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Apr. 5th, 2006 10:30 amSpike,
Death is never easy for anyone.
Things didn’t end the way I wanted them to, but they did end. Or at least, I think they did.
Maybe we’ll meet again one day, after all this -- whatever it is. Maybe then it will be better. But for now, just know that I’m sorry and that the truth is, yes, I really did love you. You may be one of the only people I ever really did.
I just hope that one day, everything will all be okay.
I’m sorry I never got to meet Beth. She really seems to make you happy. Don’t let her get away.
There’s a place where I will always be waiting for you. You know where that is. If you go there, you’ll find me. I’ll always be waiting.
And remember, Spike: It’s all just a dream.
Love Always,
Julia
It's times like this when he wishes so fucking bad that he never remembered anything, not a thing at all, not a goddamn thing in the world. Because now he has these words on paper plastered into his brain like they're burned there, indelibly tattooed, and he wishes like hell they weren't. There's nothing easy about this morning's ease-into-workout run; he goes at a relentless and punishing pace, like each foot falling to the ground could erase some piece of his past or some piece of pain he really thinks he shouldn't be feeling any more, but she's always had that effect on him, always. Pleasure and pain, but mostly pain. Mostly pain. Pain for all that shit, all that betrayal, all those years he waited and searched and hoped and watched. And then she was back and then she died and they never even had a chance.
And then she came here and died again, and he's already on his second lap around the lake because he knows if he slows down he'll think about all this shit even more and he can't stand that concept. He doesn't want to hear her tell him she loved him; he doesn't want to hear that he was one of the only people she ever loved. He doesn't want to have her waiting for him forever. Hell, he doesn't want anyone waiting for him forever. He doesn't want to be under that kind of ball and chain. He doesn't want her apologies and he doesn't want her words and he doesn't want her knowing Beth and he doesn't want her affecting what he has with Beth.
He also knows he can run until he collapses and it won't make anything go away. Not a damn thing. It won't make him forget how she died in his arms out there and here and it won't make him forget she never showed up when she was supposed to, and it won't make him forget how cruel she was to him after she got here. No, he's glad as hell she never met Beth.
Third lap, and he runs through the growing cramp in his side because if he stops now he's going to regret it in more ways than one. Her letter in his pocket is like a lead weight and no matter how far or fast he goes, it pulls him back down and he knows there's only one thing to do with it. Besides, he'll be stuck with the memory of its words for all eternity: his eye that takes pictures and his memories will see to that, damn it.
"Fuck."
The pain in his gut is like a knife being twisted; still, he forces himself to finish this lap because he's not going to rest and he's not going to relax, not yet, and he knows the truth is he would have loved Julia forever and ever, beyond till death do us part, if only she'd showed up that day. Or contacted him even one time. Everything else could have been forgotten, forgiven, overlooked. He would have cherished her forever.
But she didn't come to him that day, and that was that, and she can't hurt him all over again and she can't get in the way of what he has now, and she might wait for him no matter what but eternity is a hell of a long time and he doesn't wish that wait on Julia or on anyone. Finally, he reaches the end of this lap and doubles over, gasping for breath, grabbing his stomach in that same spot where he's been shot and stabbed and punched and kicked so many times he's lost track, and he rubs it and squeezes it and takes deep breaths until the damn pain starts to subside. It's only then he takes the letter out of his pocket.
He doesn't read it again. Instead, he tears it up systematically into smaller and smaller pieces until there's nothing left but fragments; holding out his hand, he lets the wind carry them away into the air, up and up and up, until they're gone.
Yeah, just a dream.
Wrenching the cap off the water bottle, he drinks the whole thing. No shreds of paper fall back to settle on him as he makes his way toward the bar, eyes narrowed, still trying to erase a pain that can never really be gone.
Death is never easy for anyone.
Things didn’t end the way I wanted them to, but they did end. Or at least, I think they did.
Maybe we’ll meet again one day, after all this -- whatever it is. Maybe then it will be better. But for now, just know that I’m sorry and that the truth is, yes, I really did love you. You may be one of the only people I ever really did.
I just hope that one day, everything will all be okay.
I’m sorry I never got to meet Beth. She really seems to make you happy. Don’t let her get away.
There’s a place where I will always be waiting for you. You know where that is. If you go there, you’ll find me. I’ll always be waiting.
And remember, Spike: It’s all just a dream.
Love Always,
Julia
It's times like this when he wishes so fucking bad that he never remembered anything, not a thing at all, not a goddamn thing in the world. Because now he has these words on paper plastered into his brain like they're burned there, indelibly tattooed, and he wishes like hell they weren't. There's nothing easy about this morning's ease-into-workout run; he goes at a relentless and punishing pace, like each foot falling to the ground could erase some piece of his past or some piece of pain he really thinks he shouldn't be feeling any more, but she's always had that effect on him, always. Pleasure and pain, but mostly pain. Mostly pain. Pain for all that shit, all that betrayal, all those years he waited and searched and hoped and watched. And then she was back and then she died and they never even had a chance.
And then she came here and died again, and he's already on his second lap around the lake because he knows if he slows down he'll think about all this shit even more and he can't stand that concept. He doesn't want to hear her tell him she loved him; he doesn't want to hear that he was one of the only people she ever loved. He doesn't want to have her waiting for him forever. Hell, he doesn't want anyone waiting for him forever. He doesn't want to be under that kind of ball and chain. He doesn't want her apologies and he doesn't want her words and he doesn't want her knowing Beth and he doesn't want her affecting what he has with Beth.
He also knows he can run until he collapses and it won't make anything go away. Not a damn thing. It won't make him forget how she died in his arms out there and here and it won't make him forget she never showed up when she was supposed to, and it won't make him forget how cruel she was to him after she got here. No, he's glad as hell she never met Beth.
Third lap, and he runs through the growing cramp in his side because if he stops now he's going to regret it in more ways than one. Her letter in his pocket is like a lead weight and no matter how far or fast he goes, it pulls him back down and he knows there's only one thing to do with it. Besides, he'll be stuck with the memory of its words for all eternity: his eye that takes pictures and his memories will see to that, damn it.
"Fuck."
The pain in his gut is like a knife being twisted; still, he forces himself to finish this lap because he's not going to rest and he's not going to relax, not yet, and he knows the truth is he would have loved Julia forever and ever, beyond till death do us part, if only she'd showed up that day. Or contacted him even one time. Everything else could have been forgotten, forgiven, overlooked. He would have cherished her forever.
But she didn't come to him that day, and that was that, and she can't hurt him all over again and she can't get in the way of what he has now, and she might wait for him no matter what but eternity is a hell of a long time and he doesn't wish that wait on Julia or on anyone. Finally, he reaches the end of this lap and doubles over, gasping for breath, grabbing his stomach in that same spot where he's been shot and stabbed and punched and kicked so many times he's lost track, and he rubs it and squeezes it and takes deep breaths until the damn pain starts to subside. It's only then he takes the letter out of his pocket.
He doesn't read it again. Instead, he tears it up systematically into smaller and smaller pieces until there's nothing left but fragments; holding out his hand, he lets the wind carry them away into the air, up and up and up, until they're gone.
Yeah, just a dream.
Wrenching the cap off the water bottle, he drinks the whole thing. No shreds of paper fall back to settle on him as he makes his way toward the bar, eyes narrowed, still trying to erase a pain that can never really be gone.
