This is going to be part of a series of little chapters in my attempt to finish a short story. Don't expect anything great out of this. It's a work in progress (obviously). For all intents and purposes, it would be great if you read this with the notion that it was written by a twelve-year-old, just so it'll stand a chance.
I'm also trying to play with the whole point-of-view thing. I usually write stories in third person, but our lesson in Lit is on P.O.V. and I kind of want to get into it. :-??
Chapter 1.
This shouldn't be happening, it shouldn't but you're not stopping. With Medicine playing in the background, I'd imagined there would be a whole lot more crying than whatever the hell it is we're trying to pull. Who'd have thought my leading you off the path would end in us tripping over ourselves and falling-rolling-laughing on top of each other, and to this depressing forest song, of all the things.
You pull yourself off the ground, dusting your pants off and getting the bits of wood off your shirt. "You were what?" You chuckle a bit as you offer me your hand.
I roll my eyes and try to stifle my own laughter, "There's nothing wrong with being a part of the Society of Misunderstood Self-Mutilators." I dustoff the back of my jeans, making sure I don't go around walking around with bits of earth staining my pants. "It was a great club!"
You shoot me that smile that falls somewhere in between you're-kidding and that's-stupid, which were the very first things I said when I first heard about it. "Aside from it being so badly named, nothing's wrong with it per se; but it's not the kind of thing you want to be advertising on your college application! Geez, did you have to."
We started walking again, "Stay out of my personal life, douchewad." I fumble around my messenger bag for my iPod and get the song on replay. I offer you the other earphone right before you start talking. I can hardly believe we're both still smiling.
"The fact that you're saying 'it was a great club' shows how much you didn't actually need it. Tell me, how great was the food at end of your meetings."
I laugh, "Dick." In all the times I've mentioned that club, I'd always expected someone to question the authenticity and function of it, but no one ever has. Once people hear "self-mutilator", it always seems to shut them right up. It was actually an easy way out of a bad conversation... 'Have you read that obscure book no one else knows about? The philosophical characteristics possessed by the main character with the horrible name was so well-incorporated with the plot.' 'Who was the main character again?' 'It was a thinking rock.' ... 'Did I mention I used to be in a support group for cutters?' That guy couldn't walk away from me fast enough. "Shouldn't we start looking for them?"
You just shrug me off, "Eh, they'll find us."
I reach click next on shuffle. "Are they even looking?"
You nod your head to beat of the song, "A very good point that I am choosing to ignore." By the looks of things, we aren't going to be found for awhile, seeing as there's no other human being in sight and we're in the middle of a bloody forest, but to hell with it. Our phones still have battery, I'm hoping, and we still have these songs to keep us busy. I play with my fingers as we walk.
I watch you for a bit, walking next to me and pretending not to notice that I'm watching every inch of you. You make a show of looking elsewhere and it pushed past obvious when the whistling started, but I ignore that. "Do you like running from things?"
You snap to attention, "What?" The song changed. "Running from things?"
I smile out of habit and look around, nagging myself for an explanation other than the one I've already got. "You just seem the type that likes to run." I shrug my shoulders and offer you another that's-just-how-it-is smile.
You recompose yourself. "I choose to think of it more as subjective ignorance, sort of like selective amnesia -- is that a thing?" You reach into my bag to for my iPod. Last Request, Paolo Nutini. "I love this song." I love this song too.
The vibe's been following us around for awhile now, way before we wandered into this non-hiker's nightmare. I don't know if I'm the only one sensing it but I feel a little bad that you haven't tried anything more than putting your arm around my shoulder. Despite the fact the thought of anything else makes me shudder, I feel a bit insulted that you haven't at least tried.
And then you start singing along to the chorus and I swear to all of mother nature that stand witness, that was both the best and worst thing I've ever heard come out of your mouth. On one hand, hearing you sing was sort of a once-in-lifetime-holy-shit moment. On the other hand, your song choice and timing to break that voice out is impeccable.
You smirk at me, indirectly. Technically, you're smirking at a tree, but I know that's meant for me. You can probably see me in awe in your peripheral vision. I have no idea what makes you think this is the best time to drop this bomb though: "Soph, I can't find my phone."
"It's okay," I feel around my pockets for mine. "I still... have..." I start patting every pocket on me. Nothing. I pull the earphone out and shove both hands in the bag. Come on, come on, be here. "Shit."
You offer me the earphone, "We're screwed, aren't we?"
"Very."
