SheWhoLovesPineapples
Well-Known Member
Author's Note: Heya! This is just an angst-y contestshipping one-shot I wrote a while ago... it's not very good IMO, then again, I'm prejudiced against myself...
Yeah... well, I support contestshipping on BOTH sides but I just had to write this... it's sort of OOC I guess...
Enjoy!
000
I'm holding another rose in my hand. Another rose from you. Another rose that makes my face red both from flattery and anger. All of them have come that way.
Sometimes I don't get it. Why are you so cruel to me? What reason did I ever give you to not like me? And... why do you always like to make me angry? Sometimes when I'm with you, you'll look at me and I swear I see affection in your eyes. Sometimes, when we're about to part ways for a few weeks, I'll think everything is going well between us. But then after a month or two I see you again. And nothing has changed. You're still cruel.
And I just don't get it. Why am I the target of all your cruelty? Was it because I almost hit you with a Frisbee? How could something like that make such a negative impression on someone? Yet – what else could it be?
Mom once told me that teasing is how boys show affection, and since they don't understand that girls don't do it that way, they can accidentally hurt the feelings of the girls they know. As I grew older, I started to see that it was true. But no matter what consoling story Mom tries to feed me this time, I know this is different. Boys tease each other by calling each other ugly and all that. And then they both laugh. Can't you see that I'm not laughing? You must – you know exactly how to word things so that they hurt. And you never seem to feel the slightest bit of remorse after you say them.
In a way, it's not even the words that get to me. It's who they come from, really. It's knowing that to you – the one I admire so much – I am nothing but a toy. That you think it's great fun to see me embarrassed and hurt, especially when you are the cause of those feelings. You like it. You don't care about me.
No one – not Mom, Dad, Ash, Brock, Max, or maybe even you – can ever understand how much that hurts.
Sometimes, I realize, not even I understand how much it hurts. I don't want either of us – you or me – to know. So I don't let it show. I take my heartbreak and turn it into anger, my sobs into screams of rage. I force my hands to remove themselves from my face and ball into fists. Then, when I'm alone, I punch my own legs so hard it hurts. Yet it feels so good. The anger soothes me, telling me that it doesn't matter that you don't care about me – because I don't care about you, either.
And, for a moment or two, I can believe it.
But not anymore, Drew. I have to face it. You don't see me the way I see you. I'm not entirely sure how you do see me, but I know it's not the way I want you to. And now I realize it was probably that way all along.
I've become aware of something cutting into my skin. A thorn. It must have torn through the glove. It doesn't really hurt – just stings a little. I should be more careful holding roses from now on.
A drop of blood trickles down my finger, staining my glove. At the same moment, I catch a whiff of the flower – a sweet, familiar scent.
Funny how something can cause such pain and pleasure in the same moment.
Never again will I be able to think of a rose without seeing your face, Drew. For it is, in more ways than one, a symbol of you.
Yeah... well, I support contestshipping on BOTH sides but I just had to write this... it's sort of OOC I guess...
Enjoy!
000
I'm holding another rose in my hand. Another rose from you. Another rose that makes my face red both from flattery and anger. All of them have come that way.
Sometimes I don't get it. Why are you so cruel to me? What reason did I ever give you to not like me? And... why do you always like to make me angry? Sometimes when I'm with you, you'll look at me and I swear I see affection in your eyes. Sometimes, when we're about to part ways for a few weeks, I'll think everything is going well between us. But then after a month or two I see you again. And nothing has changed. You're still cruel.
And I just don't get it. Why am I the target of all your cruelty? Was it because I almost hit you with a Frisbee? How could something like that make such a negative impression on someone? Yet – what else could it be?
Mom once told me that teasing is how boys show affection, and since they don't understand that girls don't do it that way, they can accidentally hurt the feelings of the girls they know. As I grew older, I started to see that it was true. But no matter what consoling story Mom tries to feed me this time, I know this is different. Boys tease each other by calling each other ugly and all that. And then they both laugh. Can't you see that I'm not laughing? You must – you know exactly how to word things so that they hurt. And you never seem to feel the slightest bit of remorse after you say them.
In a way, it's not even the words that get to me. It's who they come from, really. It's knowing that to you – the one I admire so much – I am nothing but a toy. That you think it's great fun to see me embarrassed and hurt, especially when you are the cause of those feelings. You like it. You don't care about me.
No one – not Mom, Dad, Ash, Brock, Max, or maybe even you – can ever understand how much that hurts.
Sometimes, I realize, not even I understand how much it hurts. I don't want either of us – you or me – to know. So I don't let it show. I take my heartbreak and turn it into anger, my sobs into screams of rage. I force my hands to remove themselves from my face and ball into fists. Then, when I'm alone, I punch my own legs so hard it hurts. Yet it feels so good. The anger soothes me, telling me that it doesn't matter that you don't care about me – because I don't care about you, either.
And, for a moment or two, I can believe it.
But not anymore, Drew. I have to face it. You don't see me the way I see you. I'm not entirely sure how you do see me, but I know it's not the way I want you to. And now I realize it was probably that way all along.
I've become aware of something cutting into my skin. A thorn. It must have torn through the glove. It doesn't really hurt – just stings a little. I should be more careful holding roses from now on.
A drop of blood trickles down my finger, staining my glove. At the same moment, I catch a whiff of the flower – a sweet, familiar scent.
Funny how something can cause such pain and pleasure in the same moment.
Never again will I be able to think of a rose without seeing your face, Drew. For it is, in more ways than one, a symbol of you.
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