The word I'm given will be in bold at the top of every DIV. So that it's immensely clear what my prompt is.
Do note that these are most likely entire works of fiction. For example, I have never attended a funeral. And hopefully, will never again have cause to do so. But I just write what comes into my head. Capisce? So no random messages asking who died. ;)
Besides... I... don't really want to talk about her. I want to say it's too soon, but it's not. Frankly, I don't miss her like I should. In my mind, she's still the same self-professed nutter she always was. Not 6ft under because of stupid fucking decisions. I don't miss her because she's not gone. Not really.
Christ, I'm delusional.
That's all I could think about, when the first spadeful of it hit her coffin. She was returning to where she belonged. And I, I was left here waiting. Waiting for her to come around, waiting for me to come to her, like she used to wait for her pretty little crocuses to come peeping out of the soil.
// I stopped writing there, because the timer went off. But I'm going to keep adding to it here. Because I can. //
The first soil, first dirt, first true indication she was gone and this was not just some silly prank she pulled, seemed to hit Katie hard. I don't know, I never realised they were even close. I thought women had some kind of pact, "the ex-girlfriend of my boyfriend is my worst enemy" or something. But no. Sometimes, I think she and Sarah got along better than she and I ever did. Even back then.
Back then. What do I remember about back then? What do I remember about her?
Oh shit, what do I remember about her? I loved her for so long, I loved her even then, and now I remember nothing?
I could be melodramatic. I could tell you I sobbed, screamed, made noises I didn't even realise I was making. But no, none of that happened. I grieved her, the way 'real men' were supposed to grieve the women they loved. In silence, in private. At least, that's what my father told me a week later, before handing me a spade (how insensitive, father dear) and telling me to help plant a tree marking her death.
That's a rather silly tradition, no? For something to live, to flourish, in the place of a person we knew and loved, and to be cheerful about such a thing? But she loved maples. That's what she told me towards the end. "Jake, be a dear and plant me a maple," she said. "Plant me a maple, I always wanted to be one of them."
We used to bicker about the demands. The stupid shit that only she would ask for. "Get me a dragon, get me a cheesecake at 4 in the morning, get me a puppy with a heart shaped marking." All these things that amounted to nothing more than brimborion; folderol to all but her. That, deep down, she and I both knew she didn't really want for anything more than proof. Just testing the limits of my love.
I'd give everything, to hear her ask me for an all-sugar Squishee one more time.
// You know, I never intended for this to turn personal, but now it has. So I draw the line right here. //
Ooh, and now I remember that OW.com only gives out one word a day.
Whatever. One will do.