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Pitter Pat

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Her hands were trembing slightly, making the coffee in the too full to-go cup slush around ever so slightly, yet still threatening to seep its way out of the small opening on top. She was sitting outside of the cafe, the only one sitting outside actually, while the rain pitter-pattered on the umbrella she was almost sitting under. 'This couldn't be happening,' she thought to herself. 'He really couldn't be...'

Tears that had been threatening to spill over all week finally began to pour down her hollow cheeks, matching the rain trickling through her limp curls. The coffee cup began to tremble more in her hand, but she couldn't bare to put down the only warm, substantal thing she had left.

She thought back to the beginning of the week; the day she heard the news. It really shouldn't have been a surprise to her. She knew he was unstable in his emotions, but she never thought he would actually hang himself from that crooked tree by the river.

The rain began to come down harder, hightening the pitter-patter coming off of the umbrella; her hair and jeans wet enough to be wrung out. The coffee cup continued to tremble as the thoughts cascaded out of her memory.

They had grown up together. She could tell you who his first crush was, his favorite song, his middle name, that he wrote the most powerful songs. Everything. She knew everything about him.

They had a special place too. They found it when they were little and still exploring the world. It was a creek a mile away from their house. The bank was covered with with small smooth pebbles and there was a small patch of grass between them and the high weeds. Their crooked tree sat right in middle of this patch.

It was there that he would play her those beautiful songs and pose in her pictures; where he could find her after a bad day, waiting for him. Now that was the place where he hung himself. From that crooked tree.

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Without knowing why, she had moved from the table outside the little cafe and began to walk. Her mind remained focused on the memories, which could account for where she ended up. Or maybe becuase it was simply tradition. Whatever the case, she found herself suddenly standing infront of the tree. Its bark was as rough as always, every piece threatening to remove itself from the trunk, and the whispy emrald green leaves glismbed in the rain, making it even more beautiful despite the ominous hour. She finally stopped walking when she reached the side of the tree and rested her hand against it, looking out across the rippling water. Infront of her, obstructing or adding to her view, hung the remains of the lonely rope.

For a moment, she wished it had been freshly made...





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