Elapse
Richard Lin
The heavens were torn asunder and through the gouges came flame and lightning.
You are in the basement of your small store, gathering up new merchandise to place on the perpetually empty shelves when the first tremor hit. You stare up, not comprehending what was happening when another tremor and the sounds of explosions assail you, moments before the entire world shook and crumbled around you. The next thing that you realize is that you’re on the ground and that a large fragment of stone is impaled in your left hand. And then the pain hits – and the howling begins, your lamentations of pain. The world continues to shake and tremor, uncaring of your desperate cries. But all you can think of is the burning pain, the unbearable, murderous pain and the crazed laughter that escapes your mouth in between your howls, as you stare uncomprehending at your collapsed basement and the massive shard of stone that’s torn your hand in two. ‘It hurts. It hurts so much. It hurts so much.’ You black out at some point, still sobbing.
When you come to, the tremors have stopped. You feel numb –you probably are – but you’re lucid enough that you could smell the raging fires above and hear the cries of your neighbors. You can also hear the roaring flames just upstairs – and you realize that you have to get out, get out and live. But when you try to stand up, you feel like you’ve been set afire. Tears fell from your eyes as you try to restrain the howling cry that would have been emitted from your mouth – you fail and what comes out instead is a loud whimper-gurgle – and you redirect your eyes and see the bloody mess that is your hand, still impaled. You want to cry, to just give up and die from the seemingly all-pervading, unbearable pain. You pray to some deity that you’ve never believed in to have mercy on you, to save you, save you.
Your cries go unheard, and you despair when a support structure collapses, bringing the raging flames down to you, bringing death. ‘I don’t want to die, not here.’ It falls dangerously close to you, and if it wasn’t for the bag of flour you carried before you were shunted to the floor, that pillar would have crushed your legs – as it was, embers were sent flying, and your torn sleeves are ignited. Smoke fills the air and you begin to cough violently as your eyes tear up.
The basement burns. ‘And you’ll burn along with it if you don’t…’ you whimper at the very thought, and then with some ungodly courage that comes from your adrenaline-fueled denial, you rip your hand out from under the stone spear. No amount of denial could block the pain and this time, you make no effort to restrain the sobbing yelp you emit, cradling the mangled and useless stump that is your left hand to your breast as if it was a baby – because your hand certainly feels like it’s crying, except with endless tears of blood. ‘The pain, the pain, the pain!’ Still crying tears of crimson, you drag your legs along the floor, slowly and blindly making your way to the still miraculously intact ladder.
The rest of the day passes in a blur. You don’t remember hobbling all the way over to the town fountain – the broken remnants of it anyways – nor do you remember throwing yourself into the water. You don’t know how you made it all the way over there without breaking down from the pain anyways. You don’t remember cauterizing your hand – but you do remember the insane, world-ending pain as your blood sizzled – nor tearing parts of your own clothes to wrap the stump. You don’t remember looking like this. You don’t remember when the cries around you were silenced. You don’t remember when everyone died. You don’t remember. You don’t remember.
Afterwards, everywhere you looked, all you could find was death. You know that you’re lucky, maybe even blessed to be alive – but at the moment, you can hardly consider it divine mercy when you look around or even at your own hand. You curse the heavens for this unwanted luck. You can’t taste anything but dirt and ash, you can’t ignore the phantom or still present feelings of being burned alive, you can’t hear anything but creaking stone and dark silence, you can’t see anything but ruins and corpses and a blackened sky. You can’t bring yourself to care about why the world ended, but only that it had, and you wished that you ended that day too.
You recognize Leon – that young and ambitious guard captain that always frequented your store to chat – his face eternally locked in agony in rigor mortis, mouth open in an eternal scream of pain and terror. You recognize Tristan – your childhood friend, a brash young clerk that dreamed of greater glories – burnt to such fine ash that you only know it's him because of the cracked gold pendant you recognize as his family heirloom lying nearby. You recognize Irene – the young innocent girl next door whom you’ve taken care of on occasion for as a favor for her parents – and you are too desensitized by now to horrid deaths to do anything more than blink, being careful to not cut yourself on the various glass shards embedded into her frail body as you close her blankly vacant eyes.
You live by the day, eking out a meager existence by raiding the broken ruins of homes for edibles. That, and aimlessly drifting around the remains of your own home, lost to the scent of nostalgia now tainted with ash and the dreams of wealth and luxury. Sometimes, you wander outside on the streets, but after the second time you do so, you know your fragile heart cannot take much more of seeing dead friends lying strewn amidst the rubble, so you retreat back to the walls that indicate your home, where you can hide from the world. Every day, you think ‘What meaning is there to this existence? Why don't you just end it all, just join everyone else? What’s stopping that knife from burying itself in your throat?’
It’s been three weeks since that day. Or at least, that’s what your faintly carved notches on the signpost in the middle of town declare - you’ve long since lost your sense of time: the sky being perpetually gray-dark having dulled the distinction between day and night. But you know your time in this town has ended. Nothing remains here but ruined buildings and the lingering stench of regret – and spoiled food. Your steps are heavy with the weight of memories, of regrets, of that sense of drifting nothingness. But no matter how strong your ties are to your home, your link to this town is forever seared – if not by the all-consuming hunger that cannot be sated by days-old fish, then by your inability to stay sane in this city of the familiar dead.
So it is with the semblance of resolution that you drag yourself out of town, with nothing but the clothes on your back, a dusty but otherwise undamaged travelling bag filled with any last edibles you could scavenge, an old map, and a sharp knife that you retrieve from a small pawn shop– it’s not like you could have effectively wielded anything else anyways, given you only have one hand.
As you travel on the beaten road, marked on your map as a dark gray scribble leading to the large dot that indicated the capital, all you find are traces of death. Over the next week, you walk through shattered roads and hills once grassy now burnt, you walk over broken twigs and burnt leaves that mark swaths of incinerated trees, and find nothing but silence. This road, normally full of the sounds of bustling caravans and birdsong, is as silent as a grave. Once, you had badly cooked rabbit for dinner – but on most days, there was nothing to find, and you sustain yourself with increasingly smaller rations from your rapidly dwindling “emergency” supplies. And you find it hard to grow accustomed to the missing stump that is your hand, mishandling the knife more than once and cutting yourself because of that missing weight.
It's spring, the season of life, of vibrant greens and joyful emotions. But the trees aren't here anymore; there are no birds chirping, no festive gatherings. Instead, all that remains are ashes, charred fragments of a life that was, corpses, and silence.
-*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*-
There was something here. All too soon. Not prey. Heavy steps. Predator.
She would have snarled. But she couldn’t even move, let alone claw or tear. Rippling black muscle, normally capable of lithely fending off predators and crushing prey under the heavy weight and power of a ferocious claw, was scarred with gaping wounds. Her back was torn open when fire rained from the sky and she plummeted off the narrow outcrop she was balanced on into the river below. Her flank was torn open when a pair of hunger-driven egg eaters happened upon her – she barely fended them off but at great cost.
Now… she couldn’t even lift her head. She couldn’t catch anything – she could manage a fast trot at best and only for a few seconds. And that burning drive and determination to survive that has sustained her so long begins to flicker as her muscles betray her unbroken but weary spirit.
Even so… she didn’t want to die. She already saw too much of that – hungry flames having devoured her cubs the day the world changed. She saw that when trees fell down and prey were splattered against the ground. She saw that when the earth opened its maws and consumed all.
It was a two-leg. She despaired. Two-legs were easily ambushed, the simplest of prey when they traipsed across forests. But a frontal confrontation, with a two-leg? Who could make fire from their paws, had giant white fangs of varying sizes to cut and maim, had roaring beasts that feared no claw?
The two-leg finally saw her. She noted that a single paw reached for a fang, while the other… arm hung limply and paw-less. She snarled. She didn’t care anymore: she wasn’t going to die without fighting back. This two-leg was maimed too. She noted that the two-leg looked at her with a curious glance when she struggled to her feet, tensing her atrophied but still powerful muscles. She stumbled.
And then the two-leg was besides her. She snarled, but couldn’t find herself to care more than that when immersed in the haze of pain that emanated from her now torn-open wounds. The two-leg was pulling something out… and the world faded to black as her body finally succumbed to her injuries.
-*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*-
The entire ordeal was surreal for you. After the ninth or so sleep-cycle (you’ve stopped trying to keep track of time the way you used to, because it just doesn’t work anymore, and you’ve only just remembered about timepieces), you encounter a panther on the road, looking half-dead from old wounds that should have bled out days ago, that should have been mortal for anything. And then your basic medical training kicked in, and you use precious supplies, precious food to nurse a fully-grown panther. Had it been anything else, you think, you probably would have just give it a mercy kill and move on. But it was a panther, and you could not help but feel great respect and admiration towards the noble beast, moved by something indescribable by words. Had it not been such a grave situation, you think you would brag and gossip about tending to a panther to your friends, the sense of the extraordinary washing over you. If they were alive, that is. Either way, you’re sure that it made an interesting sight – a single-handed merchant tending to a giant black panther.
The panther slips in and out of consciousness for about eight sleep-cycles. You can empathize with the phantom spasms that wrack her body, although you still turn your eyes away when she stares at you with those amber eyes – it’s unnervingly perceptive and eerie. You turn away and continue to stand vigil, occasionally patting the panther’s head with your only remaining towel – the other a victim to the panther’s claws and your bloody hand that was almost detached by the fevered swipe. By the end of another four sleep-cycles, the panther has recovered – walking on her feet again. You had expected to part ways that day, as you stood up and continued down the road.
Sometimes, you feel like you’re in a dream and that you’re not walking besides a fully-grown panther, albeit one that has barely recovered from almost mortal wounds. There is no doubt in your mind that this panther is no domesticated pet - nor would you want such a noble beast to be so - and that she follows you as an equal, follows you because she recognizes the concept of debts (or so your enthralled brain believes). But you do feel somewhat comforted by the panther's presence. That is, when you are not disturbed by the unnerving paranoia that settles in, from having such a powerful predator less than three arms’ breadth away from you at all times.
After two sleep-cycles back on the road, the panther having long repaid the debt in food it might have owed you with daily caught rabbits, you feel comfortable enough to decide that you want to give the panther a name. You realize that it’s mostly just a human thing, but your mind will settle for no less and it seems disrespectful to simply refer to the feline as “the panther.” So across the small campfire, while chewing on your badly sliced strips of meat while gazing enviously at the panther gorged and content with her raw meat, you start listing off names. The panther seems initially confused, but soon seems to catch on to what you are doing – she definitely reacts badly to “Bojangles” and lets out a threatening growl that has you raising your hands in surrender. You next try “Vampirella.” The next thing you know is that you’re clutching (with one hand) your nose in pain as she swats you with her claws out. Alright. Clearly she didn’t like those names. You persevere and continue, and eventually, between human and feline, you settle upon the name “Gwen,” which earns a brief contemplative look and then a content growl-purr.
For the next several sleep-cycles, you fend off the feeling of loneliness by engaging in companionable talk with Gwen, treating her as if she was human and could understand you. Perhaps she could – she seemed intelligent enough to understand the general gist of what you’re saying by the second sleep-cycle and you know you’ve started picking up on the differences between her growls. And her stares. Once, when you had badly fumbled (again) the cutting of a prime portion of the rare deer meat with your inept knife carving, Gwen had treated you to a baleful look coupled with a threatening growl. She took off with the larger of the two pieces of meat and had loped several feet away to eat in solitude. She had refused to engage in “conversation” the following day as well, opting to travel further ahead the road instead of trotting by your side.
Nevertheless, by the end of the long journey on the road, you no longer bother staying awake until after Gwen has fallen asleep, the paranoia of being eaten by your companion long erased by camaraderie. And you reckon that it must be summer by the time you reach the ruined gates of the city, the once glorious and proud hub of humanity reduced to a desolate graveyard filled with nothing but the stench of decay and abandonment. Just from your position in front of once awe-inspiring gates, you can see broken signposts and cracked windows –thieves and looters – and hear nothing but the squeaking sound of the lone rat hustling down the street and the whistling of wind. You trade glances with Gwen, long sleep-cycles on the road having long taught you that the returned glance and growl conveyed acceptance, and step over broken rubble to enter the city, feline companion by your side.
It’s summer, the season of life fully celebrated, of vivid greens and jubilance. Though there may not be any greenery left on this world, your loneliness has been eased and you have found some measure of contentment – it may not be jubilance, but you’re satisfied all the same.
-*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*-
I’ve never liked the air around here, but I’d gladly trade the smell of poverty to this stench of death.
I was never anything more than a simple orphan, one who loved to sing, to play, to celebrate, to dream. Once, a travelling bard visited our orphanage, weaving a fantastic tale of knights and dragons, of heroes and beasts. He had with him only a harp, and from that tiny little harp, the most beautiful sounds resonated outwards. I had decided that I wanted to be a bard then when I grew up. I had harbored that dream for years, cradling it close to my heart as if to shelter it from the cruel realities of the world, where food was not guaranteed and sleep was the restless fit of dread about the prospects of tomorrow.
That cradled dream was smashed apart when the world died, along with my home and my friends. There were a few other orphans that had survived and a few adults as well – they had all taken their chances, and left the city to go north. But I was in that tiny garden of my orphanage that yielded but a day’s worth of fruit a year, driven by nostalgia and grief as I plunged a shovel into stone-hard soil, slowly chipping away against stalwart earth, to return to the earth the bodies of my friends.
I should have gone with them. Now, I’m stranded in this city of the dead, where finding untouched, unspoiled food was a competition against the rats, the only other occupants of this city. I always thought this city was so large before, full of money and over-the-top grandeur – but now it’s just not large enough. It’s as if nothing has changed since my world ended, that the only thing different is that there’s no more people, no more sounds. Just rats.
I’m scared. I don’t want to die. I keep on telling myself that I can find food before the rats do – that all those years of scrambling for coins beneath the dusty feet of wandering merchants was worth something. That my life wasn’t completely a waste, that I can live to make something out of myself.
I found that opportunity when I saw the merchant and the panther. I was surprised at first. From the third-floor window of the posh bakery that I had always stared enviously at, I saw them carefully step over the broken remnants of the front gate, passing by the broken down golems that had once guarded the city. I saw them carefully circumnavigate the ruined streets, stepping atop the once-lustrous sign that proclaimed fresh produce. I saw my opportunity to get out of this living hell.
And I took it. I leaned my head out the window, and shouted.
“Please, will you take me with you?”
-*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*-
The girl was terrified when Gwen loudly growled and leapt atop a vendor stand before finding her way onto the girl’s windowsill. You were surprised to see another human face, but not surprised enough to lose track of Gwen’s reaction – you managed to at least restrain Gwen from doing anything violent until she calmed down. Belligerent eyes raked over the scraggly girl’s frame decided that the girl wasn’t a threat before Gwen trotted off, leaving you to deal with a semi-traumatized girl. You managed to snap her out of it, and the girl seems more interested in Gwen than afraid, now that she was out of any imminent danger. Gwen didn’t vocally respond, but you think that the slight relaxation of her form indicated a return of that interest.
The girl Avery told you her story as the three of you went to gather her food supply into yours. But it wasn’t a story that really needed to be told – all you needed to see were the abandoned storefronts, all you needed to smell was the horrid stench of decay and dust, all you needed to hear were rats and the scuffling of boots and paws across wood and stone to know what has happened to this city. Your eyes soften in sympathy as she recalls her tale, her emaciated frame and long, dirt-ridden hair enunciating her every word. You sympathize, for how could you not, when she’s gone through the same ordeals you have? The same trials and tribulations of the lone survivor alone in a city turned graveyard, a prisoner of memory – you know the feeling all too well.
So before even a single day had passed since you and Gwen arrived in the city, you find yourself once more on the road, this time with young Avery in tow (and yes, with the new watches you liberated from a glass-and-wood prison, you have regained your ability to tell time – it’s been seven weeks since the beginning of your journey, Avery informs you). She certainly proves her usefulness by the end of the week, and you concede defeat to her superior cooking ability, when she manages to somehow turn some desiccated leaves and two rabbits into a gourmet meal – your taste buds heartily approves, and so did Gwen who shared her approval by nuzzling the surprised Avery.
You admire the girl’s fortitude and resolve – you think that it must be at least fairly uncomfortable, to say the least, travelling with a disabled merchant and a panther. You think it’s downright frightening how fast Avery’s patched her relationship with Gwen. When you question her about it, she simply shrugs and responds, “I’m pretty used to hanging out with disabled people. Da… one of my friends lost both his feet. And I like Gwen. I like cats.”
Well. You gaze at Avery in vague bemusement as she turns to Gwen. Gwen simply gives a low purr of approval and lolls her head back for Avery to pat. The two of them are getting along just fine, you think, just fine.
You’ve trekked north for three weeks now, the road having long given way to vast open plains – or at least, what was once vast open plains but now practically resembling a desert. The monotony of scorched earth was occasionally broken by the few hardy plant specimens and burnt stalks that survived the scouring flames, still swaying in the breezy wind. The three of you were reluctant to go through the plains – Gwen had let out a plaintive purr when you crested the ridge and saw the horizon-less plains. ‘How were you going to find food or shelter?’ But the alternative route would take months longer. The three of you are apprehensive as you take your first tentative steps into the barren, seemingly endless wasteland.
As far as your eye can see, there is nothing but endless stretches of empty land, like the earth’s own blank canvas of dirt and soil, loosely decorated with dead or burned shrubbery. So it is on this never-ending expanse of ruined land that you trudge tirelessly north, marked on your now frayed map as nothing more than a vacant void.
But the repetition of the landscape wears away at your mental fortitude. It isn’t long before disorientation sets in – there are no stars to guide you as the heavens remain perpetually gray-black, the void of silence is omnipresent and only occasionally broken by the haunting whistling wind, and the earth smells not of rich loamy soil but vaguely of ash. Gwen, in particular, is particularly distraught and fretful as she returns from her short excursions from your side, with no game to be found, restlessly pawing at the cracked earth and emitting keening snarls. You see the same landscape, over and over, and over again. Where are you? Haven’t you passed by this hill already? Aren’t you walking in circles? You’ve seen this crevice! You’ve seen that patch of burnt grass, recognize the pattern that Avery pointed out as a star! You’ve already walked past this hill, notched twice with those two off-gray boulders, why are you here again?!
Avery is doing hardly better than you are, the poor girl clearly unused to the idea of so much space, most likely from being stuck in narrow alleyways all her life – a minor case of agoraphobia, perhaps? It often seems that only Gwen knows where the trail is, and you swear that her face has developed the ability to express more human-like expressions – the now all-too-common look of sardonic annoyance spliced with that tinge of concern readily equipped when you or Avery lose your bearings and stumble around blindly like fish out of water. With Avery, however, it’s not so much annoyance as it is flat-out concern – and you think that it’s a wonderfully twisted relationship that the three of you have built but somehow, you can’t find it in yourself to complain.
It’s on the fifty-third day, when even Gwen’s head is perpetually drooped and you and Avery have taken to placing bets on rapidly dwindling ration shares on how much longer it would take for the three of you to make it out of this desolate wasteland that you see the outlines of mountains in the horizon. For you, it seems nothing more than a distant mirage – and you feel a moment of self-pity for being so worn out and exhausted for being happy at seeing the outlines of mountains in the horizon anyways. And then Avery lets out a giant whoop of ebullience, and suddenly, it’s no longer just a figment of your imagination but the tangible sight of your progress made reality. Gwen bounds forward, similarly enthused as she prances between you and Avery. And in that moment, you revel in the sensation of happiness, the collective happiness you share with Gwen and Avery as the three of you celebrate the visible evidence of a destination now reachable, of a goal within grasp.
It’s autumn, the season of wistful memories of desire and passion, the melancholy transition from the unlimited possibilities of summer to the single oncoming inevitability. But for you, you have finally found something truly worth living for – this little, haphazard family of three that has warmed and wormed its way into your heart – and you wouldn’t trade that for all the world.
-*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*-
She’s rolling in her sleep again. You muse that it’s most likely because she’s giddy with some sense of excitement – and you would be lying to say that you weren’t looking forward to the end of this journey. Tomorrow, the hike up the mountain would begin – the village was on the summit, but on the far side. Before today, you don’t think you would have ever imagined making such a long and arduous trip. For her though… she had never imagined the world to be so vast, so boundless, so full and empty at the same time. When you started trekking across the plains, she had confessed her unease to you, her fright of this world without boundaries. You note that her rolling seems to have woken up Gwen.
She sits up from the cool grass that serves as a bed, throwing off the large cloth that safeguarded her from the chilling winds. You feign sleep – not terribly hard to do, given how dead tired you are from the long journey. Through the corner of your eyes, she blinks at you and turns towards Gwen… and nearly starts when she sees Gwen’s amber eyes staring at her. You grin. After the initial meeting of the two, Avery and Gwen had bonded quite deeply – Avery having quickly overcome Gwen’s caution with delicious food. You close your eyes, as fatigue actually does catch up with your mind and the next time you open them, you note that she’s now tiptoeing towards Gwen who was lying reclined against a large boulder, amber eyes curiously tracking her as she did so.
And then, she lay next to Gwen and rested her head on the now silky-smooth fur of the panther. “I hope you don’t mind, Gwen…” she sleepily yawned out, furtively glancing in your direction before curling up against the surprised feline, who after a moment of pause, shifted more on her side to allow the girl to recline more against warm fur. Gwen looks more than simply bemused, and you grin at how human the expression of bewildered contentment seems on the panther – who has now turned her eyes towards you. Questioning eyes and low purr – you chuckle as you slowly stand up.
You walk over to the two, carrying Avery’s discarded blanket and your own and relax against the boulder aside this family of yours as Gwen mutters in approval and Avery sleepily reaches out to take her blanket. After all, tomorrow’s going to be a big day for everyone.
-*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*--*-
On the fourth day of hiking, that long trek up and across and through the mountains, the heavens open up. You wake that day, confused to why the world seems a bit brighter than it did before, why you felt so rested, why you felt a sensation of rightness that you haven’t felt in a long time. Your gaze travels to Avery and Gwen, now practically inseparable like a little girl with an affectionate stuffed cat – albeit a dangerous stuffed cat with razor-sharp claws. And then your eyes follow their eyes and travels to the sky, and you remember the color of blue, the vibrant shade of the infinite canvas that is the heavens shining once more above you. It’s enough to move you to tears, your monochrome world once again regaining its colors that it has lost, and Avery joins you in your sorrowful happiness and the three of you simply sit there, watching and staring at the sky for long hours on end, as if by just not looking at it would cause the blue to disappear once more. You don’t travel very far that day.
A week afterwards, with no sign of the azure skies ever disappearing beneath the smog of gray darkness again, it begins to snow. You first feel the splattering cold sensation on your cheeks, thinking that it had started raining and worried about finding shelter. But then you look up, and you are lost as flakes of snow and ice fall upon your upturned face, melting seamlessly into your skin. Snow begins to fall, lightly coating otherwise barren rocks and dirt with the silvery sheen of soft snow. You blink, the swift motion of closing eyelashes dislodging that particularly persistent flake of snow from its perch on your eyebrows. You grin, because you can’t keep your happiness off your face, and with almost childish delight, you bound forward, making the satisfying crunch of boots on snow. Your every breath, every exhalation of air is visible in the winter chill. Every step you take feels like a dream, frozen flakes cascading ethereally around you. Gwen gracefully prances through the snow, almost floating atop the thin layers of white, like a giant black wraith shimmering through veils of snow and ice. And Avery, the young orphan girl who has been sheltered behind walls of poverty her entire life, laughs and dances and twirls – a fairy in the ice and snow – the silvery laugh that resonates with the soft sound of snow touching earth.
And so it was, that to the day that you arrive at the long, snow-covered bridge, the days passing by like a transient dream – so ethereal were your days that you can hardly remember anything but the sensation of bliss, as you trod through the accumulated layers of snow, reveling in the sensation of cold against warmth, of freedom, in companionship. Maybe that was why you didn’t realize anything was wrong when the three of you crossed the bridge. Perhaps that was why you and Avery had frozen up when the bridge trembled and shook, why the two of gaped in horror for long second before sprinting when you realized that the bridge was collapsing. You don’t remember much, other than the terrifying sound of creaking wood, of white death on your heels, of the burning oblivion of adrenaline bursting through the layers of cold and ice, of mind ruled solely by terror and nothingness. You remember the heart-stopping terror when Avery cried out, the soul-crushing moment of powerlessness when you turned and realized that she had tripped, and that she was going to fall, fall, fall! You remember running back, shouting her name. You remember a black blur darting past you, shunting you backwards as it passes by, sending you stumbling into the snow. And then you remember the sight of Avery’s body flying through the air, propelled by some massive force, the thud of her body against yours as your combined momentum plowed you off the snowy bridge. You remember scrambling to your feet, staring at the calm silhouette of Gwen, sitting upright atop the crumbling bridge, staring at you with those amber eyes that saw all. The eyes that stared at you, stared at Avery, the unspoken message that you understood anyways but didn’t want to, didn’t want to, didn’t want to. You remember as the bridge fell, remember the sight of a solitary panther – staring at you with soul-piercing amber eyes – sitting atop the crumbling wooden bridge as it fell into the bottomless abyss of ice and shadow.
“Why?”
You don’t remember when you began to scream, when Avery began to scream, when the earth began to scream, when the world began to scream. You don’t remember when you started beating your hand against the snow-covered ground. You only remember staring brokenly into the bottomless abyss, with Avery’s cries and screams being your only connection to reality and the present. You remember embracing Avery, warm tears staining your clothes as Avery cried for the both of you and then some. You vaguely remember walking the remainder of the path down to the village, where astonished people had gathered, gawked and stared before hustling you into warm buildings and clothes. You don’t remember clenching your hands so hard that your fingernails draw blood.
‘Why?’
You’ve always been good at denial. But the truth registers, when you turn your head to address her and she’s not there. It registers when you wince when you cut your meat wrong again, and expect a swat that never comes. It sinks in when you visit the still-grieving Avery, and there’s that sense of wrongness – of something missing, someone that should be there but isn’t.
‘Why…?’
It’s in the silence of winter snowfall, where it is just you and the world, where you come to terms with yourself and the world. You can’t bring yourself to feel the anger or the frustration anymore. You know you can’t linger in this state of half-existence forever, no matter how much you wish you can turn around and make that ashen phantom that haunts your mind real. No… now you’re just unsure, just hesitant with the heavy weight of your dreams and hers. You reach out, and watch a single silver flake of snow lands upon your right hand.
You’ll move on, because you must. And you turn towards the phantom of your heart and smile as it finally dissipates, the inky black fragment of your imagination ascending skywards through the snow.
It’s winter, the season of ends and beginnings, when the entire world lies in silent reflection – to hope and to dream. The weight, the burden of your dreams and aspirations that grounded you no longer feel so heavy, and like the grounded bird that dares to dream, you’ll take flight. You’ll soar, because you can do no less. You’ll soar, for the dreams of three lonely souls that shared the same path.
You’ll live for her.
No comments:
Post a Comment