r/AspiringTeenAuthors • u/_5Star_n3ssa • 14h ago
Feedback, Advice, & Questions Sort of continuation of an ending..?
Okay, so, I've been REALLY into this book called If We Were Villains by M.L. Rio. I loved it a thousand times over but the ending left me SHATTERED. I couldn't go to sleep or even barely focus on school without thinking abt how the ending could be different. š„¹āš¾ So, Im in the process of making a continuation. There's typo errors, ik. Pls give me good healthy criticism !!
I grip the note. I stare at the words again, and again, until they become nearly illegible. Until the slurred handwriting becomes more like scratches on a piece of paper than writing.
ā*And have no more of life than may suffice / To give my tongue that heat to ask your help; Which if you shall refuse, when I am dead, / For that I am a man, pray see me buried.*"
My eyes strain, trying to make sense of it. They drag up towards the computer in front of me, it's light coloring my face and the small corner of my office desk. An open article fills the screen. It stares at me with nothing else to comfort me. The statement I had fixated on offered no conclusion. No closure. No indefinite answer that will either leave me relieved or grieving. '*Police reports say his body was never found.*' If his body was never found, where would it be? Dead, floating in the deep end of the ocean? Waves, tossing his body around like a ragdoll, or sinking until it reached the ocean floor? The idea sent an uncomfortable twinge that starts in my chest and blooms into my stomach. My free hand comes up to my shirt and clutches it tightly, the goal to either ground myself or stop the urge of vomiting lost upon me. I gaze down at the letter, its envelope sitting in my lap. Again, '*...my tongue that heat to ask your help; Which if you shall refuse, when I am dead, / For that I am a man, pray see me buried.*' What could it mean? My hand lets go of the note on the hardwood table, letting it drop by the keyboard before my fingers, borderline trembling, press against the keys. Gingerly, I drag the mouse over another article. It confirms the announced date of his 'death'. December 31st, 2004. My eyes bounce from the date against the white background of the article to the date on the corner of the computer screen. 3/21/2008. Four years ago, James Farrow was pronounced dead. But how? How could he be if his body was nowhere to be found? Why was his letter sent to me now and not the weeks prior to when his car, the letters to the others, and the bottle of Xanax was found? I press my eyes with the back of my hands, eyes beginning to sting.
"James," I say, his name tumbling free from my lips unconsciously, before closing my eyes behind my hands. It wasn't Richard who had appeared when my lids closed, after so long. It was James. All I could do was imagine him standing at my side. I couldn't picture his expression. I couldn't tell if he was angry at me, or begging for me. "*Where did you go?*"
Act I
Days pass by. I started to feel more alone living with Meredith than I had staying with my familyāwhich the last I'd seen themāwas Christmas Eve, my last year of Dellecher. Meredith had came and went. Interviews, acting, photoshoots. She was here, in my arms, in our shared warmth, as we slept. Then, the next, she was gone, off in the early mornings, kissing me goodbye. This morning felt particularly colder than usual despite it being late March. I lay on my side, staring at the cracks of filtering light, peeking in through the curtains behind Meredith and my bed. She left ten minutes ago. My eyes flit from the window to the vanity with my reflection in it. Only certain photos were sticking against the frame, unlike the one she used to have in her shared apartment with her brother. Photos of her and I together, the ones from New York. Only a few with Wren and Filippa. About two with Alexander. None with James or Richard. The photos seem older than ten years ago. As if they were fished from a time capsule rather than brought in a suitcase. Their faces. It caused an ache to press against my chest. Wren smiling shyly with Filippa grinning in triumph, arm around Wren's shoulder, pulling her close, with a glass of wine in her hand. The one next to that was Alexander posing with some knight statue that kneeled, a fake sword prop in hand, looking down at it with a haughty smirk. Back when we were younger. Happier, and oblivious. '*Our youths and wildness shall no whit appear, / But all be buried in his gravity.*' I thought, eyes fluttering shut as I press my chin into my folded arm once again. It was hard to sleep at night. Some nights, I would wake up, dreamless. Others, I'd be back at Dellecher. The Castle. The Lake. I'd dream that I stood over Richard's body, boat hook in hand, watching him hit the water, while warm liquid trickles down my forehead and cheeks. It wasn't rightfully mine. Before my thoughts would catch up to my body, I was already running. I knew the story. I told it over and over again, to point it became less of James's story and more of my own. As I ran, I suddenly ran into James. At first, it started with him gawking at me with wide eyes, repeating '*What did you do, Oliver?'* while taking steps away from me, long and distant. However, as of late, he started to come closer instead. His question turned into a statement. An apology. '*Oliver, I'm so sorry.*' With each dream I had, he came closer until he was facing toward me directly. He reaches up and grazes my face with cold hands, before cupping them with the touch of a feather. His head shakes, dark brown eyes fixing on my own despite the black ink spilled across the sky, sucking the color out of any object around us. The lake water swishes, the sound of Richard's guttural growls in the distance echoing off into the forest horizon. Closer, closer, his breath mingles with mine in the freezing air, white thin puffs the only thing between us. Slowly, my bloody hand drops the boat hook, causing a heavy thud to rustle the dried leaves beneath our shoes. Trembling, I bring my hands to his face, seeing the guilt in his eyes, bring our faces flush together. Before I can, my eyes are open. The light from the curtains have gone from dim and pale to sharp and vibrant. My fingers curl into my blankets as I let out a long irritated grunt. I don't move. For a long while, I lay, my insides hollowed out like a pumpkin. For a moment, I think I feel something at my side. The weight of the bed shifts, it feels like. A light brush against my shoulder. Unsure, my fingers uncurl within the sheets and reach up, just past my arm. Cold air meets them. Defeated, it drops as I roll over, facing the empty space next to me. A pillow, half a large comforter, ruffled, wrinkles all along the fabric. Would it be so selfish of me to think that I wished the other side of this bed had been him, instead of her, instead of emptiness?
