He Got Her | Short Story

You could probably call this fan fiction. I just have a lot of feelings, hence a short story.

I am drowning again. The darkness creeps up to me like waves on a shore. I know what’s right, and I know my thoughts are the opposite of that but there is no one to help. The halls are full of people who only want to get out of my way. No body sees the scars on my arms or the bags under my eyes. I am invisible.
I know where this ends, and I know it won’t be pretty but I can’t seem to do anything about it. Like waves the darkness pulls me in, intoxicating and poisonous.
I am so far gone I might as well be a shadow. I stumble to class somehow and stumble away just as fast. I don’t think I want help anymore, because that would mean someone knowing how bad it is. How bad I am.
And just when the waves are about to crash over my head I see an angel. I have been sent an angel to rescue me. She is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Her eyes are the green of the hills and her smile is a lighthouse. She takes my hand, this unearthly being.
“Are you okay?”
Her words slice through me and all I can do is stare at the only person who has ever noticed that something was wrong. When I don’t answer she just smiles, like I am not wearing green and she is not wearing red.
She tells me her name, it’s the name of a flower. It fits so her so perfectly. She walks with me all the way back down the hall. I don’t notice the stares, I only have eyes for her.

I was merely a boy when my angel appeared and brought light into my poisonous world. Every day she would smile and she would hold my hand, and I would grip hers like she was the only thing worth holding on to in this world.
As we grew older we grew closer and I fell even more in love with her. She made my life worth living again, she made the dark thoughts disappear, and I did everything I could to repay her. Those days were the most beautiful of my life, we would sit outside on the grass and study together, her hair waving in the breeze, the smell of flowers around us. I would ask her to dance and she would laugh in my arms. I would kiss her and she wouldn’t resist. Slowly our differences were blurring and slowly smiling became a habit.
I made her my home, and she was always welcoming.

But good things never last.

He had been lurking in the background for a while, I had seen his eyes on her. And everyone knew who he was. Head boy, star at everything he did, always followed by his equally well known friends. All the girls wanted him, but he wanted my girl.
It wasn’t long before he made his move. He would ambush her after class before I had time to even say hello. At first she shoved him away and moved closer to me, making my heart almost burst.
But he was insistent. His friends would trip me in the hallways and they would laugh. He would shoot me glares across the classroom. He wanted my flower but I would not let her go.
Weeks went by of this game, avoiding him and trying to get every minute I could with her. She told me he was immature, she told me he was foolish to even look at her when she was with me. I held her tighter.
And yet she laughed at his jokes and I saw him carry her books. I saw his friends talking to her like she was one of them and suddenly I was once again aware of the green on my clothes and the red on theirs.
I was really finished when she stood up for him, one misty morning as I held her in my arms. She said he wasn’t that bad and I knew that was the start of her realising how bad I am.
For a few weeks I lied to myself. I told myself she couldn’t possibly choose him over me, but day after day we spent less time on the lawn together, and she spent more time walking the woods with him and his friends.
It was as if my angel had never come. And yet it hurt twice as bad as before, the darkness was even worse, feeding on the anger and bitterness inside me.
There wasn’t really a specific moment when she said that she chose him. But I saw it in her eyes, I saw it when they danced, I saw it when she walked past me in the hall with only a half glance in my direction.
Everyone said they were perfect, the sunshiny, popular couple. Ruling our school and around every corner. And I stayed as far away as possible.

It was torture seeing her smiling and laughing, away from me. The pain was unbearable. And the only thing that made it better was the darkness.
I dived in without a second thought, because without her light there was nothing stopping me. The pain on my wrist and the pain in my soul made the pain of losing her only a little better.
One afternoon I was on the lawn, in the shadows, looking for answers in books that seemed only to talk of light, when she saw me. She was alone, for once. And she came over, almost like she used to.
Concern was etched on her features and something a little like pain or regret. And yet her eyes were sparkling, because despite it all, that other boy made her happy.
She was close enough to see the shadows around my eyes and the tightening of my features. Something like disgust or fear flittered across her face.
And then, “Are you okay?”
We both know I’m not okay. And yet for some reason she thinks I should be. After everything that has happened. All I want is for her to grab my hand, like she did so many years ago and save me once again. But nothing can save me now. I see in her eyes that she knows it too. And I wonder if the fear on her face is fear of me, of what I’ve become.
A voice calls her name and we both look over at him. He wants her to go with him, he wants her to stop talking to me. So I let the only person who could ever have a chance of rebuilding the ruin that I am, walk away.
And even though I am a dead man, I will love her. Always.

Run Over | A Short Story

This is a short story I wrote for Wordbound this week. I welcome all feedback! 🙂

Prompt: Use numbers in an interesting way. 

She’s sad and lonely and the day has been too long. The world that surrounds her is pitch black, not even the pin prick of the stars. She’s just out of the yellow glow from the last streetlight and not quite to the next one. A driveway. She trudges across and closes her eyes for the briefest second.

He’s laughing so hard. Maybe he’s too happy – a little confused. But not even this dark night dampens his spirit. He turns to the passenger seat as he turns the wheel, he could drive down his driveway with his eyes closed, he could taste home. He could taste the stranger in the seat next to him.

No one was watching as the car bumped into the lonely girl.

The pressure against her is too much and she lets herself fall, fall, fall. The ground is not her bed but it’s close enough. She’s too tired to feel anything except the sleep that wants desperately to overtake her. She hasn’t even opened her eyes.

He slams on the break as he sees her – a shadow of a girl lit up briefly by his headlights. It’s too late, he can see her disappear. Suddenly he is awake, the smile slips off his face and the stranger in the passenger seat is forgotten.

A crumpled girl lying on cold cement – a wild eyed boy rushes towards her.

It’s not until he’s crouched next to her, feeling her neck for a pulse when he recognises the curl of her hair and her dark eyelashes and the feel of his skin on hers. His heart lurches and world spins. It’s all too much, her body lying there, the memories flooding back and the pounding of his head telling him she was dead, dead, dead.

The lights are loud, the people are loud, the bold lettering on the white vehicle is loud. The strange girl called them. He doesn’t want anyone to touch the girl on the cement next to him. Why couldn’t he save her? Why hadn’t he looked before he’d turned into the driveway? He feels sick and everything is blurry around him. He fights for a few brief seconds before he lets unfamiliar hands take her away.

Afterwards it was the times he remembered better than anything else, the faint light from his expensive watch keeping him company in the darkness.

At 12:16 am he leaves the strange girl in his driveway and follows the ambulance to the hospital.

At 12:38 am she is carried inside the hospital on a stretcher, disappearing from his view.

At 12:43 am he argues with the hospital secretary. She tells him he can’t see her right now.

At 12:48 am he sits down on a plastic chair in the waiting room and tries not to think about what might be happening to her.

At 12:51 am he promises the universe that if she lives he will tell her he’s sorry.

At 12:53 am he promises the universe that if she lives he will tell her he missed her.

At 12:54 am he promises the universe that if she lives, she has to live, he will tell her he loves her.

At 1:32 am he falls asleep, slumped against the cold wall.

At 1:58 am her eyes flicker open, his name on her lips.

At 2:07 am a nurse wakes him from his troubled sleep and delivers the news. She is alive.

At 2:10 am he walks into her hospital room.

She must be in some kind of messed up dream. He couldn’t be here in this hospital room. She asks the blue-gowned nurse what he’s doing here. The nurse seems so confused, trying to explain that this boy had been the one to bring her here, the one who had saved her.

But it had been his car that had slammed into her in the first place.

“Why are you here?” She asks him simply. She can’t even look in his dark, dark eyes because it reminds her too much of the day he left. College, he’d said. He’d wanted to go to college overseas and he’d said he didn’t want to put her through a long distance relationship. There had been nothing to do but agree with him. Maybe if he went overseas she would forget him.

It’s been three years at least since that night when her heart had snapped in two. She didn’t know he’d come back. She is still in process of piecing herself back together and now he is here in front of her.

“I came to say I’m sorry,” He says. “For everything. And that I miss you.”

For three and a bit years he’d pretended that he’d forgotten her. He had even begun to be able to smile at other girls. He’d thought maybe he’d done the right and sensible thing. He’d wanted her to have the chance to live life without him, he hadn’t wanted to chain her down so soon.

He did not count on hitting her with his new car. He did not count on every single feeling flooding back.

“You miss me?” She repeats, unbelieving.

He rushes forward, “Every single day.”

She fires him with questions, her eyes filling with confusion and tears. Three years that have been apart. She asks him why he broke up with her, why he left, why he came back. And every answer is just exactly what she’s dreamed about so many times.

“You ran me over?” She crosses her arms and it’s almost humorous. That’s how he knows she’s thawing.

“I didn’t see you, but I wish one hundred times over that you’d hit me instead. I deserve it.” He is so earnest, he doesn’t know what he’ll do if she slips through his fingers a second time. “I was so, so crazy to leave you and I never want to do it again.” It’s just words and he wishes there was something he could do to show her he’s really serious.

“If you weren’t in hospital I would kiss you right now,” he says all in a rush. His voice is a whisper and he kneels at the side of her bed. he so scared of breaking this.

She blushes, the colour bringing back life into her face. She doesn’t reply, she just has one final question.

“Why did you save me?”

She just wants to hear him say the words.

“Because I love you.”

At 3:00 am he leans across and kisses her anyway.

And once again he’d run her over, leaving her in the dust, a broken girl. But this time he had saved her. He was slowly putting her pieces back together, one by one.

Three years disappears in a moment, because they are together again.

Strange – A Poem

I spend hours in my bedroom,
Painting things I’ve never seen.
Writing about strange people,
And places I’ve never been.
Dreaming wild and crazy things,
That are never going to come true.
Talking to walls and teddy bears,
And imagining me and you.
I know I’m what people call weird.
I know I’m different, even strange.
But if you think about it this way,
We are all kind of the same.
You can’t tell me that at this moment,
You don’t wish to be somewhere else,
You don’t dream of wonderful things,
Of a better version of yourself.
Everyone at some point has a wish,
A thought, a fancy, a dream,
Something they wish they could do,
Someplace they wish they’d been.
We are all human, we’re all the same,
Don’t try to tell me otherwise.
Everyone at some point has ideas,
Or walks around with stars in their eyes.


‘If he breaks your heart, turn your tears into ink and your pain into poetry. If she does not tell you she loves you, pour the contents of your chest onto pages and the heaviness of your mind into jars. Do not romantics but express the aches that have bruised you.’ – Anonymous

I really love this quote.

It explains so much of why I love to write. I relate to this quote so much.

Which is another reason why I love to put words on a page. I love that a person like me can sit in their bedroom and write something that might someday relate to someone across the world.

I might write a book one day in my little corner of the planet and one of the billions of other humans in this world might be able to relate to what I said and feel like they are understood.

Every one of my favourite books has something in it that I relate to. Something that makes me feel more understood, that another author also feels like I do.

And I just find that a beautiful part of the art of spilling your soul onto a page. I feel like that makes it worthwhile to keep writing. The hope that someone, someday might read my writing and understand me.


I love writing. I love seeing my words appear on a blank page. I love being able to transform my darkest secrets and thoughts that I would never tell another human into stories. I love being able to scatter little pieces of myself into my characters. I love that my characters are always there for me when real people aren’t. I love that I can get lost in another world without leaving my bedroom. I love the challenge of letting my imagination go wild to think of things others haven’t thought of yet. I love being able to, when life gets hard, turn all my horrible, heartbroken, hopeless feelings into a torrent of words.

But I hate the overwhelmingly hopeless feeling I get when I read an amazing book, or one of my friends writes a wonderful story. I hate the feeling that no matter how hard I try, no matter how much I pour my soul into my words they will never be good. No one will ever want to read my simple little stories that I alone have fallen in love with. My writing will never stand out in the crowd of millions who are desperately trying to get their stories heard. And all my friends will laugh like they always do when I say I want to be an author. They will laugh and pat me sympathetically on the back and say “We always knew being a writer was a stupid idea.”

That’s not what I wanted. When I first told people that instead of being a ballerina or a princess or a movie star I was determined to become an author like Jane Austen they laughed politely and said “That won’t last.” And when I entered high school, still set on being a writer people began to be concerned about me, everyone was worried I wouldn’t get enough money, they were trying to set me up other jobs. Everyone was convinced that me publishing a book was never going to happen.

And I was convinced that I would prove them wrong. I spent almost two years working on my first draft for my first proper novel. I was ecstatic when I was finished. This was my chance to write an incredible novel that would sweep people off their feet and have publishers begging for more. This would show all my friends that they were wrong. Just because I couldn’t play sport and wasn’t very good at math and didn’t want to be a doctor didn’t mean I was a failure. I was determined to be a success.

Then one of my closest friends who wanted to be an author as well called me on the phone. She was so excited. A pretty well known author had been mentoring her for a while and that author had found my friend a children’s editor she could give her book to. I wanted to cry. Of course I was happy for my friend, but that just made me look like more of a fail. She was practically published. I only had a messy first draft and a bunch of lost writing competitions.

I stopped writing. In fact this is the first thing I’ve written since then. How could I continue to try when I knew my friend was about to become a published author whom everyone would love? How could I continue to try when it wouldn’t make any difference? What hope did I have against the thousands of other teens like me sitting at their computers longing for their words to be read?

I didn’t have any hope. So I gave up.

I read books, I wasted a lot of time, I didn’t even turn on my computer.

I only got more and more miserable.

So I wrote this. I wrote this to remind myself that I probably won’t get published. I most likely won’t get famous for my ‘incredible writing skills.’

But that doesn’t mean I have to stop writing. I love writing. So I am going to continue to do it. For the simple reason that I enjoy doing it if not for anything else.