Fic: You or Someone Like You, pt. 13

“See,” Darcy said, leaning over DJ’s back. “We made a roller coaster, right?”

He rocked forward, just a bit, shifting in her lap as he considered the tablet in his hands. Then he slumped back against her again, holding the tablet up at eye level. “Right,” he said.

“Now, here’s the fun part.” Darcy tapped on the screen, setting down brightly colored tiles of queue line. “If we do THIS, then as everyone enters our theme park, then they’re forced to get in line for the roller coaster. Which is fine, our theme park is called ‘Nothing But Roller Coasters’ so I have to assume that they wanted to ride roller coasters, or else, why are they here? We’re just making it easier for them to find the coaster and ride it, right?”

"Right,” DJ said. He blinked as the tiny animated coaster went whirring around the loops.

“So they get on, and they ride the roller coaster, and then-” At the exit of the coaster, Darcy set the land at an angle, dropping it down just one step, and putting a square of path on it. “There we go.”

He studied the results. “Why?”

“Because-” She hovered her finger over the screen. “They enter, they’re forced onto the roller coaster, then when they get off, they’re stuck. They’re not smart enough to find the path, and even if they could, they can’t get out. We are literally sticking them in a pit. Like a pack of ever more angry molemen. Then…”

Almost chortling to herself, she plopped down some extras. “We give them access to drinks for really cheap, and a bathroom at a cost of ten bucks. Walking back and forth, they’ll be angry and thirsty, and since the drinks are cheap, they will buy drinks. And then they will pay us every cent they’ve got for access to a bathroom.”

She grinned. “Hundreds and hundreds of tiny little park guests, drinking, going to the bathroom. Drinking, going to the bathroom. Getting angrier and more crowded every time people get off the roller coaster. All stuck on one little square of land.”

“What are you, Satan?”

Darcy grinned. “If it makes you feel better,” she said to Harris, who was giving her a distinctly disapproving look from the doorway, “we are going to fail this scenario. We are going to fail it so hard.”

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I know you’re never coming back. I know I couldn’t have made you stay, because you would have if you wanted to. I know there’s nothing I can say to make things different. I know you’ve moved on, and I should too. But that doesn’t mean I don’t miss you, because God, I miss you. In ways only oceans know how, trying to reach for the shore but never really being able to hold on, stay there, and actually be with the sand.
I know you don’t care much of what I have to say, but I just had to let you know… No matter how blurry my vision gets, I still can’t erase the image of your face off my head. No matter how numb my fingertips become, I can still remember the feeling of your hand with mine. And, no matter how much alcohol I drink to forget… I can only forget the night, or the blurry site of the bartender, or the empty bottles I could no longer count in front of me, or the struggling musician playing his guitar in the background. But not you. Because I know now that no amount of alcohol can get rid of your taste in my mouth.
I’m not asking you to come back, I just want to let you know. You see, I thought I could forget about you and move on. I can’t. You don’t really forget the first and maybe only hurricane that ruined your house, that after, everybody thought you survived because you were breathing. But you’re not really sure that you’ll survive with all the wreck it left behind. You don’t forget the biggest fall you had, because you have a scar that never really goes away. You don’t really forget when the reminder is on your own skin. You don’t really forget when there’s so much left behind.
—  a. gale, A drunk message sitting in the drafts for ages