Polaroids.

This is quite a short story about a girl who finds her box of Polaroids Pictures documenting her adventure with her childhood friend. She's taken back through the memories and the pain and the love.

I remember my excitement when I got my first Polaroid camera. I couldn’t stop dreaming about it. I knew exactly what I was going to use it for and I was well aware of its potential. The next time I went on a walk with Her, I couldn’t help myself. I snapped a Polaroid every time she looked away. She looked so beautiful. She was a tiny lone flower, contrasting perfectly with the background, beautiful, but the more you looked at it, the more fragile it got. It looked as if the next wind of seclusion would simply blow her away, carry her from her isolation and drop her somewhere else, just as alone. Her features were softened by the picture, making her look airbrushed. She looked almost sad, as if there’s something you could never see in her, unless you captured it. She was facing me, but looking at something toward the right, her eyebrows slightly drawn, and her short hair delicately falling from her ponytail. She looked so fragile. When I laid out the Polaroid in my hand, to give it a partial moment to dry, I almost couldn’t take my eyes off it. I don’t think I would’ve looked away if she wasn’t standing right in front of me. She looked up when the camera clicked and she looked almost hurt, but amused none the least. She looked at me as if she was planning her revenge. I threw my arm down and ran up and hugged her. It was as if the world around me evaporated. I couldn’t think of anything else other than her in my arms. If someone came up, and offered me the world, I wouldn’t take it. I’ve never felt more at home than that moment there, but we were both running from home, and we knew it.

She was a light in my life. The only person I could say ‘I love you’ to and truly mean it. I could pour my heart out to her. Sometimes it scared me to see her again because I knew she made me feel so complete, and when she wasn’t there, I couldn’t bear the feeling of not being whole.

I had a box. It was a light purple box with a gold sequence rim. For some reason, it reminded me of her. Purple is such an elegant color, it’s so similar to her. As long as she doesn’t try, she is gravely elegant. If she actually tries to be elegant, she trips over herself and is the clumsiest thing you would ever see. Just like the color purple, use it correctly and it almost twirls in front of your eyes, but add it to purposely make something graceful, and the opposite happens.

She had rough hands that didn’t quite fit in mine. That didn’t mean anything though. I tried to hold another and it just made me miss her. I couldn’t ever imagine holding another hand other than hers. She had a terrible slouch that just made the flower look as if it was in a totally different world.

Look at her when she’s looking away, and your breath is sucked out. Ask her to dance and then prepare for the hit when you fall in love quicker than you knew you tripped into it. What a clumsy dancer she is. We danced on a bridge to pop songs and we tripped over each other’s feet. She had no idea what she was doing. I laughed, but she seemed too consumed in the music to tell. I picked up my Polaroid camera, and caught her with those partially raised eyebrows and a small smile. Her hand reached toward the picture, asking your hand in the dance, and her other foot awkwardly poised, in a stance more ready for battle than dance. God I loved her.

 

I rummaged through the box and picked up another pile of Polaroids and held them close to my chest. I couldn’t help myself. It was as if a hole was dug into me. It was as if I didn’t know who I was anymore. I hugged them closer to my body and doubled over to where my head was touching the floor. I hugged my chest for dear life; I couldn’t let anything spill out. I had to hold on to something solid before I poured out into a pile of ashes, me being only a phantom of a person that people used to know. I hugged myself and my body racked from my sobs and wails and when I realized no one was going to run in and hug me, I cried harder. When I realized no one would ever know what pain I’m in, I cried harder. My ground was slipping away from me, I couldn’t hold on well enough. Oh dear, why did I look through this box.

                            

 

Another Polaroid of her writing a note. Just like the others, she was unsuspecting. She looked painted, as if there was no sign of emotion on her face, but the second you looked at her, you couldn’t help but be flooded with wonder of what’s on her mind. It’s almost as if her gentle expression was the strongest of all. It didn’t look pained; it looked accidental. It was as if she was trying to clear her mind from the cascade of thoughts. She was a flower before it bloomed. Something simple hiding something of full potential.

I remember it like such a good memory.

“Let’s go somewhere” I grabbed her hand and said it almost as if I was going to dash.

“Where.” She said simply. She didn’t ask why or what or when. It wasn’t a question. It was a ‘give me a signal and a direction and I’ll blindly run toward it with you’

“Away.”

Then we did. We ran. I grabbed her hand and we ran. We weren’t running toward or away for something.

We just ran.

We got to the stream. She pulled out her phone and started playing music.

Gosh, I love her.

I swung around my backpack. I took out the little notebook I carried with me. Secret: I planned this. I ripped us two separate pages and handed hers.

“Write everything you wished you would’ve said, done, everything you know you could never tell anyone, anything you wished you would’ve told someone, everything that you would never admit and hardly admit to yourself. Write everything that you wished you didn’t say and write secrets that make you feel vulnerable just writing them in public.”

“Why?” She asked. “I don’t know about you, but when someone commands me to write down earth-shattering secrets, I feel a bit hesitant.”

“We’re going to put it in a bottle and float it down the stream.”

“Where’s the bottle?” She asked flatly.

I scanned the stream with my eyes. Only someone like me would miss an important detail like this one.

          To my luck, thanks to the pollution of this self-centered, greedy population who only think what’s best for them, and would gladly trash their charitable earth without a second thought, I quickly found an empty beer down the stream. I walked down to get it and almost tripped and fell in.

          “Dude, be careful.” She called behind me.

Gosh, I loved her.

 

I retrieved the empty bottle and walked back up. I bowed my hand and laid it out in my hand.

“M’lady, from your knight in shining armor.”

“My lord and savior.” She responded, awkwardly patting the bottle with her hands, but not picking it up.

          I slowly stood up and laid the bottle next to me and smoothly sat down. I remember feeling proud of how smoothly I sat down. Honestly, my only talent.

          I took the pen and put the piece of paper in my lap. Then, I wrote. I wrote my little heart out. I wrote secrets that I couldn’t admit to myself and I wrote that I loved her. I started crying. I cried and wrote. The sun slowly set the the point we didn’t have any more light. By that point I had my piece of paper. I was amost hesitant to let it go, it was so much of me. I looked at Her. She was looking sadly at the stream.

          “Ready?” I asked her.

          “Ya.”

          “Wait, I know what’ll make it better.” I pulled out a lighter and smiled.     

“Okay” She said, returning my smile.

Them, in the dark, with only the small flicker of a lighter to guide us, we shoved the letters in the bottle. I found a stick and lit the end of it, shoving it into the bottle. It failed many times and I decided that it wouldn’t be spectacular enough, so I added all sorts of dried leaves and twigs. Finally, it caught on fire and I threw it in the stream.

It floated down the stream and our secrets were carried away. I looked at Her. Shadows danced and the light flickered and crossed her face. The more time went by, the dimmer it got, and the less I could see her. She was so beautiful. I turned back to watch the bottle and found her hand. She clenched mine tightly and in silence we watched the bottle float down gently. We stood there long after it was gone, up until it was scarily dark. Not dark enough for stars, but dark enough for the world to be consumed in shadows.

 

 

 

I clenched the Polaroids in my hand and wailed as I made my way to the kitchen. I was so angry at everything. I didn’t know what to do. I hurled a plate off the table and watched it fall and break on the floor. I screamed and threw the pictures on the floor. I couldn’t take this. I couldn’t take this. I picked up the shards and threw them. I fell onto my knees and wailed. I shakily stood up and went back into the room. Sobbing and sniffing deeply I put the lid back on the purple box.

That was enough for today.

 

It was one week until I removed the box from its shelf. From the first time, it dug a hole in me, and that whole was growing wider and swallowing me. I numbly took off the lid and decided to start from the beginning of the Polaroid pictures.

I set aside the two I already went through and continued. The next one was a very cliché. It was a picture of our feet on the roof. There isn’t much to that one other than the time we climbed on my roof when no one was home.

I almost started crying when I saw the next three. It was her dressed in an elegant dress with her hair up, a full face of makeup, and practically a ball gown. She had white gloves up to her elbows. One was her when she was in the bathroom, another was her in the parking lot, and the last one was us in a convenience store. We went around looking for toasters and having very intelligent conversations about them. We walked with our posture as straight as a bar, our arms resting on top of each other, our chins pointed high, and we walked like a bride. Step with your right foot then step with your left to where your right foot is. We walked around for about two hours and laughed when people shot us odd stares. We politely argued on a toaster and then picked one up and took it to the cashier. We bought a toaster and walked around for about another hour just carrying around a toaster. We got home and almost cried of laughter for what happened.

The next one made me laugh in-between my tears. It was a picture of her drawing stupid pictures with chalk at a public park.

The next one shot me in the heart. It was a picture of her looking so sad. Shite, that was one of the biggest fights we’ve had. I thought I really lost her there. I remember I pretty much failed my tests the next day because I stayed up late messaging her. I told her she couldn’t admit she was wrong and she told me she wouldn’t stick around with someone who hurt them. Eventually I gave out. It was crazy.

I fingered through the photos more, slowly at first then quickly. I got mad. I got mad at myself and the world. I picked up another picture, us on Halloween. Another one: us putting sticky notes all over our friend’s locker. Another one: us flipping off a sunset. Another one: of us making paper cranes. She looked so happy. Another one of us the weekend we failed at camping. We found the nearest gas station and pretty much bought it out.

Where is she? Why is she not in my life. It seemed like a completely different life. A life I closed off because I couldn’t take the pain of how it ended. I put bars around the precious part of my life. I haven’t even thought about it in forever. It was a wound that I ignored in hope that it would heal. F**k. I missed her so much. That’s it. I can’t live without her.

I looked through them again and I found another Polaroid of a succulent in front of her window. I remember that day. I cried in her arms while I poured out my heart to her. I told her of my past and I told her of things I never even thought to speak. I didn’t tell her secrets, I told her more. I told her things so hidden; they didn’t even the ‘don’t tell anyone’ label. She held me in her arms and told me we were going to be okay. My whole life, I just needed someone to say that. I hugged her, she was so wonderful. I loved her for what she did for me, and I loved her for who she was.

We were such lovely disasters.

I flipped through them again and found another one of a pen on a paper. This one took me a while to remember what it was.

It was a love letter to her. How cliché. It was saying how I would love her forever, even after she went to college.

Then, she started showing up less in my Polaroids. There was one of a flower, or a shoe, or a view. They were of a view of a sunset, or a city. I loved cities. But in some way, they were all about her.

She was going to go off to college, or at least she was trying to. She had so many portfolios and letters to mail in. She was trying so hard to get into the college she dreamed of. She was doing everything to pursue her dream. At that time, I wasn’t sure what I wanted to pursue, and I was really quite jealous of her. I wanted a goal to walk toward. It didn’t help that she would leave me. It’s much easier to leave than be left, because people who leave head toward a goal, already with something in their mind to replace the hole that was made when they left things behind. People, who leave, leave for something, while people who are left have to deal with the hole that was made when the person left. They need to stop and repair themselves before they move forward. Do you see the head start that leaving gets you?

 

I found another Polaroid of another letter.

It was one from my mother. That day changed my life.

It was a letter stating that after she left my father, and left me with him, that she left to New York. She said she was sorry, and if I wanted to come and stay with her, she has everything planned out. She said she never stopped thinking of me, and her biggest regret was leaving me behind. She said she had  a room for me and there was a very nice school. She said that a big reason she picked New York was because she knew how much I loved it.

I didn’t know what to do, my mouth went dry, and I remember feeling angry at her, sad, happy. I didn’t know what to do. Then, She popped into my mind. I didn’t know what to do, stay for her, or leave for something.

I wouldn’t have to ponder on it too long.

Slowly, I started to grow numb and my mouth dried as flipped to the last two pictures in the stack.

It was a picture of me. It was a picture of me on her bed looking down.

The last one was a picture of us. Hugging.

It was the last one.

That’s how our story ended.

All of the tears we shed, buildings we’ve vandalized, all of the people we’ve loved and screamed at, our troubles with our parents and family, and all our talks and past and secrets and all our reckless hobbies and all our unrealistic dreams and all our tears and wishes and screams into at the night and all the walks we went on and all of the music we danced to and all the times we’ve held hands or said I Love You. It all ends at that Polaroid.

That’s where my life changed. That’s where my life is split up in before and after. The day she took my picture, I got another letter from my mom. It said the offer was over. She was sorry, but her life picked up. She met someone and moved, and her life couldn’t accompany me in it. She said she loved me dearly, but she found happiness and she hopes that the same happens for me, and soon my life is filled with so much I’ll never give her a second thought. She said she loves me and that her biggest regret is always going to be not having me in her life. She said she’s sorry one more time, and the note ended, signed by her name in swirly letters.

I cried. I cried and screamed and ran and threw the letter and broke things, and I felt so very f*****g alone.

The next day is the day that my heart broke. We broke each other’s heart and our own because we loved each other too much. We cared about eachother more than we cared about ourselves, and we were so oblivious to how that would destroy us.

The next day we met in a coffee shop. We sat down and stared at each other. I took in a deep breath.

“I have to tell you something.” I said slowly.

“No need, in fact, I have news for you” She said with a smile and a tear slipped down her cheek. “You don’t have to worry about leaving me anymore, and you can go and live happily with your mother. I got accepted into the college.” She said with a smile, but her eyes had tears streaming down there.

The thing is, she didn’t get into the college. She said that so it would be easier to leave her.

And the thing is, I didn’t get the okay to live with my mother. I just said that so it would be easier for her to leave me.

“That’s amazing.” I said with a smile on my face and my own eyes deceiving me and tears streaming down my face. “I’m leaving for New York tomorrow. You know how much I love New York.” I laughed a bit, or wailed.

We both lied to each other, because we both didn’t want each other to feel pain. We loved each other to a point we ran ourselves in the ground. She never went to that college and I never met my mother, but we spent the rest of our lives thinking we made a small sacrifice for the other’s happiness, each of us bleeding in pain, thinking the other one was so happy. We both lied to each other because we loved each other.

We got up and hugged each other. A stranger walked by and we asked him to take our picture, but instead of looking toward the camera and smiling, we buried our crying faces in each other’s shoulders, trying to hide the pain. The problem was that we loved each other too much.

                                      And that killed us.

The camera snapped, the stranger set down the picture on the coffee table, and with that picture, it all ended.

 All of the tears we shed, buildings we’ve vandalized, all of the people we’ve loved and screamed at, our troubles with our parents and family, and all our talks and past and secrets and all our reckless hobbies and all our unrealistic dreams and all our tears and wishes and screams into at the night and all the walks we went on and all of the music we danced to and all the times we’ve held hands or said I Love You. It all ends at that Polaroid.

We walked our separate ways and didn’t look back. We sobbed for ourselves and smiled for the other one., trying to hide the pain that was eating both of us.

We walked out of the coffee shop and never turned back

And with that Polaroid,

                                      Our story ended.

Author's Note

It would be nice to get opinions and critiques on this. Also, this is the rough draft because I couldn't find the final. I worked really hard on it, and I mus have deleted it. Please critique.