Monochrome Rain - Prologue
Posted January 28th, 2013 by TheAshWolf
I've never actually written a Realistic Fiction Story.
(READ: I have no idea what I'm doing. XD)
So...yeah. :^| This is horribly short. I'll probably go back and make this Prologe longer in a couple weeks. Meh.
HERE GOES NOTHING! XD If all of the sudden everyone in this developes superhuman abilities, that means I snapped and could no longer take the realitstic world I'm now working with. Derp.
(....Why are all my Prologues so depressing? ._. I just noticed that.)
A/N as of 04/04/2013: Decided to clean this up a little bit, especially the last couple paragraphs. ^_^
by Ashley Briarwolf
I’m sick of reading stories about a “chosen one” who goes on some kind of epic adventure. I’m sick of reading events told through the eyes of the extraordinary people. I mean, you never see the chosen one’s lackey writing about their adventures. It’s always the heroes that tell the story.
Is it just that heroes are the only ones motivated to write? I don’t know. All I know is that I’m anything but a hero. I’m just a person. For the majority of my life, I’ve been normal. Average. Predicable. Blissfully ignorant. But someone came along and changed all that.
This is what’s on my mind as I run my hand over his coffin. His horribly plain, unpolished, closed coffin. It makes me realize what a coffin really is—a box. The dead don’t need flowers. They don’t need fancy clothes to be buried in. They don’t need to be embalmed. They don’t need silk bedding or pillows in their coffins or anything else. They’re dead. They don’t care. Funerals are for the living. I mentally curse Roy for teaching me to be more realistic and less sentimental.
I feel a sob rattle up my windpipe and threaten to choke me with tears. I cover my mouth with my hand placed in an awkward angle, not wanting to touch my still swollen lower lip. I feel the bruises on my arms and face beginning to ache again.
This isn’t fair, I think, my selfish streak reviving itself.
He was gone. I wanted to pull him close to me, feel that he still exists, but he just wasn’t around anymore. His body was, but his mind, his voice, his personality, they were simply gone.
As I shuffle back to my seat and sit down, I wish we would have had more time together, that he could have understood that I loved him. I wonder if he loved me back. If he did, he certainly never showed it.
I hear soft footsteps behind me. Someone places their hand on my shoulder. I wish it was his hand. I wish it was him coming to tell me that he’s not dead, that it was all some kind of crazy mix-up at the hospital morgue.
I turn around to face the person. His eyes are blue, but not the shade of blue I was looking for.
I silently wish I could go back to seeing the world as a dull, simple place. It hurt to be so aware. It hurt that I would miss looking into his dark blue eyes. Part of me doesn’t want to see all the colors anymore, so I can’t tell the difference between anyone’s eyes.
© 2013 Ashley Briarwolf. All rights reserved.
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