Time... His Script is You and Me (A David Bowie Fanfic)

Waiting so long, I've been waiting so...

Hey guys!

I know its been ages since I last updated and I'm so sorry! Things in my life have been really busy but i'm on break now so I should be able to update way more often! Also: 2.7k reads??? THATS AMAZING THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH!!!

Do tell me if this isn't something you guys support, but would you be alright with a bit of swearing in my story? I've tried to keep it very PG, but I think it might be too unrealistic. Comment here yes or no.

TW: I will be swearing a little in this next chapter, but depending on the response, I'll see if I'll continue it!

Anyways, I will love you and leave you, here's the next chapter (and once again sorry for the wack uploading schedule)!

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I tried calling Melanie, again and again, each time attempting to think of valid excuses for my situation. But each time I called I was only met with a voice message and a deepening sense of despair.

I was so screwed! Logically, I knew a little diary couldn't technically prove anything, but it isn't something people just make up. And with all my disappearances, I wouldn't have been surprised if Melanie had even grown suspicious earlier. After reading that journal, Melanie would either be doubting my sanity, or have actually come to understand the truth that I time travel. Of which neither option really appealed to me.

After the fifth call and no reply, I decided I needed to try her in person, see if there was any way to salvage the situation.

***

I rapped on the door to Melanie's house quickly and heavily, and was still knocking as her mother pulled it open. Before I could even speak, the woman said "She's not here. She went - uh - out." Something I almost believed (after all, she could rationally have been and gone anywhere in the city), until I looked inside. Melanie's schoolbag, which she must have brought back after staying at my place, was in the foyer.

"Then what's that?" I asked, pointing to the bag. Her mum was stunned by my question, and stumbled over her words, trying to think of some excuse. I didn't care for rudeness as I squeezed past her mid-ramble and ran down the hallway to Melanie's room.

There I saw her - nose deep in my journal. She flicked her eyes up, expecting to see maybe her mother in the doorway, but instead found me. Melanie's gave me the strangest look - mouth agape and eyes widened - an expression of which I wasn't sure was disbelief or concern. It seemed a thousand thoughts swirled through her head, but she chose a rather mundane question, "Who let you in here?"

To be frank, I was rather annoyed. She STOLE my journal, and read it without my permission, and then asks me about her privacy? "Your mum did. Well, kinda. But that's not the point. Why did you steal my journal!? How much have you read?"

She replied, a tone of anger and judgement somehow in her voice, "All of it. And you have a lot of explaining to do. Are you alright in the head? I know you fantasised about David Bowie, but I never knew you would go to such extents as this! Florence, this is far more than an obsession, this is creepy. You are a c-r-e-e-p!"

She made extra sure that last line stood out by spelling it aloud. Every letter stang as the false accusations battered me. This was my best friend - the person who I had spent a wonderful evening with last night. And she was calling me a creep! Implying I'm mentally ill!

A whirlwhind of anger overcame me, and I shouted back at her, "Well guess - fucking - what, Melanie? I'm no creep! All the stuff in that journal, it is REAL! David Bowie loves me, and I time travel to him when I need him most. And he does so for me."

Melanie stood up, and as she was taller than me, fighting with her became a little more daunting. But I wasn't backing down. I had put all my cards on the table, told her the plain truth that I hadn't told anyone else before.

She looks at me and says, fake pity in her words, "Well, you're certainly delusional. Maybe that makes you more of a creep, maybe less, but I'm sick of putting up with your shit."

I took her insults, and started yelling back at her, while walking out of the room. Tears were now streaming down my face, "You know what!? David is a much better kisser than you ever were! Forget about last night, and whatever I thought we had. I don't-"

Now, I had plans to finish that sentence with another seething remark. But suddenly, I was hit with a wave of nausea. Pins and needles. I was knocked to my feet by this sudden feeling, and Melanie looked at me worriedly before I tried to run out the room. I had no clue what it would be like when I time travelled, and she didn't deserve to know the truth - much less see it in action - after what she had said today.

But just as I rounded out of her door and into the hallway, she exited her room with my journal in her hand. The last image before I blacked out was of the journal flying through the air, pages flailing everywhere, and Melanie's shocked face as she watched me disappear into thin air.

***

When I woke up, I couldn't see anything. It was pitch black - no seriously - I thought I still had my eyes closed as I tried to peer around. But I didn't have them closed. Wherever I was, they seriously knew how to blockout light.

Feeling the floors, they were cool concrete. And there was a foul smell in the air; one of bodies, BO and such. As if dozens of people had lived here for years, rubbing their scent everywhere, and decided to leave all of a sudden. Nobody was in here anymore, though it seemed it wasn't long since people had been. I was alone in some dark cellar, presumably back in the 1970s.

But then a light creaked through: a sliver of harsh electronic brightness that grew into a rectangular door-shape. I had to shield my eyes, as the sudden illumination was blinding. A silhouette walked in - a muscular man, holding a satchel. Reaching out into the darkness, the man tugged on one of those old pull-switch chorded lights and the room was bathed in the hazy yellow.

I could finally get a better view on what this man was doing: going through what looked like a bag full of money and other smaller plastic baggies. I didn't have to guess what was inside those little baggies: drugs.

Surprisingly, the man didn't even notice I was inside. Or, maybe he didn't care. Either way, I was ignored all together as this man was counting his cash and grabbing out a handful of the baggies. He checked his watch a few times, and seemed like he was waiting for someone.

I wasn't sure whether to announce my presence, or try to escape. But I decided against any action, because if this man was selling drugs I didn't know what kind of dangers he posed. Instead, I just had to hope he wouldn't notice me.

With the light on, I looked around and noticed I indeed was in a large cellar, with boxes stacked high by the walls. Cots with tubes and other machinery lined the grubby floors. Obviously, this place wasn't just somewhere to buy drugs. This was a drug den. This small revelation finally made sense of the smell and darkness. But the real question was: why was I here?

This was promptly answered by another figure appearing in the doorway. I had to stop myself from yelling out in surprise.

The man in the doorway was David. My David.

But he wasn't like I remembered him. Though it was only hours for me since I last saw him, it seemed as if years had passed for my Starman. And the last time he had seen me, obviously years ago for him, we had fought. He must have been waiting so long. I couldn't imagine the stress he must have felt, waiting every day if I would return.

His bright Aladdin Sane hair was long gone - replaced by a classic Elvis Presley-like quiff with blonde highlights at the front. He wore a suit, which hung on him very loosely - his body somehow managing to be even skinnier and frailer than I remembered. No, this was not the David Bowie that invented glam-rock, singing in sequins and makeup.

This was the Thin White Duke.