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Hi, my name is Emily
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 | Heartless [1] |
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 4.89 with 9 vote(s)
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| Created: 2009-07-26 21:31:31 |
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A/N: Well, here it is. Part 1, I hope you like it. I know it is slightly boring, but I promise you, it gets better. Well, at least I hope. Anyway, enjoy. Oh, and when she remembers things she is still in first person but doesn't have the second person "you" thing with Andrew like usual... Look, I don't know how to explain it, but it is sort of different. Anyway, enjoy, and if you haven't read the prologue yet, I suggest you do that first.
Memories are scattered over the edge of my mind, slipping in and out of the deep parts of my heart. I cannot be sure which ones I treasure over the others. As I sit on this rusty bench, Andrew, my thoughts of you are forever changing. As I wonder where you are at the moment, I know that it wouldn’t matter if I knew. You’re nothing more than the deep emotions of your former self. You’re no more than what I will be soon.
And so the hatred for me is what holds you up now, keeps you living. As I sit here, Andrew, look at the tears falling down my face. I’m an idiot for letting him come over here at this moment, like every other moment, brandishing a sword, aren’t I? I’m an idiot for letting him stab the sword through my heart, creating yet another hole. Each hole takes another part of my living form away. Each hole takes away the not-so-deep areas of my soul.
It hurt at first, Andrew. I bet it hurt for you at first too. But you, like I, had struck a deal with him, and so he was allowed to stab holes through your heart too, Andrew. After a while, of course, it no longer hurts much. Eventually, I know that it won’t hurt at all. And then, he’ll let me go. I won’t come back ever. There would be no point in coming back.
I feel the pain as once again he strikes the sword through my heart. The 43rd hole now, he chuckles darkly. I don’t laugh with him. It hurts, even if only a little after all this time. I am grimacing. And now, I remember something, Andrew. One of my precious memories of you is coming to me. I remember the first time I ever met you, at Gold Rush Middle School...
***
“Hi!” I called to Kelsey. Turning, she waved at me, and mouthed for me to come over to her locker. It was our third day of 8th grade.
Smiling cheerfully, I walked over to her, holding my books in my hands. “So, did you finish the English assignment Mrs. Deb assigned us last week?” I asked her.
Shaking her head, she said, “Nope. I got out of having to do it.” She was practically beaming with pride at this.
I stared in amazement at her. “You got out of it?! But how?! How did you get out of it, and that Spanish project last week as well?”
“Oh, I have my ways,” Kelsey replied airily, a taunting smirk on her face.
“Let me guess, a doctor’s note?” I replied, glaring viciously at her. Confound that lucky Kelsey Bright, my best friend in the whole world!
Nodding, Kelsey said, “As you know, my father is a doctor. Seeing that I have been having trouble with getting my homework done, going to afterschool activities (like soccer), and still maintaining an excellent social life, he decided to step in and get me out of a few things for once.” Flipping her hair over her shoulder, Kelsey smiled all queen-like down at me.
Watching her, I fumed about, waiting for her to grab her books. Then, she and I burst out giggling and walked like royalty to homeroom.
Later that day, it was seventh period. Soon the school day would be over, and I would be released from this prison. Right now, I was in gymnastics. Gold Rush Middle School had added gymnastics to their list of P.E. classes when I was in 6th grade, after getting lots of cash from a fundraiser, enough to pay for another class and all of the equipment needed for it. I had first tried gymnastics last year in seventh grade with Kelsey and found out that I loved it. Kelsey, on the other hand, preferred tennis, and so this year I was taking gymnastics without her. Of course, I still found it fun, and some of the girls in the class had become my friends.
I stood on one of the platforms, doing various back flips. It was the end of the class period, and our gymnastics teacher, Miss Elmwood, was letting us kind of do our own thing for the last ten minutes of class. Performing cartwheels on another platform was one of my newfound friends, Hannah Finley. “I bet I can do a cartwheel better than you,” she challenged me.
Grinning, I called back to her, “You’re on!” Then, we both performed cartwheels at the same time, and suddenly I found my hands on empty air. I had forgotten that there was not enough room for such a cartwheel on that narrow platform. As I tumbled off and fell on the mats below, part of my arm smacked against a section of hard, exposed gym floor. I heard a sickening, CRACK!, and then all was silent as everybody else in the gym stared at me.
A new friend of mine along with Hannah, Jane Court, spoke up. “Well, don’t just stand there gaping at her! Someone go get Miss Elmwood!” Immediately, every student was rushing to Miss Elmwood’s office to get her out here, while Jane and Hannah stood by me, unsure of what to say.
“You say that Emily fell off one of the platforms? Hit her arm? Well, make way then! Move!” Miss Elmwood grunted. She was a middle-aged woman who had never gotten married, and had once been a famous gymnast. As she approached me, I saw her stare at my arm. Then she was crouching by it, and lifted it, examining it. I winced as she did so, it hurt. When she was done inspecting my arm, she set it gently down on the floor again. “Her arm is sprained, I believe. She certainly smacked it hard. Now, make room while I take her to the nurse.”
The nurse was soon telling me that I was lucky and my arm wasn’t sprained, but she patched up a cut on it and told me that I should be careful on it for the next few days. After that, she said I could leave. The last school bell had already rung, and my mom would be waiting for me.
Stepping out of the nurse’s office, I was walking down the hall toward the front doors of the school when I saw a boy, probably an 8th grader like myself, struggling with a stack of papers.
“Do you need any help?” I asked as I walked up to him.
Turning to me, he replied, “Yes, please, if you would take half the stack that might be easier.” Nodding, I accepted half of the stack of papers from him, and saw him immediately become steadier.
“So, where are these papers supposed to go, anyway?” I said, following him down one of the halls.
“Miss Norbert’s room, I often help her out afterschool and she asked me to deliver these papers to her classroom,” the boy explained. Miss Norbert was an 8th grade English teacher. So now my guess that he was an 8th grader had been proved.
As we set down the papers on Miss Norbert’s desk, I turned to him and asked, “So, what’s your name?”
“Andrew Cleves,” the boy replied. “And yours?”
“Emily Hinder,” I replied with ease. As I headed for the front doors and Andrew headed off to do another task for Miss Norbert, we told each other what classes we were in and agreed to sit with each other at lunch the next day. Then, I headed off to go home.
***
As the memory flickers through my mind, I can’t believe how easy and simple everything was then. How happy and cheerful we both were, Andrew. I can’t believe what happened later on...
No, I won’t remember it right now. Oh, Andrew. I know that you can never forgive me, but I will find you. When he is done with me, and lets me go, I will find you. No matter what it takes. |
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I love this story
Hey if u want, cud u read Ashes of Life of mine?