Ooo 'u' I stumbled on this, and I love writing promts (when they're not school-related), so I'm giving it a try.

"Wait, what? We made a suicide pact over what?"

The girl was staring intently at the teddy bear now, astonished with what she had just heard.

“Mr. Tedds! I don’t understand anything you’re saying anymore!”

She was nearly crying now, looking with deep emotion at the expressionless buttons of the inanimate object that apparently served as its eyes. The fact that she was using her twisted imagination to conjure up the most random speech for this teddy bear didn’t seem to matter; only that it had just used the wrong set of words.

Silent moments passed, and the girl just kept staring at the stuffed animal.

“MR. TEDDS! SPEAK TO ME! TELL ME WHY YOU WANT ME TO COMMIT SUICIDE WITH YOU!”

The whole situation looked pretty bad from anyone else’s perspective, considering the open window in the girl’s bedroom, which overlooked the street and thus allowed her cries of anguish and despair to float out and echo among the other houses of that [otherwise] peaceful street.

This was not the first time this had happened; it most certainly wouldn’t be the last.

Her mother always wondered, “Is it her vivid (and morbid) imagination, or an innate problem?”

…Not anymore. Today, she was phoning the psychologist.

Oh, Em. You have no idea how happy this little prompt has made me.
"Wait, what? We made a suicide pact over what?"
"Your mother," he answered simply, tapping his spoon on the napkin to get the last bit of tea off before sticking it in the sugar bowl.
"My mother," she repeated.
James was focused on heaping spoonfuls of sugar into his tea.
"Yes, your mother. I thought you saw that note last night. Now stop emphasizing every other word. It makes you sound silly."
"I'm not being silly. That pact better be silly. Do you know where I found it, James," Chloe asked in exasperation, taking a mug from the dishwasher before making an angry beeline to the coffee maker. "Stuck to the bottom of my slipper."
"Hmm," he replied thoughtfully. "I put it on your pillow."
"My pillow? And you expected me to read it when? While I was asleep?"
"Stop with the emphasis, Chloe," he reminded.
Chloe turned from the coffee maker to look at James. "You want me to kill myself over my own mother and you're worried about what words I emphasize?"
"I made coffee for you," he offered apologetically. "It's that fancy kind your mother brought over the last time she was here for 'entertaining guests and giving the house an invigorating aroma of welcomeness'. You know what else does that? Those little air fresheners that you plug in that have little timers for--"
"Hazelnut Mochadoodle, James. The flavor is Hazelnut Mochadoodle. There is no such thing as a Hazelnut Mochadoodle air freshener."
"That's 'cause no one knows what a Mochadoodle is. If they knew what it was, maybe they would make one."
"Who?"
"The air freshener people. I mean you can't exactly offer complimentary coffee at a wake."
"I am not killing myself."
"Did you really read the pact?"
"I'm done discussing this. I'm just going to drink my coffee and pretend that this conversation never happened."
"No. I put effort into that note...pact. I can't die without you. It ruins the whole romantic premise. Then, it's not even a pact. I'd have to write a whole new note for just me," James complained as Chloe sat down across from him at the dining room table. He pushed his tea away from himself in frustration.
"You're all kinds of morbid this morning, aren't you,"Chloe asked, taking a sip of coffee.
"I'm not 'all kinds' of anything. Would you at least consider it?"
"No."
"But she has so many expectations, Chloe. I don't know how to entertain guests or play card games that are appropriate for everyone. I think cheese cubes are great for every occasion and I just now figured out how the George Foreman grill works. I've been making microwavable grilled chicken for months now. And no matter what I try, my hair won't stay flat."
Chloe smiled and put her hand over James'. "You're not married to my mother though, are you?"
"No, but--"
"Daddy's job is to keep Mom happy, not yours. Your job is to keep me happy. I'm the one you're married to. So, you can stop writing suicide pacts whenever you feel insecure about something. Talk to me instead, all right?"
James hesitated a moment as Chloe stroked his hand.
"All right," she repeated.
"Okay," he answered finally.










deviantART muro drawing

"Wait, what? We made a suicide pact over WHAT?"

"Suicide pact? I didn't say suicide pact . I said hot dogs. How do you confuse those? And we made them over a campfire. Don't you remember last year at summer camp?"

"Oh yeah. My bad. Thought you said Suicide Pact."

“Wait, what? We made a suicide pact over what?”
“Exactly.” The woman speaking was tall, blonde, and beautiful. She was also impossibly crazy.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t exactly see how I would have agreed to kill myself over a word.”
“You were very high at the time.”
“You probably just had a hallucination in which I played a significant role. I’d never kill myself.”
“I wasn’t.” She wouldn’t stop looking at him. With all the distractions everywhere in the club, most people had trouble making eye contact in the first place.
“Wasn’t what?”
“High. And now you really have to kill yourself. You keep saying it.” She was smiling as if they were the oldest of chums. It was infuriating. Sam sighed.
“Okay, please explain what you think happened.”
“It isn’t “what I think happened,” it’s what happened.”
“Whatever.”
“You’re going to have to kill yourself a thousand times over now.”
“When did I supposedly agree to this?”
“There we go, now you’re living. Five years ago; it was the first semester of college. You and I
met at a party. It was on Holand Avenue, just past the pharmacy. You smelled like beer and your eyes were so dialated I was surprised that moonlight didn’t blind you. At that point you were an English major, but you hated your professor.”
“I know what happened in my life, just get to the part where I decide to kill myself.”
“Do you really know what happened in your life? How’d you get here, Sam, and who am I?”
“I don’t know why I’m even talking to you.” Sam tried to avoid her eyes and tried to pretend that his hand wasn’t shaking as he took another gulp of gin.
“Then you obviously don’t know what happened in your life. Admit it, there are entire weeks that are nothing but a smoke filled haze to you. Ah, you’re suddenly a statue. Just because you won’t say it out loud doesn’t mean it isn’t true.” Sam stared straight ahead. She was coming too close to the truth.
“Who are you?”
“You can’t outrun your past, Sam, and I’m your past. You owe it to me.”
“Why did I agree?”
“It seemed like the thing to do at the time. You were so interested in the why of things what just kept getting in the way. It needed to be eliminated, so you and I agreed to never ask ‘what?’ again. The only way to get to why is to murder what. So we decided that the appropriate consequence of breaking the pact was suicide. Then we went to a back room and made certain of the bond. I didn’t particularly want to consecrate that pact, but you were very certain.”
“What?”
She raised an eyebrow, leaving only one possible interpretation.
“Oh god…” He breathed. What she said could be true. There was a time when he had gotten in pretty bad, mixing pot with anything he could find. She could be telling the truth, and he did remember that party, or a party like it. He may have had a conversation with a pretty girl, and then… Oh God, it was true! Through the haze that covered everything in that time in his life, the foggy shape of that evening could be discerned. The realization warped his face as he froze, staring at the wall.
“You owe it to me.”
There was a pill in front of him. She had one exactly like it. They locked eyes. She picked up the pill and broke it in half allowing the powder inside to dissolve in to her drink. His hands shaking, he did the same. What did it matter? He’d broken the pact. He’d written it in his own desire and lost the reason why. There was no reason for him to live.
She raised her glass to him and took a sip. He mirrored her, a second delayed. She set the glass down and smile, her ruby lips glistening with the alcohol. His world grew fuzzy and she smiled.
“There is no why.”

Later, when someone realized that the man in the booth hadn’t moved for a while, they called the cops. It appeared that he’d been poisoned, but no one at the club remembered him talking to anyone. The bartender didn’t have any knowledge of poisons, and this one had been a very specific concoction. Seeing as the ingredients were found in his home, Sam’s death was ruled a suicide. No one said anything about a tall blonde girl with ruby red lips.
When his girlfriend of the time was informed, she only asked one question, “Why?”
She never got an answer.