Seasons

(NOTE: This is my most recently (meaning written in May...) completed short story. I'm trying to revive my prose muse, so please, use this as a bench-mark while judging future posts.)



It's winter again. Tiny pieces of white fluff spiral through the air, careening to death upon our shoulders. We walk in silence through the mass suicide, hands clenched together in reverence for the lost. Aren't we an odd pair? I'm tempted to break the awesome sense of insignificance with a giggle; to make a joke about depressed snowflakes. It would be wholly inappropriate and hilarious, though you would probably disagree. You've always been a bit touchy about the whole death thing.

It really is too bad. We don't see the world through the same eyes. Ever the realist, you know how snow is formed, and what causes it to fall. I once made the mistake of asking you what would happen if I died right that instant, and you had to respond in vivid, wretched detail. There is nothing, you told me. The heart stops, the brain dies, and cells stop dividing. I'll be just like these snowflakes: briefly brilliant, then gone into oblivion. Forgotten. You know there's no mysterious force, no will bearing the snow to earth. Nothing but gravity, and a simple equation can explain that. It's nothing special.

On the other hand, I, the silly little dreamer, know all about nature and physics, but choose to not view the world through that lens. I'd rather let everything be a mystery, every rotation of the globe another miracle. You think I'm silly with my dancing oceans and suicidal rain. You tried once to be like me for a brief instant, and then only considered yourself silly as well. I still tell myself that's why you're leaving.

We're light and dark, sun and moon, constantly circling but never quite managing to touch. Of course that's just a metaphor, but you know how much I love those. People have mistaken us for siblings before, and though you hate me for saying it, I've often thought that life would be easier if that were true. If we shared the same parents it would be easier to cross the chasm between our different minds. I would love to understand you, and what happened in your past to break you so magnificently. You're my fallen angel. Corrupt god. Beautiful demon.

There's a question trembling on the tip of my tongue, and if I don't release it, I fear it may fall back to choke me. "If I followed, would you be happy?" It's an odd permutation of what I mean to ask, but it's as close as I can get without having to fear the answer. Yes or no to happiness is better than a yes to hatred.

A terse version of 'it's not your fault' is the only response you supply. Not nearly good enough, especially since we both know it's a lie.

Would it help if I told you that you're beautiful? Of course it wouldn't; you've never believed it before, so why would you believe me now? It's true nonetheless. Snow tumbles down to you to melt almost instantly upon contact with the heat radiating through your coat. A shadow: you are a gash in the flawless landscape, and I'm slipping into you down to Hades. Your darkness stands in sharp contrast to frosted-white 'abominable snow girl' me. There's not enough warmth left within me to melt the delicate precipitation. Not even the flakes that land on bare skin can disappear. All the fire in my little world now belongs to you. I gave it freely, hoping your presence would keep me warm, but now you're taking it away. I'm afraid of freezing.

My stride becomes shorter, slower. Hands divide. I see footprints in the snow as I look down between ice-laden eyelashes. Devoid of your proximity the air burns. Frozen wind whips my face and invades my lungs. I want you to save me. I need you to turn around, promise you'll protect me forever and never leave. I need you to pretend you care.

"Don't," the word leaves my lips in a strangled whimper, threatening to die in the air before ever reaching your ears.

Just like every other demand I've longed to make, this one is aborted. "Don't what?" Your voice is clear and loud, the words practically a scream to cross the crevasse of differing velocities. Why won't you look back to see if I'm alright? Are you as afraid as I am of what you'll see? It's okay, I can't judge you. I don't want to look up either.

I'm walking in your footprints, almost jumping from one to the next in an attempt to avoid marring their perfection. I want to preserve them, to keep each vaguely foot-shaped imprint as a memory of you. They're disappearing behind us, swallowed by the waves of snow, but I won't look back to check. You won't leave me anything else. "Please, don't leave me. I don't wanna be all alone again. I don't."

"Maybe if you asked me without the guise of selfishness I would be more inclined to listen. Unfortunately, we both know that is impossible." It's a good thing I'm still focusing on your tracks while you speak, or else I wouldn't notice the steadily shrinking distance between each step. I go from leaping to a tiny gait in an instant, and I'm forced to break my promise not to look up just in time to see your stationary back playing the part of a wall. Apparently you've decided your speech requires too much focus for forward progress to continue. "We also both know that I am not leaving because I want to hurt you." Your words are robotic. Perfect. They bash me over the head with my own immaturity, and draw it forth in response.

"No, you're leaving 'cause you don't wanna hurt me anymore," I don't bother trying hide the sarcasm. It's a cliche made even worse by the inherent lie. I've heard those words so many times they play in endless chorus within my memories. "Screw that, and all your other excuses. The only thing we both know is that none of the things you've done, or can do, cause as much pain as the lack of you in my life. If you really don't want to hurt me, don't leave."

Azure eyes assault my face, slapping me with their bitter accusations. I know now for certain that I should have kept staring at the ground. I can't escape. "That is so adorable. I always thought manipulation was my defense mechanism of choice. Apparently I have managed to corrupt you more than I had originally suspected. " Dark eyebrows are raised incredulously, and I know the lower half of your face must hold a smirk, but I don't wanna see it. Don't need more evidence of your disdain.

"We both know I wasn't that innocent," I try to convey conviction, but only succeed in sounding like a petulant child. All my words sound so weak beside your own. I still catch glimpses of the snow falling between us, a sign of the encroaching blizzard, but I'm not cold anymore. Your attention, even though it's undeniably negative, gives me hope. As long as you're listening, I might be able to change your mind. I had the power to control you once, and I can't see how that could have changed completely.

Too bad you're content with the role of antagonist. "You were a perfect little angel with no concept of how the real world works. How else could I have broken you so easily?"

"I'm not broken."

There's no life around us. In the summer this place is a lovely valley, filled with an abundance of flowers and soft green clover. Green and lush, the perfume of pollen and nectar draws foolish innocents like bees to glory in the light of youth and transience. There are no trees to offer shade to the casual passerby so the inner landscape remains undisturbed for the most part. The lack of cover also means that once winter hits, the land is uninhabitable. It was in this place that we met on some quiet spring day; it's fitting that this place should be the sole witness to our end. Our footprints are the only evidence of living beings as far as I can see. They disappear after a few steps.

There were no footprints on that day. When shoes left the damp green grass life sprung from the dirt, resilient. I liked to compare myself to the grass. People, you, trampled over me again and again, but each time I brushed myself off. That was the first day you noticed me, or the first day I knew you noticed me. All alone without a cloud above to grab attention, we had no choice but to speak. Of course, we delayed the inevitable by tormenting ants for awhile, but that can only entertain for so long. It's fitting that the climax of our story, the turning point of our relationship, should occur in the same place. Odd that something so simple as a change in seasons can make a landscape alien.

You're not nearly as entranced by the stark beauty of the setting as I am. Your bitter tirade invades my silent reverie, and forces me to pay attention to why I'm on the verge of crying. "You might not be broken yet. Please note the might," I think I see a smile as you briefly take on the role of parent or teacher. In different circumstances it might even draw a matching smirk from me, but the moment of lightheartedness is short lived. I think it's my melancholy mood that kills it. "You are still affected enough by my anger to cry. If I stayed, eventually you would lose that too. Eventually you would not be able to care enough to cry about anything. Is that what you want?"

"Yes," the word is half muffled by your hand jumping up to cover my mouth. I don't quite manage to avoid flinching as I feel the whoosh of air preceding the touch of skin to frozen skin. If my tear-filled gaze had not already reverted to the ground in shame, I would see you cringe, but we've replayed this scene enough times for me to know how it affects you. You never do mean to hurt me. You always remember to say sorry before I can get too upset.

"Please, don't say that," your breath is cool as it filters through my my frost-encrusted hair. Not what I expect. I should know better than to be surprised. Isn't this what you always do? Follow cruelty with kindness. Isn't that why I love you? Memories of warm words whispered into my ear rise to the surface of my thoughts. I'll always believe there are still some things worth remembering. Unfortunately, you have to break my trance by continuing. "Please, if you make me believe that, I'll have to stay."

Cold fingers envelope your hand to pull it away. I want to speak, and while at one time I would have bitten that hand until you released my voice, that was long ago. "Would that really be such a bad thing?"

"You know."

You're right. I know you are, but nothing will ever convince me to admit it out loud. I guess this is what they mean by co-dependence. No matter how horrid we know things are, it'll never change. We'll never be sane enough to seek freedom. My fingers are still entwined with yours as we hover upon the precipice of a decision. I've already made mine. Maybe . . . Maybe I could die right now, with your hand held tight within mine, and I wouldn't be angry. Maybe you could die too?

"Please, let's just go home?"

Hello

Welcome. I don't really know what to say, so I guess I'll just offer explanation. This is for my writing, so I doubt you'll hear much directly from me in the future. If you're looking for more up-beat personal narrative may I direct you to my other blog (shared with my sisters)? This is for my writing, and therefore, not the most pleasant place to kill time. Don't get me wrong-- not everything is dark or depressing, but the happy pieces are few and far between. I write what I feel/think, and I write for myself. If you feel like reading my mind please proceed. I'll offer no lies.

Welcome.