I really don't know how to explain this.
It's so strange and confused yet so not confused that it confuses me and makes me wonder how on earth it came to be.
Bittersweet was written shortly after the true events that inspired it, but somehow in the confused mess of things I couldn't decide on the form it was to take. And thus, I ended up with the story told in three different pieces: poetry, first person narrative, and third person narrative. I suppose we could stretch it a bit and add prose to the list but that's not really the point.
Actually, I'm not entirely sure what the point is at this point [insert confused shrug]. But I am remembering why I always stalled about sharing this piece. It still confuses me. I don't know what to do with it (still) so I've just left it be.
You will get the narratives today. The first person narrative is what the main character got out of her experience (which is told in the third person narrative).
I dedicate this to all the writers who know what it's like to be a story teller for so many voices. You people will totally get this.
And now I give you:
Bittersweet, And What We’d Like You to Think
This is what I think of, when I think of bittersweet.
It was early evening, a few hours before dusk. The party was
just getting started, but somehow, all the gaiety seemed out of place. I found
an excuse to leave a conversation and wandered away, walking down one of the
long hallways where only quietness mingled. Reaching the end of it, I turned
and walked back slowly to where everyone else was, my mind running too fast for
even me to keep up, jumping from one topic to the next. But it always came back
to this: it’s funny how when someone dies, everyone else around you seems to
matter more.
I poured myself another drink, my fingers growing cold again
as the chilled liquid filled the glass. Swirling the drink around, I mindlessly
watched it as it ran up the sides and back down into a mini vortex as my
thoughts wandered off elsewhere.
In all honesty though, if such a loss that leaves a bitter
taste would immediately be followed by the sweetness of knowing, I think I’d
take it, just for now. If all the years of not knowing were traded in for a
time like this, I suppose it’d be well worth it.
Leaning back against the counter, I looked back over the
crowd once again, raising the glass back to my lips.
Here’s to bittersweet.
(That's what we'd like you to think. Here's really what went down!)
“This is what I think of, when I think of bittersweet,” the
person murmured softly to herself.
Feeling poetic
tonight, are we?
Shut up. The
annoying part of her brain was turned on, and somehow, he always managed to
annoy her. It was alright though, as
most of the time he was the one who came up with all the amusing and brilliant
ideas.
“Are you guys alright?” she looked up to see one of the hosts
had come up to where she and a couple others were hanging out. “Can I get you
anything? Food, soda…beer?”
Beer is disgusting.
She made a face.
“Beer is disgusting. I don’t like it.” Pausing for a second,
she quickly followed up the blunt remark with a smile saying, “But I’m fine,
thank you. Just chilling.” He seemed amused.
“Well I’m going to go get another.”
And how many have you
had now?
“Go ahead, knock yourself out.”
“I will!”
He’s going to get
roaring drunk, the voice irrupted again. That must be the fourth; he’d have to down a few more, with less
than an hour between them. Then if my calculations are correct the blood
alcohol content will rise to…I need chocolate. There’s lots over there. Let’s
go get some.
I’m trying to think over here.
Brownies.
And not about
brownies.
What are they talking
about over there?
I’m not seriously
having this conversation.
Chocolate.
She walked over to the counter, picking up a couple bites of
snacks of the chocolate variety, eating while watching the crowd with interest.
Their mood was very different from what it had been earlier that day, but she
couldn’t say that she minded it at all.
It’s just strange.
Odd. Bizarre. Outlandish…
Look! A fly…on the
brownies. Shoo.
…ironic that…
Die, stupid fly.
…this fits the
description of bittersweet very well.
There’s even a
bittersweet chocolate cake over there. Look. For what she considered to be a masculine voice, he liked chocolate an awful lot. Momentarily distracted yet
again by food, her thoughts wandered off elsewhere for a moment.
Just a few hours earlier, a thick, heavy sense of sorrow and
loss had been enveloping the very group of people who were milling about,
conversing and enjoying each other’s company. They had all said their final
goodbyes to someone who was special to each of them in a different way, and
though it was said that none of them wanted it to be a depressing and sad
occasion, the sense of it always seemed to follow such times. It wasn’t until
they had left the place of farewell that the real celebration of a life well
lived was brought out, and there suddenly, it seemed right and easy to trade in
the voice of gloom for one of good cheer. Yet even so, it was all still bittersweet.
Beneath the sparkling eyes and smiling faces, one had lost a grandparent, the
other a parent, this one a best friend, and despite everything, it was still
there in the back of their minds.
It’s inevitable. It’s
human nature, perhaps even selfish nature to miss someone and even wish they
weren’t gone if they’ve gone to a better place. She had wandered away from
the crowd, and was slowly walking the long hallway back. It was easier to think without all the noise. Barefooted footfalls
made no echo along the dim, empty hall, but the sound of voices escaped the
partially open door to the other room and echoed faintly, running to meet her
as she made her way back. It was the time of evening when the sun is almost
done setting, nearly gone, but not quite. It threw a ray of sparkling golden
light into the dark place, glowing faintly as it slowly died.
Gone, but not
forgotten, she mused. Not to be left out, the ever so chattery voice started up with the uninvited input yet again.
Never. Wait, should I
be making up metaphors of sunsets?
You’re ruining it, she scolded.
That’s a terrible
metaphor.
It’s not even a
metaphor.
Obviously not.
That shadow looks
creepy.
Coming back into the brightly lit room took a few blinks to
readjust her eyes to the light. Picking up the glass she had set down on her
way out, she filled it again, fingertips growing cold as the chilled drink filled
the glass. Leaning back against the counter, she scanned the crowd again,
raising the glass back to her lips.
Here’s to bittersweet.
…Dude, you know what
would be awesome? Fictionalizing this whole thing and making it into a short
story!
