Is it ordinary to insinuate any details? It is natural for the mind to concentrate but I lost all the crashing waves I visualized. I laid my head to rest on the fabric carpet as I replayed the scenery. The texture is rough and silk; bright and authentic; and a spherical figure. Nowhere near the carpet of Harry—somehow it's the better version of Fiona's woken-up face.
I stumbled over the bed and felt the silence creeping up on me. As I uttered through the pillows, I woke up. As I turn sideways with jaw-sharped and constricted eyes, it's becoming like a daydream but it's dripping water outside the window. I unleashed on the mattress but there's a pressure that's restraining my veins from rising.
It's one of those dreams where I am near time and near present. Lights sneaking in the closet, I don't want to end up in another sleepless night. I weep slowly without bothering any shadow in the room. The conspiracy of my tears will always be my parents as I rearrange their silhouettes in the light. I can't keep running away from them but worst, when they couldn't approve of the idea of me being an author I seemingly continue to heal from it.
Things could've been easy if I were rich. A kid was dreaming of poor things until he implied objects of his imagination of them. I don't know how she grew up without coping with all of this. "You told me to throw the sandwich on the rusty floor," I said to her in a helpless place. "Out of all the places, this is where seagulls appear the most. It would be helpful not only but a delightful snack for their day. You have to learn to survive without telling people: 'You haven't helped others'," she said to me, grasping my shoulders with her mittens.
No footsteps but cold air flowing around the house without her around. I truly believe she would have left me a letter. A pen is missing, or perhaps she's losing time to write one. The ink doesn't reply so do her hands—I've brought myself to commitment. I would have understood the deal of my parents but I can't fully bring myself in line with it. Forcing that being an author denies my whole personality when in reality, I create a whole diversity of myself.
Horrible distance. I'd call you if I were on time, but Julie. I'd write a poem for you as I torched my pen over the sketch I drew earlier. I named you a horrible distance. You weren't a life support if I knew we'd fly to our own sides. I wept more. I told you, "Boys over there." But you reminded me that they were another horrible distance. I left in peace to sleep.
I woke up denying my mind. Clothes send me packets that I'm all sweaty and dizzy from the haze. I wish I could explain that I was in a fever dream but Jade comes inside.
She holds a pill and a glass of water, "Good, you're awake. Rode, this is prescribed so it's best to take it now."
"But I'm not feeling anything," I said, denying everything.
"Don't be stubborn. Words have been coming out and you have to make yourself better."
"I know but I am not feeling hot."
She tosses my hand on my forehead, "Better?"
"Not at all. How does fever work?"
She tosses a look, "How am I supposed to know? It's not a straight wipeout, isn't it?"
Was it because I was in the snow for a long time or was it because my clothes weren't thick enough? She left the room—the moment I took the medicine, probably to avoid being infected. It's a shame to be sick at a time like this.
YOU ARE READING
Friends
Teen FictionCharlie Rode is living his dream with his five friends, known as the "Lucky Five." Despite their different aspirations, they have grown together through agreement and argument. The story is told in two periods, one when Charlie is 13 and the other w...