cute-swimming-blonde asked: Smee and Lock are slipping off the edge of a cliff. You can either save one and live, or save both but you slip off and die instead. What do you do?

I know it’s hard for you to fucking fathom I can be a self-less person, I have my moments. And in a moment like that, I would die. Without a doubt. I would die for them. 

cute-swimming-blonde asked: smee has passed away

There had been no warning. 

In fact, she’d been having a good day. Her mood had been great for her, and tolerable for those who tried to associate with her. The weather had been rainy, which always put her in good spirits, and the idea of going back to her dorm and catching a few extra z’s had been teasing her since third period. And she had been on her way to do just that, when she got the news.

Tearfully approached, the words were uttered between thick swallows and sympathetic glances. 

Smee was dead.

Her initial reaction was to punch the jerk right in the face. ‘Cause how dare he? How dare anyone ever lie to her like that? Did they like to rip her life apart? Was it a game to them? The jerks. The low-life scum. 

Feet pounding pavement, she’d dashed in a blur of pale limbs and golden hair back to her dorm, grabbed her cell phone, and dialed Smee’s number.

“Pick up pick up pick up pick up.”

Voice mail.

Frantically, furiously, she dialed again. 

No answer. 

By the fifth call, she’d left a message, and by the tenth she had left four. No answer. No call back. No angry, familiar voice cussing her out for calling so many times. Not even a “wtf” text message. Absolutely nothing.

“Scum!” She shrieked, throwing her phone at the floor, disregarding it as the screen shattered. The phone was the first of many things to break that night; in a fit of rage, she tore apart her dorm, until the room was as unrecognizable as her emotions. The last thing to shatter was her heart.

“Not dead, not dead.” She whispered as her adrenaline wore off, and she was plunged into an unsettling unconsciousness.

——

The room was quiet. Shrouded in black cloth and dim candles, figures stood single-file, curving in a line that side-swiped a casket.

Shock stood in the back. 

She watched as people she didn’t know walked up, wiped their eyes, gazed mournfully at the pale-lipped, flaxen-haired corpse inside. 

Did they even know Smee? Did they even?

She looked around, searched for familiar faces, but the few she spotted she couldn’t bring herself to approach. Tears perched, insistently, threatening, on the rims of her eyes, but she clenched her fists and would not give them the satisfaction of breaking free.

The line moved at a crawl pace, and around the time her legs were numb, she approached the carved casket. 

Normally, she’d be bent over the box in curiosity, but knowing the boy who lay inside, such actions made her nauseous just to think about. Cautiously, reluctantly, she peaked in. 

Pallid and still, the boy she loved lay in the padded box, dressed appropriately in a black tux for such an affair. His hands were stiffly folded, his face was expressionless. 

And everything she had sworn she wouldn’t do as she waited in line fled her mind as reality kicked her in the gut. Astrid lost her balance, swayed, and then fell, tears streaming down her face like rain, the image of her one, absolute true love so close before her, and completely unattainable. 

——

The wind was blowing so hard, she could barely hear the pastor as he read from his book beside the casket. He was saying a closing prayer, the audience was looking on sorrowfully but somewhat indifferently. 

Shock had cloaked herself in black, and the hood of her jacket was pulled up to shadow her face. She watched as the priest closed his book, looked on solemnly for show, and then turned away without a second thought. Men lowered in the casket, people stood around and gawked. The grave was filled in, the tombstone had yet to be acquired. Shock waited, standing on hollow ground, watching as slowly everyone made their way down the cemetery hill and back towards their cars. 

Only when she was completely alone did she approach the grave.

She stood on the freshly packed dirt, hazel eyes watering, and stared at the toes of her sneakers. Beneath her fucking feet laid the guy she loved. The boy she was in love with.

Present tense. 

She was present tense, he was past.

Smee would forever be a past tense, a had been, another tragedy to be forgotten in the wasteland of pain that was this desolate fucking earth. 

The blonde knelt to the ground, placed her palms on the dirt, then her cheeks. She cried openly, sobbed, turned the dust to mud. She cried their until the sun set, until she had to rip herself away from her final shreds of hope and go home. 

Her fingers traced letters into the ground, and above three heartbreaking words she placed a kiss.

Then she rose, licked the dirt from her lips, and turned away.

cute-swimming-blonde asked: ★

An IC fact:

1. I’m cooler than you.