WordsOnDigitalPaper
She walked up the trail, boots muddied, grass slick. The air was cold, foggy and thin around her. She breathed deeply, leaning against her tree branch. She forgot where it was from, only remembering that it was old rowan wood.
Dandelions and trees were spread around her, as she hiked up the mountain.
She walked alone to the store, warm phone in hand. It was quiet uptown, so she was able to listen to her music uninterrupted. She never liked the quiet, putting in her earbuds and playing a song or humming whenever there was no noise. Flowers were drooping through the cracks in the mossy sidewalk, too much rain to keep them happy. She looked around, not seeing the market. Walking faster to the beat of her music, she hurried along the trail. She would have to get there sooner if they were going to have dinner.
She walked across the boardwalk, outfit looking sun-bleached compared to the black sky. The stars were dull, grass tinted blue in the dark. The wood floor was warm, still cooling off from the remanants of sunlight. Putting her earbuds in, she jogged across the shoreline. Moist sand stuck to her feet as she ran.
"Mezcal." He said simply, slouching over the counter.
"We don't serve that..." The woman behind the bar replied, tense. There was a tension between them, like sand compressing and burning into glass. He looked at her slick hair, drooping down in a bun-ponytail.
"Do I know you--" His hand raised like he was about to point. Her eyes were like coal, about to burn off to smoke; glazed.
She gazed around herself, the wind blowing on the thin, long grass. It made a hue of blues and greens around her, and mixed and swirled as the wind blew. The sky was a mist of reds and yellows and pinks. She blinked. The land transformed, dropping her into cold, dark, terrifying water.
He looked through the library shelves. Only nonfiction-looking books-- was he in the right aisle? Yes. 'Historical Fiction'
He felt dumb, looking for a fairytale book in here. He felt the tattered spines of the books, looked at the boring titles. His footsteps were loud against the quiet floor. His hand stopped one one thick book, the spine of leather. His fingers traced the title as he pulled it out of the shelf, releasing dust.
He used to sit up, wrapped in blankets. It was like a mountain, and he was its core. His mom read him stories when he was young, sitting across from him in a chair. Mystery books, she read. His mom always looked so peaceful when reading, and when something dramatic happened, she would change voices. Flick her eyes over to him to see if he was laughing or smiling or crying along with the book. All his life, she had nourished him with stories. When he was older, he read her stories. By her bed in the hospital. Until there were no more to read, no one to read them to.
Her notebook looked back at her, blank, words reverberating through her head instead of on paper. Words they have said months ago. Years. She still remembered. You don't quite forget when someone tells you the one thing you are afraid of them saying. You don't forget when someone pushes you to the ground, calls you-- she couldn't remember that part. She wouldn't go through that a second time. That was her dilemma. Remembering. She couldn't write anything without thinking of them.
She followed him through the hallway, like a hero traveling through a dungeon with only a string guiding them. Or were they leaving the string? If so, his string was his hair. Darker than everything else, she hurried after it. Gripping her backpack tighter, she slid and ducked past other students, finally entering a clearing where she could walk with him. He hadn't even known she was gone, she decided. This was a dilemma. How would he even like her if she doesn't exist?