Eighteen

Author: Heaven's Flying Fish

Summary: Eighteen. The world is your library and you have all the time to read, yet it all seems so much dimmer – as if that library is filled completely with appliance manuals and endless Arithmancy equations.Lying on a blanket with your unrequited love and a Salty Dog, you think. And sometimes your thoughts just don't make you happy.

Author's Note: This is my second entry into the Tales of Whiskey and Regret Challenge at LJ Community The Red and the Wolf.
The prompts I chose this time were 'Agreed', 'Salty Dog' and lyrics by The Lightning Seeds, 'Pure'

o:o:o

A tired sigh escapes your lips as you lie back on the old tartan blanket retrieved from your family home and carried with you to your new residence, way out in the countryside. The sky is dark blue, shot through with orange and streaks of grey; it too looks tired. The long grass waves in a slight breeze that sends a shiver through you as it tugs at the hem of your shirt. Eighteen. The world is your library and you have all the time to read, yet it all seems so much dimmer – as if that library is filled completely with appliance manuals and endless Arithmancy equations. As if, when you were choosing books to fill it, you selected ones that seemed like something you'd like to read later, before suddenly realising that there were some that you'd like to read now only that there was no more space to fit them in.

You are eighteen and all of your friends are nesting in their places in the world. How is it fair that you are only left with an overstocked library of mind-numbing books that you are beginning to hate more and more as time goes on and those volumes gather dust and distaste? How is it fair that James Potter gets an inheritance so large that he will never have to work a day in his life – though he will any way because he can't sit still – and you get lumped with a penny-an-hour job at the local muggle grocers', because no wizard will employ you? How is it fair that Lily Evans gets the guy, the looks and the smarts and you get left with the ability to watch 'your' girl be swept off her feet by someone else; you get left with prematurely greying hair, and, no matter your NEWTs scores, will still never be employed? How is it fair that Peter and Sirius, rejects, outcasts - how is it fair that they are finding their way in the world easier than you – even though it was you who drew the Marauders' Map?

You clench your teeth and sit up again, groping around in the picnic basket beside you for the glass, liquids, and ice cubes. Five parts grapefruit juice … one part gin … quarter of a teaspoon of salt … pour it over the ice … stir. Another exhale then a deep sip of the sour, sour drink. Lily, beside you, reaches out and grabs the glass from your hand.

You raise your eyebrows slightly as she lightly sniffs the concoction before tentatively taking a sip. Her eyes bulge comically, but bravely she swallows. Her look of utter disgust makes you chuckle bitterly before you swipe it back, staring defiantly into her eyes as you take another deep drink.

"One of those drinks you have to be used to …" mumbles Lily as she lies back down. The she freezes, her gaze snapping back to yours. "N-not to say that you're used to it or … anything." She suddenly realises she is just making things worse, and, as you throw back the last of the Salty Dog, her eyes drift to the side with an awkward cough.

Eighteen and considered an alcoholic between friends. You view yourself as a casual drinker, but you suppose drug users refer to themselves as 'recreational' takers until they're in rehabilitation. A third sigh struggles to be contained before fighting its way out regardless.

Eighteen and jobless.

Eighteen and loveless.

Well …

You look to Lily lying beside you and you lie down again, staring at that streaky evening sky, stars pricking out tiny stiches in the stretching canvas above. You look at her longish red hair, tied up with an olive ribbon. You look at her green skirt-and-shirt ensemble. You look at her tan stockings and little laced brown shoes, kicked up as she lies on her stomach, face cupped in her hands. A stylish brown hat – hers, not yours – has drifted a little way down the hill and you watch the bunch of flowers on its band being tickled by the wind. You tuck your hands behind your head, watching a shooting star dart across the endless skyscape above you. Your eyes travel lazily along, imagining the curve in the atmosphere as your vision rolls from horizon to horizon, over your head.

So much is over your head.

So much is pulled out from under your feet.

You think it's nice to have the stability of earth beneath your back and sky above your face. It's nice to feel that blanket itching at your wrists and the backs of your fingers brushing over the icy surface of your empty drink glass. Your eyes droop, blink and open wide. You don't want to sleep. You don't want to have to imagine good things. You want to live good things. You want to experience fantastic things. You want to see pretty things in real life, not in your mind. You like being grounded in reality, but sometimes it's nice to believe that this: lying on this grassy knoll with your unrequited love, underneath that brilliant sky, is real, and not only the product of your wandering imaginings. You sigh, this time contendedly, but Lily misreads you – and not for the first time.

"It'll all be over soon," she murmurs, smiling lightly at you through half-lidded eyes. You nod and grin, though your heart is breaking, because that is not what you wanted to hear.

o:o:o