Fan Fiction ❯ October the Seventh ❯ Not All Wishes Come True ( Chapter 2 )

"It is my deepest wish, Isabella, that we may be together like this…always..." He sighed, stroking my hair affectionately. "Is it not a pretty wish?"

"Beautiful," I said softly, tightening my grip on his hand and pulling him close so that I could speak into his ear, "Do you wish to know my deepest wish?"

He smiled, laughing, "Yes."

"It is exactly the same, and that you can be my own forever." I felt him tense up and squeeze my hand tight.

"Yes, it is a pretty wish…" he sighed, then added softly, "but not all wishes come true."

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3:45. I sit alone, shivering with fright. The memories fly back into my mind, those filled with pain, anger, and his face. Memories I thought I was rid of. Memories that cannot be killed with medication. At this point I'm still not sure what triggered my dream, a dream filled with what used to be my life. Nathaniel Colgrove.

Tear out my heart and leave me to bleed

As long as you promise to come back for me

I glance down at the music box on the floor, sliding out of bed. Bits and pieces lay scattered at my feet, shattered pieces of a mirror glimmer in the darkness. I feel them sink into my feet as I walk across the floor, towards my bathroom.

The sudden pain surprised me, though after a few brief seconds, I disregard it and continue walking. I flip the bathroom light on, staring at my reflection in the mirror. My soft brown hair hangs tangled and ratty at my waist, my green eyes heavy with lack of sleep.

Say the words and I'll die beside you

In life that I loved, in death I shall guide you

I become frustrated with my reflection, though I do not think that girl ugly, she does not accurately represent my feelings, therefore she cannot be me. But she is. It's unfair how we do not have the ability to mold our own bodies, become whatever we desired. If I could choose I would be the butterfly. I would live and I would die, and no one would notice the difference. Some would note at my fleeting beauty, and then forget me. That's how I feel now. That's how I've always felt.

That girl is simply…a girl. I have no connection to her other than the fact that she is my face. She is youthful, maybe beautiful, everything I've never felt. It tortures me to look at her, her face seems so somber, apathetic, meanwhile the storm of conflicting emotions rages on within her, and she cannot even bring herself to cry. She isn't real, not to me, at least.

I glance down at the floor and note at the bloody footprints leading from the edge of my bed to exactly where I'm standing. I lift my foot up, glancing at the bottom.

But nothings wrong. There isn't even a mark, or cut, or any sign that the blood is my own.

I glance back into my room, the broken glass is gone, as though it were never there. But the footprints remain. I feel my hands shaking, I'm terrified. What can this mean…that it was all an illusion. I felt real pain, brief pain, but real nonetheless as the glass cut into the bottom of my feet. I watched the music box break, the glass scatter…but there seems to be a lack of proof that I had done any of those things.

I feel an icy chill moving in my room, and sense it there, a dark aura. I move cautiously across the room, back toward my bed, with my hands stretched out before me. The bathroom light flickers, fades, and then there is dark. I feel a sharp pain in my knees as I smash it into the side of the bed. I wince, stifle a cry and then flop onto my bed, clutching my knee.

For a long time I lay in the silence, watching the clock. I feel my eyes closing, sleep embracing me.

"Isabella."

I sit up in bed, startled by the sudden speaking of my own name. I lift my hand in the darkness, searching for the speaker. I catch only air in my hands, not flesh, nothing. I feel my body begin to shake, the blood draining from my face.

He's….he's here.

"Isabella," the voice comes a second time, and I feel hot tears sliding down my cheeks. I recognize his voice. Nathaniel, Nathaniel Colgrove, three years dead.

I open my mouth to speak, feeling my unused vocal cords crackling as I struggle to speak. "Hello? Nathaniel…." The words scrape against my vocal cords, and for a moment, it seems like they're bleeding. I wince. These are my first words in over three months, I haven't spoken since they brought me here.

I feel the dark presence move within the darkness of my room, sliding silently from a distant corner to the foot of my bed, closer, to my side. I can almost feel his cool breath on my neck. He says nothing, and I sit, shaking, waiting for something…anything. I feel a ghostly hand touching my arm gently, brushing

A florescent light flickers, buzzing loudly and then, with blinding light, illuminates my room. Or at least, that's what they call these stupid little hell holes, almost like a home away from home. They try to fool us into thinking we're on vacation and not rotting away in a loony bin. They've never fooled me.

I feel the presence of Nathaniel dissipating, and then there is nothing, nothing but me, clutching at my white bed covers and anxiously trying to warm my freezing body. I touch my face feeling warmth returning to my cheeks, my heart beating once again at a normal pace.

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People say things, things they think you can't hear, just because you're not standing there when they say it. They think they have all these wicked little secrets…but it's so easy to see, just by the looks on their faces. Their prodding eyes, their exchange of worried glances…they think I'm crazy.

They say that he was everything I had, and after loosing him…especially like that…I snapped.

I try not to listen. I don't want to believe them…they say I'm in denial, and they just might be right. But it's easier to dismiss these last three years as a dream.

The thought of maybe waking up one day keeps me alive.

Thank God for denial. Without it, so many souls would be lost to despair…including my own.

No, it's easier to imagine him there, sitting beside me, then except the truth about his death. In fact, I hardly ever think of it as death. He now exists in a state in which only I can feel him, touch him, hear his voice.

And they might think I'm crazy, but it is very real to me. Reality means different things to different people. If it were you who was haunted by the circumstances of his death….if it were you who could not rid his face from your mind…if it were you who heard only his words in the center of a crowded room….you would think it was real. You would know right away that nothing like this could ever be a pigment of your imagination. You would know that you are not capable of imagining such horrible things. I can never be rid of him. I've accepted that.