Memory Of A Girl (or `Brooke's Chair')

Author: Megan

Disclaimer: Characters are not mine. They belong to other people.

Email: shy_grrl@hotmail.com

Archive: http://www.realmoftheshadow.com/megan.htm (My eternal gratitude to Kim for saving my stories from oblivion)

Summary: Sam's memories of a lost love.

Author's Notes: A kind of a companion piece to `When You Came Back'. There was this short memory-section in it. This one kind of tangents off from that. It's very short, silly, and most definitely confusing.

It can be almost anything that sets it off. A picture. Or a scent. Sometimes just a single word, said in the right place. It can be a brief thought, which passes through my head in less than a second. And in that time, it can still trigger the most powerful memory flashes. It can even be the taste of certain foods. Grapes for example. You liked grapes.

"God, Brooke", I say to you, "Eat something."

You smirk, and flip another grape into your mouth, "I am eating", you say, and turn to read the paper again.

I liked watching you read. You always wrinkled your brow so adorably. Like reading was some huge effort to you. Or like you couldn't believe, what you were reading.

"What?", you ask, when my eyes have lingered on you for too long.

My heart is pounding, when I open my mouth to answer, "Brooke...", I say.

These kinds of flashes are always too raw. And fierce. I'm left reeling in their wake. Sometimes they aren't even memories. More like hallucinations.

"What already?", you ask, annoyed by the repeated interruptions.

I get up, and walk around the table, up to you, "This", I whisper hoarsely, and lean down to kiss you.

The girl in them looks like you, sounds like you. And, at times, even acts like you. But it isn't you. Cause other times she does things, I know you didn't ever do. At least, not in my presence. And then how could it be a memory?

"Quit it, Sam", you say, ducking away from me.

"Why?", I say angrily, and straighten my back again.

Sometimes I'm afraid of the flashes. If they happen too often. There is such strength in them. They draw all energy out of me, and I'm helpless in front of them. Just like I was helpless in front of you.

"Because", you answer. You're staring straight into my eyes, and for a short moment, there's a power struggle between us. You win.

"Because is not an answer", I still try. It's pointless though.

"Why is not a question", you counter, and return to the paper.

Sometimes, when I lose an especially important memory, I cry. For hours. Not necessarily aloud, nor visibly. But inside. I'm screaming at you. Begging for you. To, please, stop. To, please, stay.

"Why can't I kiss you?", I ask, trying not to sound as hurt as I am. You don't answer anymore. You leave.

***

There's a chair in your room. A cushy, white armchair. Your favorite chair. Where you sat hours on end. It faces your bed, where I used to lie. Hours on end.

You smile when I enter. You've lifted your feet up on the chair with you, "Sammy", you say.

"Hey", I return your smile, and flop down on the bed.

You would watch me sometimes, and talk of funny things that happen in life. Weird things you'd read about, or had seen on tv. Or had just plain experienced yourself. Us being the funniest of them all.

"You're in my bed", you say, like it's something new. It's your adorable way of acting coy.

I keep grinning at you silently for a moment, "So I am", I reply.

"Where am I supposed to sleep then?", you ask, and frown.

I come into your room alone now. I lie in your bed, and stare at your empty chair. Sometimes you appear, sometimes you don't. It's not up to me. But the thing about the chair is, you're always happy in it.

"I'll make room", I'm still grinning. And soon you'll be grinning too. In your room you're confident, and strong. Willing to love me, and show it, "I mean, it's not like you take up a lot of space."

You open your mouth in mock outrage. In your room, you're even willing to take criticism, "Shut! Up!", you scream. And you laugh. And I laugh too, and try to evade the flying magazine, that's heading my way.

If I close my eyes, and concentrate real hard, you sometimes leave the chair and join me in the bed. I can even feel your touch. On my face. On my neck. Moving down my body. I can feel your hands undressing me.

"Move then, you whale", you say, "I'm tired", you climb into the bed, and turn to lie with your back towards me.

I lift my hand, and caress your neck lightly, "You know, I didn't really come here to sleep, Brooke", I say.

"Yeah, well...", you mumble, and slide on your back. There's a wicked grin on your face when you look at me, "Tough luck, cause I did."

Even in the good memories you control everything. Just like you did when you were here. But with the good memories, it doesn't really matter.

You bring your hand up to my face, and with the tips of your fingers, trace the skin of my cheek, "When I grow up, I'm gona marry you, Sam", you say.

"Is that a proposal?", I ask, leaning closer to you.

"Yes", you whisper after a short silence. Our mouths are only an inch apart.

If only we could've lived our lives in your room. You wouldn't have gone then. And I wouldn't have ended up like some junkie, living only for those short moments of satisfaction.

"Then yes", I whisper. And kiss you.

For the moments, when you come to me.

< end >

Thanks for reading,
Megan