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I grinned, thinking back to that time. Back before I found that pen; when I was just some normal asshole writing down all my wishes and wicked thoughts in private.
But when I found that evil pen… when I was stupid enough to load it with ink and start using it, that’s when my shit hit the fan. That’s when I rewrote Summer and the rest of them into my life.
That’s when the shit storm started.
The shower turned off.
I only had a few more moments of privacy; it was imperative that Summer stayed in the dark about the power of this pen. Who knew what she would do to me with it…
And whatever she did, I would definitely deserve it. I’d been a terrible boyfriend when we were together.
Mean. Ungrateful. Unappreciative.
But God, I lived for the punishments…
That didn’t stop the guilt, though. I could have handled everything differently; I could have handled a lot of things like a better man. But I couldn’t rewrite history.
…or could I?
I lunged forward and yanked open my desk drawer, searching for the fountain pen with the wicked winding vines and red gemstones.
Up until now, I’d only written whathadhappened.
It never occurred to me that the pen might manifest the ink into something thatcouldhave happened.
The way things should have happened.
I dug through the drawer, pawing the pencils, pens, tape, and scissors aside, searching.
If the pen could bring my relationship with Summer back to life, even if it wasn’tReal-Summer, maybe there was a way I could alter her. Maybe I could change her into a less broken version of herself.
Maybe there was a way to take her pain away.
Then curiosity took root within me: what if I scribbled out everything I’d written about her? Would thatkillthis version of her? Would that redact her existence?
I didn’t like eventhinkingof that; it felt like considering euthanasia.
I could writemoreabout her. I could write down what Iwantedher to be like, but I wasn’t sure how the pen would interpret that. Would it createanotherone?
When I closed my eyes, I saw two Ink-Summers; two pairs of amethyst eyes boring into my soul with bipolar fury.
No; dealing with one was almost too much to handle.
If only there was some way to write the bipolar out of her without the risk of worsening it. Maybe there was a way I could phrase things; turn periods into commas so I could keep writing our story.
So I could extend what we had, fix everything and make it sustainable.
I paused, considering who Summer was without her dark side; without her mental illness.
To my discredit, I couldn’t come up with anything. All the fucked up parts of her were braided into her personality like beautiful black ribbons.
The truth was, I loved that she was fucked up. I was fucked up too, and I loved getting fucked up on her.
I was an addict. My drug was Summer.
I thought I was sober. I put in the time, put in the work. Real-Summer moved on, so I thought I was safe.
But that fucking pen made it possible to re-live the best and worst time of my life.
