Have you ever felt so in love with someone that you'd do anything for them? That you'd even murder? I guess that's how it is with my relationship with Patrick. I can't say no to him. He's so beautiful, and I love him so much.
I never feel good enough for him. I know I shouldn't tell myself that, but it's kind of hard not to. In my eyes, he's perfect in every way, shape and form. His eyes are the most beautiful hazel eyes I've ever seen, and his dark brown hair falls in his face perfectly. He's the perfect height, too; six feet. I have to look up to him, literally, with my short height of five foot six. He makes fun of me for it, too. It gets annoying after a while, because he does it almost every day.
I tugged at my long, dark brown hair until it was silky soft and tangle free. It was Maria's birthday today, and being Pat's best friend, I was invited. I really didn't want to go, though, knowing that whenever I was alone with Maria she'd threaten me. I picked up my eyeliner pencil, and after making sure that it wasn't dull, I rubbed it along the edges of my blue eyes. I absolutely hated my face, but I tried to make it as pretty as possible just for Patrick.
After making sure I was tolerable, I pulled on my clothes. It was just a plain black wife beater and some baggy Bermuda shorts. I had always hated summer. I always thought that it was the worst season out of the four. I sat down on the edge of my bed and sighed. I didn't have to be at Pat's house for about twenty minutes, and I still had to get the spoiled brat a present. I picked up my socks and slipped them on my feet, wiggling them as I picked up my black All Stars that Pat had gotten me for my seventeenth birthday, which surprisingly still fit me perfectly.
I picked up my car keys and headed outside. The blistering hot sun beat down on me and I sighed. These were the only kind of summer clothes I had. I was wearing a swim suit underneath everything, just in case Patrick decided to play a practical joke on me and throw me in his pool. I had shoved some dry clothes into my messenger bag/purse that I carried everywhere.
I opened the door to my red Jeep Wrangler and flinched at the hot seat. Patrick had helped me take off the roof at the end of May, and I was so thankful that he's my best friend.
I parked my car outside of Wal-Mart and made my way inside. It was cold in there, and I shivered. I jogged over to the Electronics section and picked up a gift card of $100 to Best Buy. If I knew what CDs she didn't have I would've gotten her one of those, but I don't, so a gift card is always the best way to go.
I pulled up in Pat's driveway and took a deep breath. Maria wasn't very nice to me ever since Greta, my other friend, accidentally told her my secret. Greta isn't neccessarily the brightest bulb in the box. She usually doesn't pay attention to what's going on, unless it's something exciting. I got out of my car and shut the door quietly, trying not to disturb anything else that was going on inside . . . or outside. I heard music playing in the back and I pressed the doorbell to the front door.
It opened to reveal Patrick on the other side. "Hey, kiddo," he said. He gathered me up in a hug and I smiled. He always gave the best hugs. When he let go, I followed him inside and set the gift card on the table with everything else. There were a lot of people here, but Maria was a popular person, so I wasn't surprised. I saw her out of the corner of my eye; she was moving towards me.
"Hey, Charlotte," she said in her sweet voice.
"Hi, Maria."
Maria is one of those girls who cares about what you think about her. She dresses like she's trying to impress people. Her clothes are designer, and most of the time I think she looks sort of slutty. Her boobs pop out of her shirts, and her jeans are low riders. She always styles her light brown hair into a messy bun, and wears those stupid huge sunglasses.
I usually don't care about what people think about me; unless it's Patrick. He'll tell me when I'm wrong, he'll tell me when I look bad, and he'll tell me to stop being annoying when the time comes. If he tells me that I look fat in one of my shirts, then I'd get rid of it. I know, I sound sort of weak, but it's just when he says it. Anyone else, I'd tell to fuck off.
Patrick was gone when I turned to look at him, but Maria was still in front of me. Crap.
"What'd you get me this time, loser?" She picked up the yellow gift card and stared at it. "Oh, Charlotte, I thought you'd do better."
I clenched my jaw. I usually just take the pain. I was never good at comebacks. She tossed the gift card in the trash can next to the table and said, "just go cry in a corner and cut your wrists. I don't want to see you for the rest of the night."
It stung, I'll admit that. I really did feel like crying, but I kept it in. She strutted away in her stupid stilletto heels and I stood there, trying not to cry. Usually, I would've told her to go fuck off, but I was already in a bad mood today so I didn't bother. I walked to the back yard and sat down in one of the sun chairs. I flipped my hair out of my face and closed my eyes, trying to block out everything. I had left my iPod at home, which I usually don't do, and tuning out doesn't work very well when you can hear everything.
I felt a hand on my arm, and looked at the owner. Patrick had pulled up a chair next to me and frowned when he saw my face. "What's wrong, Char?" He asked. I felt tears come out and I rolled my eyes.
"Nothing, Pat."
He scratched his cheek. "Then why are you crying?"
He was very persuasive. He could get anything out of you, and it sucked, because most of the time you'd want to keep it to yourself.
"Because your wife is a bitch," I replied softly.
He sighed. "I don't see how you can say that, Char. She's really sweet. I love her a lot."
I know, Patrick, I know.
"Pat . . . she's not mean to me in front of you."
I was saying way too much. If he continued to talk to me I'd probably tell him that I loved him. He squeezed my arm gently and said, "you know, I can talk to her if you want me too. You're my friend, Charlotte. I care a lot about you."
I blinked away the wetness, and shook my head. "It's fine, Patrick. I'm okay, I promise."
He stared at me, and when I didn't say anything else, he nodded. "Okay." He squeezed my arm again, and stood up, making his way into the crowd of his other friends. The cooler was right next to me, and I opened it up. It was filled with soda and Alcohol and I picked up the first Bud Light I laid my eyes on. I chugged it in thirty seconds, the alcohol prickling my throat.
Five hours and ten Bud Lights later, It took some thought to even walk. The whole place was spinning, and I was becoming delusional. I grabbed the archway of the door to hold myself up and heard, "Char? Oh, dang, girl." I felt a pair of hands help me stand up and looked at who it was. A blurry outline of Patrick appeared, and I giggled. "Shish ish foon," I said drunkenly. Patrick looked at me, and shook his head.
"I'm gonna take you home before you try to drive drunk," he said, pulling one of my arms around his shoulders, which was hard because I'm so tiny. He held my waist with his other hand and I giggled again. "Maria," I heard him say, "I'm going to take her home. She's drunk."
I looked at the witch with fuzzy vision and almost threw up on her. She gave me a disgusted look, gave Pat a kiss on the cheek and we were on our way again. "Weeee!!" I said as he helped me down the steps of the porch.
When I was buckled in my seat, Patrick said, "please don't pass out, Charlotte." He sighed, and looked at me. "Where's the keys?"
I drunkenly dug through my pockets and handed them to him, my arms getting weaker. He turned on the car and I squealed at the sound of the engine. "OOH!!"
We drove down the street, turning when the time came, and I wasn't really paying attention to what was happening. I felt like barfing, and everytime we turned I got really close to it. Patrick kept squeezing my hand when I groaned, and when he pulled the car into the driveway of my house, I leaned over the door to throw up.
I felt Patrick getting the seat belt off of me, and he helped me into the house. It felt like I was sobering up a little, but I was still nauseous. I closed my eyes when we got inside, and I didn't notice anything until I felt myself being laid on my bed. My hair was pushed behind my ears and I fell asleep.
When I woke up, I felt like throwing up everywhere. I looked at my clock, and saw a glass of water and tylenol next to me. I smiled, and took it slowly. I needed to do a good barfing today. It was noon, so I crawled out of bed and walked slowly to the bathroom. I looked down the hall, for some reason, and saw Patrick laying on the couch. He stayed all night? I walked, zombie-like, toward the living room until I was five feet away. The television was playing in the background, but only loud enough to hear as light noise.
I stepped foward and poked him gently in the arm. He flinched, and opened his eyes. "You're up," he said quietly. I nodded slowly, trying not to give myself a bigger headache than I already had.
"And you stayed," I muttered. He sat up, and nodded.
"I wanted to make sure you were okay. I wasn't just gonna leave you here without anyone. What if you got like, alcohol poisoning or something?"
I wanted to smile, but his face was serious. "Why'd you get so drunk, Charlotte?"
"Does Maria know you're still here?"
He held up his hand to silence me. "Don't do that, Charlotte. Why'd you get so drunk?"
I sat down in the chair behind me and stared at my hands. "I can't tell you." But I wanted to so badly.
He bit his lip, and pushed his bed head hair out of his face. He shoved his glasses on his face and sighed. "What the fuck!" I clamped my hands over my ears. His sudden outburst led my headache to become worse, and he took a deep breath. He kneeled down in front of me and stared at me, his amazing hazel eyes looking up at me. "What's going on?" He asked. His voice was muffled by my hands over my ears, and he pulled them away. "Charlotte?"
I shook my head, and said, "you better go home. Maria's probably pissed."
He scoffed. "I don't care, Charlotte. I want to know why you've been acting so weird."
I shook my head again. "I can't tell you, Patrick. It'd screw up everything."
His hands tightened around my wrists and I flinched. It hurt.
"It'd screw up what? Charlotte . . . we used to tell everything to each other."
I sighed. "It'd screw up our friendship."
Sentence variety. Starting every sentence the same can get a little weird to readers after a while.
It's hard to keep a reader interested when you're sentences all start out the same. It's because when the reader starts to suffer from a lack of variety, it begins to induce boredom. It's harder to explain than show. It's something you learn from reading a lot, if you've ever experienced repetitive sentence structure, you'll know. That's about IT.
Also, when before you post, read over your story for typo's or simple errors. In the March edition of Squills Claudette has a really good tip for editing... 
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