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Literature Text
"Am I supposed to be happy, when all I ever wanted... It came with a price."
The next (and last) time Hope saw Julian it was at the viewing.
It was a very nice funeral (Mrs. McKinn had put a lot of effort into it). All of Julian's family was there. As were the band nerds, and the music teacher, and the entire GSA (all nine members, including Hope) and some miscellaneous people. Pink and yellow lilies were arranged into bouquets of elevens and tweleves, with sprays of baby's breath and ferns interlaced between the fragrant flowers. The coffin was cherry wood, (the grain tightly interlaced) and Julian rested on pink satin. Mourners shuffled passed it (some actual mourners others merely sad).
Hope tried not to scoff at the pink. Julian hated pink. Pink was a watered down version of red (the color of passion and love). It was nice to see everyone.
A note was struck. Hope recognized it as Gloomy Sunday by Seress (only because Julian had told her so). She looked about for the mystery pianist. Over in a corner, Mrs. McKinn was fooling around with a boom box. It was probably a CD of Julian playing (it was still distasteful).
Did it matter?
Julian had entered the second verse (did poetry still have verses when it was boxed into songs?) when Hope finally entered the line, behind a the schools only French horn player. A cross hung on a thin gold chain around her neck. Slowly they marched forward.
Julian had launched into Clair de Lune (Debussy, she'd loved him) when the hornist reached her coffin. She had stopped, tears streaming down her face.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." She whispered gripping her little cross (like it was hurting her). "I'm sorry, so sorry..."
Gently, Hope put a hand on the girl's shoulder. She looked up, tears still in her eyes. Hesitantly, at first she pulled Hope into a tight hug, before shuffling off. The gold cross still hung around her neck (no longer hurting her).
Hope turned her attention to Julian.
She'd been dressed in a slim black dress (it had always been Hope's favorite on her) which covered up her arms and thighs, but had left her pretty little calves uncovered (she'd been stupid).
Those sweet little calves were beginning to bloat now. She'd sat in water too long to look like she was just asleep (so stupid). It was a dangerous call to have a viewing (her face was too swollen to be Julian's. Those weren't her slim fingers). However, Hope was thankful.
"Good-night, love." She pressed her fingers to her lips, before offering them to Julian's own swollen lips in one last sweet kiss. "There was nothing wrong with you. Absolutely, nothing at all. I'll always love you, Jules."
She turned and almost ran into Mrs. McKinn (had her flaxen hair always curled around her chin like Julian's?) Hope spread her arms, the desire to hug the woman who she'd often been so at odds with bubbling up in her soul.
Mrs. McKinn raised an arm, her palm smacking across Hope's cheek.
"This is you're fault!" Her voice was drowning out Julian's gentle cords, "You did this to my daughter!" Her hand was still raised, as if to smack Hope again, "Everything was fine before you came along, you little whore!"
Hope felt herself scream. A phantom discord in Debussy's melody.
"Get out! Get out! Get out! You have no right to be here!"
Hope was chased out of the viewing, and the pink and yellow flowers and the moonlight, as a friend from the GSA and the hornist held back Mrs. McKinn.
Hope didn't stop running until she reached her room. She slammed the door closed (knocking her dry erase board to the floor in the process).
Still trembling, she picked it up, eyes running over all of the memories she's thumb-tacked to the board (a picture her and all her many cousins, a ticket to one of Julian's recitals, a particularly good drawing her seven year old sister had given her, a picture of she and Julian; strawberry-ice cream dabbed on their noses and cheeks after they had engaged in the only sort of war Hope could ever endorse, a collection of love letters Julian had written her, a post-card from the Met, snap-shots from a photo booth; which culminated in a kiss before the camera, a candid photo of Julian; her flaxen hair washed out by the sun, Julian, Julian, Julian).
In anger, Hope threw the board across the room.
She screamed, beyond words, beyond coherent thought, beyond tear, beyond the moonlight, and the girl with the flaxen hair.
"Am I supposed to be happy, when all I ever wanted... It came with a price."
The next (and last) time Hope saw Julian it was at the viewing.
It was a very nice funeral (Mrs. McKinn had put a lot of effort into it). All of Julian's family was there. As were the band nerds, and the music teacher, and the entire GSA (all nine members, including Hope) and some miscellaneous people. Pink and yellow lilies were arranged into bouquets of elevens and tweleves, with sprays of baby's breath and ferns interlaced between the fragrant flowers. The coffin was cherry wood, (the grain tightly interlaced) and Julian rested on pink satin. Mourners shuffled passed it (some actual mourners others merely sad).
Hope tried not to scoff at the pink. Julian hated pink. Pink was a watered down version of red (the color of passion and love). It was nice to see everyone.
A note was struck. Hope recognized it as Gloomy Sunday by Seress (only because Julian had told her so). She looked about for the mystery pianist. Over in a corner, Mrs. McKinn was fooling around with a boom box. It was probably a CD of Julian playing (it was still distasteful).
Did it matter?
Julian had entered the second verse (did poetry still have verses when it was boxed into songs?) when Hope finally entered the line, behind a the schools only French horn player. A cross hung on a thin gold chain around her neck. Slowly they marched forward.
Julian had launched into Clair de Lune (Debussy, she'd loved him) when the hornist reached her coffin. She had stopped, tears streaming down her face.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." She whispered gripping her little cross (like it was hurting her). "I'm sorry, so sorry..."
Gently, Hope put a hand on the girl's shoulder. She looked up, tears still in her eyes. Hesitantly, at first she pulled Hope into a tight hug, before shuffling off. The gold cross still hung around her neck (no longer hurting her).
Hope turned her attention to Julian.
She'd been dressed in a slim black dress (it had always been Hope's favorite on her) which covered up her arms and thighs, but had left her pretty little calves uncovered (she'd been stupid).
Those sweet little calves were beginning to bloat now. She'd sat in water too long to look like she was just asleep (so stupid). It was a dangerous call to have a viewing (her face was too swollen to be Julian's. Those weren't her slim fingers). However, Hope was thankful.
"Good-night, love." She pressed her fingers to her lips, before offering them to Julian's own swollen lips in one last sweet kiss. "There was nothing wrong with you. Absolutely, nothing at all. I'll always love you, Jules."
She turned and almost ran into Mrs. McKinn (had her flaxen hair always curled around her chin like Julian's?) Hope spread her arms, the desire to hug the woman who she'd often been so at odds with bubbling up in her soul.
Mrs. McKinn raised an arm, her palm smacking across Hope's cheek.
"This is you're fault!" Her voice was drowning out Julian's gentle cords, "You did this to my daughter!" Her hand was still raised, as if to smack Hope again, "Everything was fine before you came along, you little whore!"
Hope felt herself scream. A phantom discord in Debussy's melody.
"Get out! Get out! Get out! You have no right to be here!"
Hope was chased out of the viewing, and the pink and yellow flowers and the moonlight, as a friend from the GSA and the hornist held back Mrs. McKinn.
Hope didn't stop running until she reached her room. She slammed the door closed (knocking her dry erase board to the floor in the process).
Still trembling, she picked it up, eyes running over all of the memories she's thumb-tacked to the board (a picture her and all her many cousins, a ticket to one of Julian's recitals, a particularly good drawing her seven year old sister had given her, a picture of she and Julian; strawberry-ice cream dabbed on their noses and cheeks after they had engaged in the only sort of war Hope could ever endorse, a collection of love letters Julian had written her, a post-card from the Met, snap-shots from a photo booth; which culminated in a kiss before the camera, a candid photo of Julian; her flaxen hair washed out by the sun, Julian, Julian, Julian).
In anger, Hope threw the board across the room.
She screamed, beyond words, beyond coherent thought, beyond tear, beyond the moonlight, and the girl with the flaxen hair.
"Am I supposed to be happy, when all I ever wanted... It came with a price."
A response to 
's own fic, Am I supposed to be happy? Which can and shall be found here. [link]
Personally I don't think you need to read that to understand what is happening in this story, but it probably would be helpful to catch some of the allusions, and it's a good read. So hop to it.
If anyone believes this needs a warning, go ahead and tell me (personally I believe it's rather clean, most of the details are alluded to, but whatever)
I wanted to use a more poetic style than I'm used to. Partially because usually writes poetry, and I wanted to allude back to her piece (and other works) again.
Debussy =
(Even if Twilight used him.)
Gloomy Sunday = Rezso Seress
Clair de Lune = Claude Debussy
(my spell check doesn't recognize hornist.... :C )
's own fic, Am I supposed to be happy? Which can and shall be found here. [link]Personally I don't think you need to read that to understand what is happening in this story, but it probably would be helpful to catch some of the allusions, and it's a good read. So hop to it.
If anyone believes this needs a warning, go ahead and tell me (personally I believe it's rather clean, most of the details are alluded to, but whatever)
I wanted to use a more poetic style than I'm used to. Partially because
usually writes poetry, and I wanted to allude back to her piece (and other works) again. Debussy =
(Even if Twilight used him.)Gloomy Sunday = Rezso Seress
Clair de Lune = Claude Debussy
(my spell check doesn't recognize hornist.... :C )
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Comments15
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... I honestly didn't think it was possible... Two stories, written about two people, written by two different people... And both fit like puzzle pieces... It's a fantastic story... I'm glad you wrote it.