#13 by lill_sweetty - Mar 25 2008
Ugh. So I tried implementing some advice, but I think it ended up sounding like a sappy love story. But hey...I'll keep going until the end! *Fight! Fight!* Yeah, there'll be a 3rd part. Because I don't want you guys to wait too long. And the Randy scene came out longer than expected......
More tense mix-up, I'm sure. Point it out if necessary. I'm still trying to rework the beginning sequence of the 1st part. How about if Randy and Chris come. One to visit Lucy as she packs up, and another to see his sister? (That's lame, but yeah...That's all I could think of.)
So, yeah, continuation of Fatal Hearts fanfic. As always, constructive criticism about the plot loved. Feel free to point out grammar mistakes, too. There are lots, I’m sure…Sorry for taking so long, btw, and hope you still remember the last part. ^^ Have fun reading.
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When I wake up the next morning, my eyes are swollen, as if I was bitten by a bee. My mom frowns when she sees me. The kitchen is all cleaned up now, thanks to my mom. As I walk past her, I can feel her eyes following me, silently asking why my eyes are swollen and why was the kitchen such a mess. Despite wanting to, I can’t tell her. Instead, I reach for a bowl of cereal.
I eat, but it’s tasteless—as if I am eating sand or sawdust. It’s uncomfortable silent, and before long, my mom leaves for work, to my intense relief.
I wanted to call Lucy, and yet I can’t bear to tell her what happened between Bastian and I. Memories of last night floods back, but I suppress them, pushing them far, far away. I don’t want to think about. I can’t think about his feelings, or my—no, Kirsten’s, not my—feelings.
The doorbell rings suddenly, and I jump. A quick glance at the clock told me it was eight o’clock. Who could be so early? Hesitantly, I stand up. I will it not be Bastian—and yet a part of me will it to be Bastian. I hate this life, torn between two parts of me. I didn’t even know myself anymore!
When I finally look at the peephole, my heart sank. It was Katie, beautiful and vibrant now, no longer a pale, lifeless ghost. She stares into the peephole resolutely, her face set. I dread opening the door, but there is no choice. Slowly, the lock turns and the door creaks open.
We stare at each other—her intensely, while I try my best to not look away. I’m so wary of the entire thing, I just want to run away.
Instead of doing what I wish, I instead tell her, “Come in.â€