Sometimes she wonders if she’ll ever get over him. Those are the times that she hates him. She blames him for leaving. It’s irrational, and she knows it, but she can’t help it. Sometimes she thinks he planned it.
She strums her guitar and they’re all minor chords. Her voice is hoarse and her lyrics barely make sense. Irene always smiles when this happens, and it’s cruel and ironic because her music shouldn’t be beautiful in times like this. She isn’t trying to create beauty. She’s trying to render that impossible unreality, her life unlived.
He mocks her sometimes. She wakes up in the middle of the night and his grinning face is burned under her eyelids and he’s stuck between the vehicles and she’s certain he’s grinning because he knows she’s stuck there too. She’s been there since that day. The paramedics forgot to remove her.
Sometimes she looks at Carey and wonders, and hates herself for wondering but it’s there. The fingers are the same as they glide across the strings and his eyes are full of life and wonder and his laugh is long and lets her remember, briefly, who she was before it happened. When he smiles at her or squeezes her shoulder or they’re sitting together, writing songs, her thoughts slip away and she’s twenty years younger and they’re about to embark on a journey that they will never fully comprehend.
Sometimes she laughs quietly to herself because it is so ironic, after all, that Rick believed in spirits and angels and extra-terrestrials and she can’t even bring herself to believe in god. She wonders, then, why she’s so afraid to allow herself to live.
Most times she wishes he’d leave for good.
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