restaurants too concinnously delicious to be in the same country as me, so it's not like they were there to stop us. It's not like they would even know.

We were always together. You told me stories that I knew weren't true, because you didn't have the time to go doing all these things with me around, but I accepted them as a partial reality all the same. You held my soft, peach colored hand in your cold, pale fingers and we flew through a world of our own making on a daily basis. They called us dreamers, they called us strange, they called us crazy. They accused us of doing so many drugs and of having so many mental disorders that you could make an entire book out of their names. We didn't care. We skipped and we danced and we spun through the trails that our own bare feet had made in the forest between my house and the cozy one room cottage that you bought so you could sneak in to see me at outrageous hours all that much easier. We were happy.

So when that day came around, I didn't believe it. I wasn't hurt, I wasn't sad, I wasn't worried, I wasn't angry at the doctors that said they couldn't do anything, or annoyed by the diagnosticians that simply did not have the brain capacity to know what was wrong with you. I wasn't anything. I just didn't believe it. My naive brain thought just like the small child version of me would: you were a silver goddesses, and since when do goddesses just die?

I remember how you took my hand and smiled at me, whispering in that soft, melodious voice of yours some galimatias that no one else would understand. Despite your nonsense verses, I understood, as I always did. So I took your frosty hand and helped you up, noticing how even in your weakened state you moved so leggiadrously. And then you were standing on your tippy toes and pulling me into a whirlwind of silver and green, a maelstrom of our very own sea, and I saw what you were thinking and I was happy to know. The nurses stared at us, two young women, grown and nearly grown, spinning about across the slick floors like the children we once were. We loved it.

All too soon, it was over. You crashed. You didn't get weak, you didn't slowly turn to a frail sliver of girl or let the feeling of terror that ought to have been there seep into your flesh. You just crashed. You fell over to the side, hit your head on a cart, and drug me down with you.

I don't know how long we sat there like that, my big girl eyes wide with curiosity aimed at the silver goddess on the silver floor staring out the glistening window. I don't know how long I watched you, peaking around the corner of the cart that smelled of antiseptic and something I don't even know what was.

It was a trail of eyes, steady glances and differing expressions: an angry boss stood with clipboard in hand, looking on at the nurses with a stern crease between her brows, and the nurses all stared at the girl on the floor that hadn't noticed how pale she had gone, or the pool of her color beneath her. Then of course, I, the big girl with stereotypical bewitching curves and a dress that showed off my legs, watched you, the silver goddess, and you let your own set of soul windows stare right on through the glass.

About the time I noticed how cold I was, you looked at me and smiled. I guess it was more of a smirk. And you blinked your eyes in slow motion twice, just to be sure...

"It's raining."

It took me a while to finally shift my gaze from your spot on the floor to my own. I only noticed because the nurses started inching closer. Sitting in my own pool of blood I didn't know where came from, and all that I noticed was how close our skin was to matching; I was closer than I had ever been to being like you, a silver goddess.

It took me even longer to realize that you were dead. I made a few observations on my way to the wheeled bed they tried to lay me on. Your hair had lost it's brightness, a dull gray instead of silver. Your eyes were still open, but I could no longer see your soul. That smirk would be set on your face forever. You weren't wearing shoes. You never wore shoes....

Today, I discovered something: your name. Your real name was Jenny, but you were always Nelipot. I looked up the definition. Maybe that was why you never wore shoes, my Nelipot, my silver goddess. I look up through the window with my own eyes and wish they were as beautiful as yours used to be. Droplets race down the glass and I think of the past, of you and me; it's only been three months. But, you know what?

It's still raining.

Reviews

[RidingTheWind]

This is one of the sweetest stories I've ever read, and has such a sad ending. I love how you said her eyes were a 'set of soul windows', and then when she died you couldn't see her soul in them.
I hope you carry on writing such wonderful stories, but if you do can you make the font a little bigger please? :)