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i.
it begins (it ends) with forgetting. it always does.
(it's hard to describe, really. you can feel a space where there should be something– used to be something; an empty chasm of sorts painted over and gathering dust. sometimes you get the sense you've forgotten this so many times it's beginning to wear a hole right through.)
you remember this: whispers of blue, honeysuckle on another's breath, and grief impossible to place, as if you've lost something you never had to begin with. perhaps that’s not far from the truth.
overhead, the fireworks shine, and despite yourself, you start to cry.
ii.
she meets duke far too early, and far too late.
(she spent nearly a decade back in the thirties studying ovid, trying to make sense of her present from the past. when orpheus turned back, it destined them both to a life of regret; she, at least, can bear this regret for both her and him.)
it's another revolving cycle, just like wilbur; meet, talk, fall in love, forget. regret, regret, regret. try and make it different this time– inevitably not succeed. another timeline, another try.
oh, she's getting tired these days, but she sees that smile and– well.
iii.
denim-clad legs step out of a ‘86 pontiac firebird, and something itches at the back of your brain.
(whispers behind your ears: a bell rings as you open a door, pat benatar crooning on the jukebox and the smell of hotcakes in the air. eyes glittered with purple catch yours from the stage of a crowded bar, lips singing just for you. hands curl around yours as bell-bottoms graze the floor of a rollerama, teeth bared against bubblegum lips.)
the woman introduces herself as miss holiday, and all you can think is that you could never forget a face like that.
iv.
a spark lights, firecrackers ignite. her heart breaks against the backdrop of reflected stars and the hum of distant crowds.
(she saved a town's worth of lives today, and lost yet another of her own. it's a price she has no choice but to pay, but in moments like this it still stings.)
a kiss is a selfish ask, and she so rarely is, these days. after all, it's not like he'll remember it either.
(it tastes like it always does; stale coffee mixed with syrup, longing, and missing moments.
(and regret. can't forget the most important ingredient, can we?))
v.
“hiya, duke.”
“heya, darlin’!”
(déjà-vu; a feeling of having already experienced the present situation, tedious familiarity.)
you’re in her office, third time this month. it’s september 12th.
(something echoes. everything echoes? you told her to call you duke, you must have.)
they fill you in. daniel runs off the second she dismisses him, quiet mess that he is. your eyes meet.
(you've seen that look before. your head throbs.)
“you okay, duke?”
(no, you're not, because it's the same it's the same it's always the same–)
“just peachy, miss holiday. anything else?”
(she doesn't believe you.)
“nah, duke. see you.”
vi.
this whole deal is tiresome. perhaps it's almost time to try and renegotiate.
(it wasn't always, believe it or not. in her younger years she found a certain sort of freedom in the inevitable loss– how much can a mistake really matter if she's the only one to remember it?
it turns out, getting attached to people makes it a hell of a lot harder. who would have thought?)
she's a lot of things, but naive isn't one– despite what wilbur likes to claim. it isn't going to be easy, but then again, the things most worth it rarely are.
vii.
your feet like to wander these days. whenever you set out on a walk, they inevitably take you halfway across town, setting you at the shuttered doorstep of the abandoned diner.
(you used to know the name once, you think. you're not quite sure how.)
rose is around the corner, smoking. you raise a brow but don't comment on it.
“how's the band going, kid?”
she doesn't take the bait. “didn't you take me here once?”
you shake your head. “it's been closed since…” huh. “since i can remember, at least.”
she's not quite sure, and neither are you.
viii.
wilbur finds her in the school parking lot one mid-november evening.
she grimaces. “aren't you supposed to be dead?”
“now, come on, holly…” teeth bared in a facsimile of a grin, “you know better than most that death is relative when it comes to the black and white, don't you?”
“thought I told you not to call me that.”
“maybe you did.”
“what do you want, wilbur? you're not getting the jacket.”
“it'll come my way soon enough.”
she hates that the banter is still this easy.
“so?”
“just a warning, is all. you're not getting out of this that easy.”
he's gone.
ix.
you dream, some nights more than others, of dying.
(meteor strikes, teeth stained blue. a teenage girl, crazed with puritanical ideals. riots in the streets– even she can't stop a nuclear bomb.)
nothing haunts you as much as the ones filled with fire and swinging axes. shadowed visions of the witchwood and endless darkness into blinding light; her hands gripping yours and tearing you through space and time.
you wake up to sweat soaked sheets and feeling faint at least once a week. it's too real– it feels too real, it's all too real.
so it can't be, right?
x.
she may never change, but things around her sure are.
(she misses the diner more and more. it was easier to hide herself behind a smile and the best damn pie in this god-forsaken town than it is in the broad daylight of the high school.
(she misses duke too, more and more each day. these beginning days are always the hardest; those long days before he gets to know her and she feigns not knowing a thing about him, before the pretense drops.
it's harder each time.))
Of course, the things she needs to change aren't. figures.
xi.
dominoes fall.
the fosters disappear, and you're wracked with guilt. this isn't the first time something like this has happened to one of your kids– won't be the last, either –but you can't escape that you've failed them.
you won't fail again.
ethan green gives you a call, explains exactly why hannah's on the run.
“maybe they still won't come back, but those kids deserve to be safe, too.”
green and his damn bleeding heart.
“they do. thank you, ethan, I'll see what I can do.”
what a mess. if only miss holloway was here…
his nose starts to bleed.
xii.
she's known about the rollerama for longer than she'd care to admit. she was even part of the ring, in another life.
sometimes, she wonders why duke can't just let things lie, but she also knows that's exactly why she falls for him, again and again, for better or for worse.
she gets dragged into that whole mess eventually; it was obvious from the day daniel became a frequent flier in her office. it's all to be expected.
what she wasn't expecting was duke to show up at her door the day it all finishes, recognition in his eyes.
xiii.
the rollerama and the cases that follow it are only half the reason your head's spun for the better part of the month.
(and then, all in a rush, his nose bleeds, the waves crash, his mind shrieks, he remembers.)
you remember.
she opens her door, takes one look at him, and blinks. her eyes flash through hope to joy to sad resignation.
you tilt your head. “this isn't the first time, is it?”
a sad smile. “no.”
“i won't remember this.”
“no.”
“I love you.”
“i know. me too.”
“i know.”
it begins (it ends) with forgetting. it always does.