Tuesday, December 3, 2013

Rest Now~A writing thing

I'm not entirely sure what this is. Part eulogy for Matt Smith and Eleven, part allegory, and all feels. 

"Well , then," I swallow the lump in my throat. It's just my cold, just the slimy, disgusting leftovers of everything that doesn't clear up in two weeks. "I guess...it's just that...it's not fair!"  No one ever said life was fair--but if anyone brings up the truism, I'll punch him. Okay, glare sullenly. As a scrawny English major, I'm not much of a physical threat to anyone.
"I'll still be around. Stop by every now and then."
"It won't be the same. " No more late nights munching jammie dodgers or arguing if bow ties are cool. No more terrifying stores or amazing adventures. I grab the fleece throw off the couch and throw it around my shoulders. "I wish Amy and Rory were still around. Have you heard from River yet?"
"She'll turn up when she turns up."
"Spoilers!" we chime together.
"Clara will be there," he remarks.
"I'm not really fond of her yet."
"Give her time. Any of your friends coming?"
"No, just me." I sink onto the couch. He sits next to me, letting me lean on his shoulder.  "It...it just seems like more than three and a half years. All the places I've been, things I've learned, books I've read. Even with homework, stress, colds and roommates, college beats high school hollow. And now..."
I'm sniffling now, soon to slip into full-blown crying: ugly crying, with red eyes and drippy nose and a headache. "I'll have to be an adult. Get a full time job and pay rent and find new friends and buy $20 pots with lids and everything. I'm not ready."
"There's no point in being grown-up if you can't be childish sometimes," he quotes himself. "It's not all bad. There are some good points too."
"Like what?"
I make a noise. "Not helping. Can you wait a few months? Just until I find a real job. Not five days after graduation."
"It's all lined up, I can't change it."
"Not coming." I drape the throw over my head and curl up into a ball.  The light filters through the red material, giving only vague outlines.  But the air is stuffy. "I was lying."

"It's time."
I can barely breath around the lump in my throat. And this time, I will admit that it's tears.  I want to beg him to stay, there's so much more we could see, but I can't speak. Would I? There's no turning back now--move into the future or embrace empty memories.
He smiles and is gone.

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