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The Color Chartreuse
I find it funny in a totally not-funny way that when she got into a car accident, they didn't tell you that her hair was curled.
They didn't tell you that she was wearing eye-liner that took her twenty minutes to repeatedly pencil on, or that she was wearing that new skirt she found for only six bucks.
Apparently the shoes she was wearing weren't important either, which baffles me, because they're the real cause of the accident. Even though they were uncomfortable pressing the brake pedal with, she was going to get to her date on time, dammit. Screw the stop signs.
You'd assume the flower-printed purse would be important, because it held all relevant items inside. Like her ID, (or rather; her fake ID), and membership cards to her favorite clothing stores, which also weren't mentioned.
Was she running late? Was it slippery outside? Who cares?! She forgot her mint gum! What was she going to do after she would barely eat that buttery popcorn?
I also wonder if at the memorial they will talk about how she nervously peals- pealed her nail polish off. Or if they will casually mention that she had always wanted bright green eyes. They might mention that her favorite color was fuchsia, but what about chartreuse? Chartreuse was a color she hated because she didn't know what it looked like and it was spelled weird.
I do know that they will mention the things that people assume she will be remembered by, like her average grades or her participant ribbons. Why are these things so important? Why won't the black journal I found in her drawer be mentioned? Her handwriting was stellar, shouldn't that be recognized? What about the memories inside them?
A picture of her will flash across the news screen, with her first and last name labeled below it. Just like all the other car crash victims. Just another announcement to be made. They probably won't even use her favorite picture of herself! Isn't that what it's all about? Being seen as you want to be seen?
But no, they will show that picture of her laughing; the one when she wasn't aware a picture was being taken. Then I know she will be up in Heaven or wherever she will be, glaring at me. Only this time, it will be a real glare. Not just one you can see, but one you can feel. She will be so upset that I didn't give them that picture that she posed for after three minutes of preparing. She'll be furious that I didn't have the courage to speak at her funeral. After all, it is my fault; I'm the one that suggested we go see that new Clint Eastwood movie. I should at least accept it.
It all went by so fast so easily; I don't know if I'll ever stop hating myself for it. I'll be heating up some Ramon Noodle Soup one day and I will realize that it's been four years since she has been gone. Then I will go to her grave for the first time and also realize that it's been four years and I still hadn't forgiven myself. I still won't think I ever would.
When I die, I will not meet her in Heaven, because I will be damned to Hell. I was an awful human being and would need to be punished. And I would gladly accept it, but not before I'd make sure the news told you that I finally searched that color on Google, and decided I hated that damn chartreuse too.