FanStory.com - Emotional Guest List by Begin Again

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"Emotional Guest List"

Chapter 1
Morning Tea

By Begin Again

"The darkest night can't last forever, and the brightest day must eventually fade. But even in the depths of sadness, there's always the promise of a better tomorrow." — Brainy Quote

*****

A few gray clouds drifted across the sky, blotting out the sun. The wind carried a chill that wasn't there yesterday — one that sent shivers down her spine. She sat curled in her grandmother's rocking chair, clutching a mug of lukewarm tea.

Melancholy perched on the railing beside her, legs crossed, arms folded. "You've been quiet all morning."

The woman didn't respond, just stared at the trees swaying in the distance.

"I know you felt Misery when she arrived," Melancholy whispered. "Despair wasn't far behind but stayed discreetly on the porch steps. As for Heartbreak — she never really leaves, even when she's not seen."

The woman gave a faint smile at that, just barely.

Exhilarating appeared, settling into the chair across from her. She could feel the others trying to push her away. She wanted the woman to hear and feel what she said, so she leaned close to her. "They always show up together, like the Three Musketeers — Misery, Despair, Heartbreak. But Joy's still around. So is Serenity. Even Laughter when he's in the mood."

The woman stared into her cup. "You're mistaken. They left a long time ago."

"Maybe," Exhilarating said. "But they don't stay gone forever. You just have to leave the door open a little. Allow them back in."

The woman sipped her tea and looked up. The clouds hadn't moved, but the light seemed softer now. "I miss how bright things used to feel."

Exhilarating leaned forward. "Maybe the brightness is still there — waiting for you to notice it again."

They sat in silence. A breeze lifted a few strands of her hair. And then, faint and sudden, a laugh echoed from deep in the woods.

The woman blinked. "Was that — Laughter?"

"Sounds like him," Exhilarating said. "He always sneaks back in — a prank waiting to happen."

The woman stood slowly. Her shadow stretched across the porch, but it didn't feel as heavy.

A memory flashed through her mind when they'd all laughed together long ago.

Maybe, in time, she'd be able to laugh again.

Author Notes This is the first of a series of shorts...dealing with emotions. I'm not sure where the idea found it's way into my thoughts, but I'm attempting to unravel it and see where we go.

Chapter 2
Regret, Remorse, and Acceptance

By Begin Again

"We regret the things we don't do more than the things we do," by Mark Twain.

The attic was quiet, dust dancing in the slanted light from a single window. She hadn't been up here in years. She almost hadn't climbed the stairs today. Each creak of the steps sent chills, like dull blades scraping at her skin.

She'd carried the sadness, the what-ifs, and even the shame for far too long. It was time to face her fears and end that part of her story.

She knelt beside the old cedar chest, her fingers trembling as they brushed against the worn lid. Tears welled in her eyes as the floodgates opened and the memories, their promises, and mistakes crashed through her mind. She shook her head, knowing it was too late to travel those roads again.

With a deep breath, she dug deep and summoned the will to open the chest.
Regret and Remorse lingered in the corner, arms folded. "I didn't think she'd ever find the courage."

Regret nodded. "She always said she'd come back to this. It just took longer than any of us expected."

Acceptance stood beside them, quiet and calm. "And now she has." She moved closer, laying one hand on her shoulder, hoping to give her strength. "She still isn't sure she's ready, but it's the first step."

The chest contained faded photographs, brittle letters, and a few things that still faintly smelled of home and family. She picked up one envelope, unopened and tied with string.

"She never read that one," Remorse murmured. "She couldn't."

Acceptance shrugged. "She feared what she'd find more than knowing."

The woman stared at the handwriting — familiar and distant all at once. She untied the string and unfolded the paper. Three words — I forgive you.

Relief flooded her as she read the words, and tears of gratitude slipped down her cheek. Regret stepped closer. "I've been a heavy load for her to carry. I never meant to haunt her that way."

She didn't answer out loud, but the way her hands trembled told him she'd heard.

Acceptance knelt beside her. "It's okay to feel this," she said gently. "But you don't have to carry it all by yourself."

The woman placed the letter back into the envelope and held it to her chest for a moment. Then she closed the chest — not to forget, but to begin to put the past to rest.

Outside, the wind stirred the branches, and a bit of sunlight reached through the dusty glass — a gentle breeze carrying promises of better days.

She stood steadier now and glanced back at the chest. "Maybe next time," she whispered, her voice filled with determination, "I'll finish and truly put it all in the past."

Regret gave a quiet nod. Remorse shrugged. "It takes time."

Acceptance smiled. "But she can do it."

The attic door clicked gently shut behind her, and her footsteps were lighter.

Chapter 3
Grief and Memories

By Begin Again

She could hear the voices on the other side of the door — whispering, not wanting to upset her, just concerned.

The door creaked open, and a familiar face peeked around the corner. "We're leaving now. Are you sure you don't want one of us to stay?"

The woman didn't turn toward the voice. Instead, she shook her head and lifted her hand in a small wave.

Relief washed over her as the door clicked shut, but once the house fell still, a coldness crept in, one she hadn't noticed before.

The room was quiet. The kind of quiet that follows too many days of noise. She sat on the edge of the bed, a photo frame in her lap, fingers tracing the outline of a smile frozen in time.

Grief towered in the corner, watching, knowing the finality of her loss was near — like a tidal wave approaching the shore, waiting to crash against her with unrelenting force.

"She loved the rain," the woman said softly, unsure who she was speaking to. "Said it made the world feel honest."

Memory sat in the corner chair, arms wrapped around her knees. "She danced in it once. Barefoot. You laughed so hard, you cried."

Grief nodded slowly. "I remember. She, too, had faced sadness that day — just after the doctor's evaluation — but still tried to deny what was coming."

"I keep thinking this should get easier," the woman whispered. "I had warning. Time to prepare."

Memory sighed. "The heart doesn't always listen. It blocks out what it can't bear until it can't anymore."

"In time, it will change," Grief said. "But until then, you take one breath and then another until it gets a little easier."

The woman looked down at the photo again. "Do you think she knew? How much I loved her?"

Memory crossed the room, kneeling gently beside her. "She knew. And she still knows."

A silence settled. Grief didn't press forward — he knew what was coming. Memory drifted like sand in an hourglass, letting brief flashes of laughter and soft hugs rise to the surface — small gifts, not too many at once.

The woman stood, walked to the old chair by the window, and picked up the shawl draped across it. She held it close for a moment, then folded it carefully and placed it in the drawer.

Not to hide it, but to save it for a day when she could hold it and feel her mother's presence — the love they'd shared — and appreciate the moment.

Outside, the rain softened to a hush. A breeze slipped through the open window, carrying the scent of lilacs — her mother's favorite spring flower. She closed her eyes and imagined her mother's voice, soft as a dream, whispering that it would be alright in time. A tiny smile tugged at the corner of her lips as she remembered how mother's always knew — a promise of a day, maybe not tomorrow but somewhere soon.

She turned toward the door. Grief followed, quiet as ever.

Memory came a few steps behind, hoping the love she carried would soften the weight Grief left behind.

The woman paused, picked up her mother's old alarm clock, and listened to the steady ticking.

Memory whispered, "It will take time... but I'll always be here."

Author Notes Today is my mother's birthday which she celebrates in Heaven, free from the pain of the cancer that ravaged her body. Even though it's been a few years, Grief and Memories revisit me from time to time reminding me of her and how difficult my loss still remains. So through my tears, I share these emotions with you.

Chapter 4
Fade to Red, Blue then White

By Begin Again

Her best friend was married today, leaving her the only one in the gang who hadn't tied the knot yet. She didn't even have any prospects on the horizon.

She'd endured numerous jokes and questions throughout the day, but was doing fine so far. All that remained of her Maid of Honor duties was the toast, which should be a slam dunk.

Nerves were there, but she'd practiced the toast a dozen times — maybe more. The mic didn't even shake in her hand. She stood beneath the twinkle lights, looking out at all those faces and trying not to lock eyes with the groom's brother. He always made her forget what she was saying.

Then someone — of course, it was the groom's brother — handed her a glass of champagne for the toast and took a step back at the exact wrong moment.
His heel snagged the train of her dress. She staggered, and the bride tried to help but snagged her four-inch heels in the lace of the dress — which caught her ankle — and collided with gravity

Her glass flew. She tumbled backward, legs in the air, landing hard and exposing the world to her good luck shorts patterned in dancing frogs.

There was a collective gasp. And then, silence. Embarrassment arrived instantly, all fire and fury. "Well, there it is. Red couldn't get any brighter. You'll never live this down."

She covered her face, refusing to breathe.

Then came Laughter — loud and uninvited, of course. People were bent over and howling. "The frogs! OMG, dancing frogs!"

Even the bride burst into a snort-laugh, trying to cover it with her bouquet.

The woman groaned. "Please, someone just make me disappear."

A hand appeared.

It was his.

The groom's brother looked equal parts horrified and impressed. "I didn't mean to take you out," he said. "But I'm pretty sure those shorts just became legend."

She blinked, then laughed — a small, surprised sound.

"I guess the basketball coach was right," she said, brushing herself off. "You really do have big feet."

He smirked. "You planning to sue?"

She shrugged. "Nah, but tomorrow everyone's going to be talking about my underwear. So, thanks for that."

His laugh was the best sound she'd heard all day. "Tomorrow? You've already hit the number one wedding shot on Facebook."

Resilience leaned in close. "See? Not the end of the world. Just a rough start to a great story."

He helped her up, steadying her with both hands and handed her the mic. "You've got this," he whispered. "Just don't fall for anyone else tonight."

She shook her head, cheeks flushed but grinning now.

Embarrassment wandered off the stage, muttering.

Laughter lingered.

And Resilience stayed — quiet, steady, and just close enough to remind her she'd be just fine. She smiled at the crowd, lifted her chin, and said, "Now, that's going to be a tough act to follow."

Laughter exploded. Her eyes met his, and for a quick moment, a warmth of good things to come washed over her.

Chapter 5
Forgiving

By Begin Again

"Sometimes the hardest forgiveness is the kind we owe ourselves."

Carrie told the story so many times it felt carved in stone. The horrible accident and waking up in the hospital with so many people asking questions, ones she couldn't answer.

He'd ran the stop sign. He'd been distracted. By the time they saw the other car, it was too late.

Everyone believed her. Or at least, no one argued. She was the one who had lingered in a coma. She was the one who hung on to life by a thread. She was the one with the story.

Her best friend, Karen, had sat by her side, listening to her mumblings, her desperation, and fear as she struggled to return to the land of the living. She was the one who had heard the truth.

Karen had tried to tell her as gently as possible, sharing bits and pieces, hoping she'd remember.

Carrie didn't want to hear it. Nor did she want to believe it.

Karen couldn't live with the uncertainty. She knew healing came from facing the truth, not burying it. After a few months, she stopped coming around, not because she didn't care, but because she did.

Carrie told herself it didn't matter. That Karen had no loyalty. That she couldn't handle what happened. She wanted to blame her instead of him. Her best friend was wrong. After all, he'd been driving, hadn't he?

Hatred was easier than heartbreak.

And for years, it worked.

*****

She was cleaning out the bottom drawer of the roll-top desk — his, the only thing she hadn't touched since the accident. She was looking for a screwdriver when her hand brushed against a shoebox.

She almost didn't open it, but something tugged at her—something far stronger than her fears.

Inside the box, she found photographs, brittle at the edges. One was a car — the same make and color, stopped in the middle of the intersection, the metal crumpled, the passenger door crushed in.

She sat down. Her breath caught. A flash of white knuckles gripping the steering wheel — her hands, her scream shot through her head.

She hadn't stopped.

The memory came back — not in a flood, but in fragments. The spilled coffee. The changing song. The glance at her phone. She hadn't seen the sign until it was too late.

And her passenger — the man who never walked away — hadn't even had a chance.

Buried beneath the photos was a letter from her friend. Hands trembling, she opened the envelope, slipped out the note, and read —

I know you needed someone to blame.

I know I wasn't who you wanted to hear the truth from.

But I couldn't carry it for you.

I couldn't be the wall you leaned on to hide from it all.

You were driving. I know you know that now.

Maybe not, then. Maybe not for a long time.

But someday, I hoped you'd come to terms with it.

Not for me.

For you.

Always, Karen

Her fingers shook as she folded the letter back into the envelope.

Guilt was immediate, white-hot and cruel.

Hatred tried to rear up again — defensive, panicked.

But Understanding sat down beside her, calm and unwavering.

And Love — faint but still flickering — wrapped around her shoulders like something she didn't think she deserved.

*****

There was only one place left to go. She'd avoided it for years. But now, it was time.

When she arrived, the cemetery was empty. The gravestone was simple and clean. It had just a name, a pair of dates, and a short quote she hadn't remembered anyone mentioning. "A good man, gone too soon."

She knelt beside the stone. "I blamed you," she said softly. "Because I couldn't bear the truth." The wind stirred gently, as if listening. "I know it doesn't fix anything. I know it's too late. But I remember now. And I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

She pressed her hand to the granite headstone, tracing his name with her finger. The tears came without warning, raw and aching. She choked on her words, whispering, "Please forgive me."

*****

She didn't find peace in pretending anymore. She found it in the truth that she finally dared to face. Forgiveness would come in time. She didn't feel she deserved it at the moment, but maybe later.

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