She Would Sit and Think - a Brenda/Sharon fic.
She Would Sit and Think
Written for the prompt ‘haunt me’, requested by FrakkingBlerg.
It was nights like this that were the worst. Nights like this where Sharon had confined herself to the couch, nursing glass after glass of red wine. She did it because that’s what she would do, if she was the one jilted. If she was the one haunted by memories of the past.
She would sit and think about the paths the two of them were on - their two diverged roads, perpendicular paths that met briefly and parted too soon.
She would sit and think about how different their roads were. The blonde’s was a twisted highway - no matter which way you turned there were blindsides and surprises, twisted husks of burnt-out cars. Hers was different, and it was this difference that kept them apart. She was always on the straight-and-narrow - one foot in front of the other, following the clear-set path she’d planned from the get-go. They were incompatible.
She would sit and think about how Brenda had moved in to her head, haunting and lingering, crowding her thoughts. She thought she might go crazy.
She would sit and think about Brenda, mostly. She loved Brenda. Had loved her. Did love her. Chose to stop loving her. Could one choose to stop loving another? Or was love an emotion dictated by some benevolent outside force? Love, she thought, was like a song - it sung to her, clung to her soul, lunged through her veins. It could harmonise like a hymn from a thousand years ago, or jostle and jolt like shallow popular music.
She would sit and think about the thrill of sneaking around with the blonde. They both liked the taste of the danger, it shined on Brenda’s lip like the sugar she swore she wasn’t addicted to. The two would stand there on the battlefield, open in the line of fire just to prove they could shoot straight from their hips - no need for aim, precaution, measure. They thought they knew what they were doing.
She would sit and think about the words left unspoken. The ‘I love you’ left dying on her lips, the ‘please stay’ perishing behind her teeth, the ‘please leave him’ that withered on her tongue. At the time she had thought some things were better left unspoken. She wished she weren’t so pragmatic.
She would sit and think of how to move on. How to exorcise the ghosts loitering in her skull.
Written for the prompt ‘haunt me’, requested by FrakkingBlerg.
It was nights like this that were the worst. Nights like this where Sharon had confined herself to the couch, nursing glass after glass of red wine. She did it because that’s what she would do, if she was the one jilted. If she was the one haunted by memories of the past.
She would sit and think about the paths the two of them were on - their two diverged roads, perpendicular paths that met briefly and parted too soon.
She would sit and think about how different their roads were. The blonde’s was a twisted highway - no matter which way you turned there were blindsides and surprises, twisted husks of burnt-out cars. Hers was different, and it was this difference that kept them apart. She was always on the straight-and-narrow - one foot in front of the other, following the clear-set path she’d planned from the get-go. They were incompatible.
She would sit and think about how Brenda had moved in to her head, haunting and lingering, crowding her thoughts. She thought she might go crazy.
She would sit and think about Brenda, mostly. She loved Brenda. Had loved her. Did love her. Chose to stop loving her. Could one choose to stop loving another? Or was love an emotion dictated by some benevolent outside force? Love, she thought, was like a song - it sung to her, clung to her soul, lunged through her veins. It could harmonise like a hymn from a thousand years ago, or jostle and jolt like shallow popular music.
She would sit and think about the thrill of sneaking around with the blonde. They both liked the taste of the danger, it shined on Brenda’s lip like the sugar she swore she wasn’t addicted to. The two would stand there on the battlefield, open in the line of fire just to prove they could shoot straight from their hips - no need for aim, precaution, measure. They thought they knew what they were doing.
She would sit and think about the words left unspoken. The ‘I love you’ left dying on her lips, the ‘please stay’ perishing behind her teeth, the ‘please leave him’ that withered on her tongue. At the time she had thought some things were better left unspoken. She wished she weren’t so pragmatic.
She would sit and think of how to move on. How to exorcise the ghosts loitering in her skull.