She's fine, most of the time;
She takes her days with a smile.
She moves like a dancer in lights,
Spinning around to the sound --
Sometimes she falls down.
She likes New York at night;
She dreams of running away.
Shine on, bright like the sun,
When even the sky turns gray.
I need you to hear me say,
I need you to hear me say:
Let go of the fear,
Let go of the doubt.
Let go of the ones
Who to try to put you down.
You're gonna be fine,
Don't hold it inside.
If you hurt right now
Then let it all come out.
("breathe," ryan star)
"What have you done?"
I've never seen Sutton look so angry. His jaw in clenched and his wiry limbs twitch as he paces in front of me. There will be no 'baby girl's in this dream, I can tell.
"Tell me, Shannon, is this what you wanted?" He asks, frustration coating his voice with a raw blast of electricity. We're trapped in a tiny room full of dark marble and absent of light save for the lamps glowing above our heads. It's too small, too contained, I think I might get sick. Sutton isn't faring any better, he growls in annoyance when the constant pacing doesn't provide him with what he needs.
"Goddamnit, Shannon, answer me."
"I don't -- Baby, I don't know what you want me to say." I answer. "Just -- just talk to me, I'm sure we can work it out," I offer in an attempt to placate him. I do not like him when he's like this. I do not like it at all.
"Work it out? Work it out? You broke it. You've forgotten -- You've forgotten and you've brought him into this. Brought Them!" He gestures wildly at the wall across from us and the marble flickers momentarily, as if a two-way mirror had suddenly lost its power, revealing a collection of shadowy spectators who are watching us from the next room. There are paper-thin, insubstantial, but vaguely familiar; I recognize them even though I don't dare speak their names. Not here, not ever.
"I -- I didn't mean to .. I didn't know it would hurt you, Sutton. I just -- It was supposed to help me. Make me better."
"Oh right, make you better. Never mind anyone else."
I'm momentarily stunned by his bitterness. "I .. Shouldn't I try to get better? Try to heal. It's been years, Sutton, I have to .. move on eventually don't I?" I ask, trying to be as gentle as possible.
"Move on? You want to forget? You want to forget me, Shannon?" It's clear I've made a mistake. He's angry again, his jaw clenched and his eyes flashing wildly. I don't like their color now. They've lightened into sickly shade of amber, flecks of wasted gold, or like Aden's whenever he's had too much of that laud--
Oh dear, now he's shouting. "Do you? Do you, Shannon?!" He slams his hands against the wooden table resting between us so harshly that it makes the floor shake.
I don't want to be here anyone. I don't like this dream. I want out -- but my hands are bound my chair, held in place by the cold, cruel scales of a coiled serpent. It's tongue tastes the air between us and I open my mouth to scream, but I'm distracted by the sight of a pistol in Sutton's hand.
"Sutton?" Careful. Careful now.
"You know, you'll never be able to really forget, Shannon. Not out there." He tells me while considering the polished metal. "There's only one way to really forget. Do you know what that is, Shannon?"
I watch him edge closer to my chair. The serpent, perhaps sensing my unease, tightens it hold about my wrists. "What is it?"
"I'll show you, Shannon." I don't like the way he's smiling, he's too close, and I open my mouth to refuse, to reject him, to end this, but the moment my lips part he slides the barrel of the pistol in. The taste of the metal is awful and my unease transforms into outright fear.
"This is the only way to really forget, baby girl." He tells me and the way he stares into my eyes is almost tender. "Are you ready?"
***********************************
I wake up to find myself in bed with Cole, my night-things drenched in sweat and my chest heaving. Without saying a word, I crawl out of bed and slip on a random pair of shoes. They're mine, but I wouldn't have hesitated had I slipped on Cole's by mistake, and I grab my keys off the nightstand. Cole's coat is hanging off the back of a nearby chair and I shrug it on while silently exiting the room.
I do not think to leave him a note, I do not pause to speak to my insomniac brother, I do not even check on my son before slipping out of the house and driving away.
All I do is drive and drive and drive.
I drive until the quiet country roads transform into wide, expansive highways. I drive until the sky turns from muted shades of blue-black to pastel shades of rosy orange and pale yellow. I drive until all the familiar landmarks disappear from view. I drive until there is nothing left. I drive until my car is forced to gasp its last breath while edging onto the shoulder.
And even then, even when I can go no further, my hands clutch the wheel so tightly that I would be able to drive for another hundred miles if cars were fueled by will power instead of gasoline. I stare at the open road before me so intently that my eyes begin to sting from the force of my fixation.
I don't even realize that I've started crying until the water drips down my chin.
As if a floodgate has been opened, the angry, frustrated tears turn into horrible sobs, so intensely painful that they cause my whole body to shake, and I beat my hands against the steering wheel hard enough to leave angry red welts on my palms. It is painful, it is awful, it is too much. I continue to sob long after I've run out of tears, horrible dry gasps escape my body while I stretch out over the center console, bury my face against the passenger seat.
I don't know how long I was gone -- I don't know how long it took that nice gentleman to pull over and politely offer to tow my car to the nearest service station -- but when I finally make it home everyone is still in their rooms. Cole doesn't even stir when I slip inside the room, remove my shoes, return his coat to the chair and place my keys on the nightstand once more. He doesn't even stir when I crawl back into bed beside him.
I can't decide if that's a good thing or not.
616 BC
Nineveh is in ruins. The large, strong gate of Nergal has been torn down, its protectors, the great stone lion-beasts, unable to do anything but watch as the hordes of Babylonian usurpers stampede over broken stone and bronze in order to wreak havoc upon the city. Torches brush against every bit of brush, wood, and cloth they can find painting the evening sky with angry hues of red and bitter orange as the thick, pungent smoke curls upwards from the dying metropolis. The terrified screams of its inhabitants, the innocent bystanders of fate, blend seamlessly with the sounds of metal clanging against metal to create a tragic sound of woe that will surely haunt the ears of the gods above.
At the north end of the city, behind the stone walls of the mighty palace, the hall of Kings Most High, the agonized screams and desperate pleas seemed muted, insubstantial, and the flickering flames could have been little more then candles dancing in the south-westerly breeze if they were glimpsed peripherally. The queen does her best to block out the sound of the screams, of her fair city's torment, and attempts to focus on the incessant chatter of her attendants.
Nineveh is in ruins. The large, strong gate of Nergal has been torn down, its protectors, the great stone lion-beasts, unable to do anything but watch as the hordes of Babylonian usurpers stampede over broken stone and bronze in order to wreak havoc upon the city. Torches brush against every bit of brush, wood, and cloth they can find painting the evening sky with angry hues of red and bitter orange as the thick, pungent smoke curls upwards from the dying metropolis. The terrified screams of its inhabitants, the innocent bystanders of fate, blend seamlessly with the sounds of metal clanging against metal to create a tragic sound of woe that will surely haunt the ears of the gods above.
At the north end of the city, behind the stone walls of the mighty palace, the hall of Kings Most High, the agonized screams and desperate pleas seemed muted, insubstantial, and the flickering flames could have been little more then candles dancing in the south-westerly breeze if they were glimpsed peripherally. The queen does her best to block out the sound of the screams, of her fair city's torment, and attempts to focus on the incessant chatter of her attendants.
"My lady--" A man bursts into the room, startling the women clustered together in the center. Preening and whispering as hens often do, it is not until they are sent away by a cruel gesture that the man can even see the woman they had been tending to. "--My lady!"
"En--Enkil, what is it?" Rising to her feet, the young queen, once praised for her beauty and lithe frame, seems small and terribly weak in the firelight, and the way her hands instinctively lower to cover her swelling stomach would normally cause the man to feel some small sense of affection and awe, but now it only inspires a fresh wave of nausea and fear.
With some effort, he manages to choke down the bile that was welling up in the pit of his throat. "My lady, the king is dead."
"Dead? But how?" She gasps, wide eyes darting from him to the doorway, as if she might be able to peer through the wood and catch some glimpse of the scene, of her mighty consort's demise. "I must.. I must go to him," she stammers before moving to brush past him, only to be stopped by his strong hands about her shoulders.
"No! No, my lady, there is no time -- Nabopolassar's forces have stormed the gate and are laying siege to the city as we speak. We must leave this place, we must make for Vhamere before it is too late. Come, quickly now," he urges, tugging her out of the room.
Mind numb and still reeling from the shock, the queen becomes little more then a rag doll, stumbling along behind Enkil as he carts her through the empty palace and along burning streets until they reach the western gates.
"Quickly, quickly my lady," he says, pushing her towards a pair of soldiers and the horses they are guarding. "There's little time!"
A strange, harsh cry fills the air and the men look up in terror as a horde of birds suddenly appear above their heads. Crying out in dismay, they can only think to raise their hands and shield their faces before the large birds of prey swoop down and devour them with their sharp beaks and wicked talons.
Screaming, the queen staggers backwards, hiding her eyes so as to avoid watching the atrocity, before the sound of something large and solid collides with the ground behind her. Turning to face the beast, she scream once more as she stares at the monster.
It's beastly head raises to sniff the earth and there is something vaguely sensual about the sinuous prowl of its ghastly body while the drag of its sharp talons along the sand hints at untold cruelties. The scent of decay and bloodshed coats the air thickly and the queen recoils instinctively while her fumbling hands search for the protective amulet she wears about her neck. Terror coats her vocal cords thickly, but she manages to begin mumbling the protective invocation while stumbling back from the beast, the wicked scorpion queen.
The beast matches her step for step, and the flash of the jeweled amulet is reflected sharply in its dark, dark eyes. The name of its enemy causes Lamashtu to growl its defiance, the ugly sound echoing off the stone walls of the gates and causing the queen's body to tremble all the more.
"Pazuzu! Pazuzu!" The queen shrieks in terror.
"It is mine," the beast tells the woman while lowering its body into a careful crouch. "The child of kings is mine!" It screams before springing forward, claws outstretched --
A gale force wind suddenly charges through the gate, spraying sand in all directions. The howling wind is painful to the queen's fragile ears, and she catches the vague glimpse of yellow eyes, of fierce jaws, of hunger, as it charges through her in order to meet the demon head on.
"No, no, no!" Screams Lamashtu before she is devoured whole by the yellow wind, her flesh and bones whittled down to little more then dust and grime that coats the sand where she once stood while a harsh, red wind rises up to battle with the yellow blast. The earth shakes from the force their embrace but still the yellow wind pushes onward, driving the red wind past the hordes of fighting warriors, past the sand dunes that mark the entrance to Assyria, and to the wild terrain of the west before finally releasing its prey. Having devoured its opponent, Pazuzu returned once more to the pantheon above, pleased to have finally rid the world of the cruel Lamashtu.
Unseen by the demon, a small, tiny trail of that blood red wind weakly wound its way through the lands until it came upon a small child, her dainty hands tracing runes in the sand while her long, thick dark hair danced in the breeze. With a gasp, she fell back when the red wind collided with her tiny frame, shielding her face instinctively as the thick odor of decay coated the air.
When she finally opened her eyes, they were now a shade of sick, cruel green and her mouth split wide as an angry growl welled up from the pit of her fragile stomach.
"It is mine," she snarled towards the heavens.
I'm two steps away from stepping over the edge
And getting lost in the great unknown.
Because one small step in the wrong direction
Is enough to shake the cornerstone.
Where ever I'm thrown, no matter where I end up,
It can't be any worse then here.
If we're being sincere, then tell me --
What else is there for me to really fear?
I'm two steps away from just killing myself,
Because I'm sick and tired of being the prey.
But when I'm dead, everything I've ever said
Will lose its meaning and fade to grey.
I'm not ready for that -- I'd rather counterattack,
Instead of leaving my song unsung.
Because I'm too young to die,
And I can never justify not breathing air into my lungs.
I'll take one more step until somebody stops me.
I'll take one more step until somebody stops me.
I'm two steps away from making somebody pay
For every time that I've been deceived.
How can I believe a single word you say
When I know you've got a card up your sleeve?
I might be naive but I'm still forced to believe,
That all the best in life is yet to come.
That's why I refuse to lose faith in myself,
Even after all the wrong that you've done.
I'll take one more step until somebody stops me.
I'll take one more step until somebody stops me.
("two steps," clawfinger.)
Autumn's chill hung heavily in the air and the moon hung low in the sky as the children took to the streets on All Hallow's Eve. Jacob had heard stories about things like Halloween and Trick-or-treating all week at school, and it stirred some distant memories, but they were not concrete enough to assure him that he had experienced anything like this before.
Freshly carved pumpkins flashed their toothy grins at him from all directions, while thick cobwebs coated the eaves of the various houses they passed by. All around them, children raced past in vibrant costumes and Jacob could not help but stare, mesmerized by the sight of so many strange creatures running about. There were characters he had only seen on television, and others he had only dreamed about -- and some were so frightening that he found himself clutching his uncle's hand tighter while shielding his face from view. Earlier, the bandana that encircled his throat had felt like a badge of honor, the mark of a true cowboy his mother had told him, but now it felt too tight, restricting, and he tugged on it nervously.
"S'just a witch," Caleb informed the boy, though it was clear the majority of his attention was focused on the cellular phone pressed to his ear. "C'mon, c'mon -- answer the phone, Juliet," the large man muttered into the phone.
"Juliet went bye bye," Jacob said matter-of-factly.
"What?"
"Juliet left. She said she was going bye bye," Jacob repeated before turning his head to inspect the house they were approaching. It's front porch was littered with festive decorations and Jacob was fascinated by the swaying motion of the skeletons hanging from the roof.
"Where was she going?"
"I dunno," Jacob answered with a shrug.
It was at that moment that Juliet's voicemail message began to play in his ear and Caleb flipped the phone shut with a frustrated growl. "Fuckin' women, I swe--"
"Caleb!" Jacob heard his mother hiss, a scolding tone that Jacob knew very, very well, and he quickly released his uncle's hand so as to avoid being considered guilty by association.
"What? Jesus, lay off it, Shannon." Caleb grunted before turning to stalk back towards the monstrous SUV (that Jacob loved to ride in because it's engine was so loud and it was so high high high) that was parked a little further down the street.
Jacob watched him go with wide eyes. "What's wrong with Uncle Caleb?"
"He misses Juliet," his mother answered, her head turned to also watch her brother's departure.
"Why?"
"Because she didn't say goodbye."
"But why?"
"Because she had to go away, I suppose," Shannon replied, pressing her lips together tightly.
"Why?"
"Because they're in love." But before Jacob could ask another question, she urged him towards the front porch. "Now, c'mon bug-a-boo, let's see about filling that bucket, hm? Do you remember what we practiced?"
"Uh huh," Jacob nodded, gripping his pumpkin-shaped bucket tightly while they approached the door. He watched his mother ring the bell and offered a soft sound of protest when she moved to leave the porch, before the sound of the door opening caught his attention.
He stared, wide-eyed, at the woman who waited on the doorstep for a long, long moment before stammering, "Trick .. treat?"
Hours later, Jacob could hardly remember all of the houses they had visited, or all of the amazing costumes he had seen, but he was sure that this would be a night he would never forget. Chatting excitedly with his mother and uncle, he scarcely cared that they added little more then vague, encouraging commentary during the journey home because he knew he had others who would listen. Others who would care.
It was Gabriel that he greeted first, the dark-haired man who made the piano make fascinating sounds and let him help from time to time, flashing his treat bucket while speaking to him in an excited rush of words and laughter. When Gabriel merely ruffled his hair before taking possession of the treat bucket -- "Let's see what you got kid," he said in his deep man-voice, a sound that Jacob often tried to imitate while playing with his toy soldiers -- Jacob beamed happily and left the foyer in order to let his mother and Gabriel argue about whatever it is grown-ups argue about without him.
Just as prior Halloweens were little more then vague memories in his mind, there were also faint memories of a man called Daddy. A man who seemed so tall, he reminded Jacob of the giants in his one of his fairytales and whenever he would hoist him up onto his shoulders, Jacob would swear he could touch the sky. He remembered the sound of rich, husky laughter, white-blond hair, and whiskers that tickled his skin whenever he was brought in close for a hug or a goodnight kiss. And it was, perhaps, because of these memories that he always sought out the golden Spartan who also resided inside the house whenever he was awake. It was because of some lingering bond, that he wasted little time climbing into the man's lap once he found him sitting in the den -- though he must be careful-careful with his friend Cole, his mother had said, so he made sure to not hug him too tightly -- and tried to tell him all about the things he had seen tonight. Because if anyone would understand it was Cole.
And it felt right to Jacob when, a little while later, it was Cole who tucked him into bed and ruffled his hair affectionately before turning off the lights. Because in the moonlight, with his head tilted just so, he looked just like the giant who lived in his dreams.
And that felt right too.
Digging his talons into the wire, the large black bird shifted his weight uneasily on the power line while watching the traffic passing by below. The sharp caw of some of his brother birds caused him to tip his head sharply while glancing in their direction.
Nervous about being so close to such a monstrosity, the ravens clacked their beaks and edged closer together before abruptly setting off with a flap of wings. The large bird watched their departure while grooming his great, shiny feathers before the low rumble of an approaching engine caught his attention.
He admired the ruined ISF as it cruised down the street, drank in the reflection of the sun's rays with a clack of his beak and yearning flex of his talons upon the wire. Muscles taut and eyes sharp, it watched the mechanical beast park in front of a large house and listened closely as the rumbling engine finally faded into silence.
But it was the man, the man with all those eyes, who caused the large bird to jump into the air with a sharp caw of defiance, flapping his wings harshly while daring that wind to try and catch him.
Sunlight seeped through the gaps in the branches in order to cast sharp shadows upon the ground. The forest's floor was coated with the usual autumnal debris: piles of dried leaves, gnarled branches, withered roots, which had been gathered up into a nest; a makeshift throne born from the cast-offs of a fickle Mother Earth to support an ancient witch while she slept.
It was unnaturally quiet in the forest. There were no trilling birds or chattering squirrels, or any other forest creature, it was as if they had all fled the area, returned to their nests and burrows for fear of disturbing the woman-child in the dirt-stained dress. It was so still, so silent, that the rustling motions of a passing breeze was as forceful as a gale-force wind and the brush of air against the trees seemed to contain a whispered message.
Soot-stained lashes lifted instantly and she tipped her head back in order to meet the wind head on, while a low growl welled up from the pit of her throat. "Pazuzu," she murmured, voice sleep-raw and harsh, before rolling over in a sinuous twist.
Channeling some other form, some other time, the clawing motion of her hands and feet as she dashed through the forest on all fours was a vision of graceful bestiality. In that moment, she was the bear, the lion, the scorpion, and woman; she was, and always would be, a true beast. Devouring the earth, she charged through the forest, over overgrown fields, and into the manicured landscape of suburbia. A red haze coated her vision, but she could nonetheless pick out the ravaged house easily and wasted little time charging towards the oak tree that was stationed near the side of the house.
Grunting softly, she scaled the tree quickly due to the sharpness of her claws and the sheer force of her will; she wanted and so it would be so. This was also the reason why there was only the briefest of hesitations before she leapt from a branch to the roof, landing with an ungainly splay of limbs. Hissing softly, she crept carefully along the length of the roof until she was able to catch sight of the front yard, inspecting the scene below with a low growl of derision.
She watched the artist angle into a dark green SUV and set off down the street with a curl of her lip, and it wasn't until she tasted the metallic taint of blood on the wind that she glanced down at the man who had been left standing on the sidewalk. Fingers curling into the lip of the roof, she crouched down low while her hungry gaze zoomed in on the small blade as it continued slicing through the tender flesh of his palm. She was too far away to actually see the small rivulet of blood that leaked from the cut, to actually taste the droplets as they dripped towards the sidewalk, but she could imagine it and the thought caused her mouth to water even as another growl vibrated up from her chest.
Intently, she watched her prey approach the house in order to coat the doorway with his blood, caught the faint whiff of a message on the wind, and it took all of her self control to keep from pouncing right then. But they would be too exposed in this neighborhood -- it wasn't the right time, she reminded herself, but she wanted, oh how she wanted.
By the time she had calmed herself, the man was gone and she wasted little time leaping down from the roof, landing silently on all fours. Tasting the air, she rose to her feet and dusted off her dress before extending an arm with the sharp call of an approaching bird caught her attention. With a flap of strong wings, the raven landed smoothly, talons digging into the delicate flesh of her forearm while he clicked his beak at her.
"Yes, my pet. He's come. At last, at last, my pretty pet, we'll be able to get exactly what we want. Isn't that right, my love?" She crooned while stroking his beak gently. "Now go quickly, my love, after him -- find out where my little rat goes to hide," she ordered before raising her arm in order to send him off.
"The game's begun," she murmured while watching him soar across the sky. "My game's begun."
( as always, i'd like to thank aden-mun for indulging me with the use of their npcs! )
I'm running. I'm running and I don't know why. My poor, aching feet -- why on earth am I not wearing shoes? -- are pounding against the cracked pavement as if my very life is at stake and I don't know how I got here, where I'm going, or why any of this is happening..
A noise -- I think I hear a noise. It's like a cough, or a yell, or a scream maybe, but it makes me feel like a knife is slashing through my back -- no, no, much worse, like ... claws. Yes, claws are slashing at my spine, gripping, tugging, and I double over, stumbling, very nearly drop to my knees on the pavement -- where the hell am I? -- but the fear that is threatening to overwhelm me also saves me, white-hot bursts of adrenaline shoot through my system, brighter then fireworks on the fourth of July, and I find the strength to continue onwards.
My lungs are burning from the lack of oxygen, and the scenery is flying by so quickly I cannot make heads of tails of my surroundings. I feel like I've been running for hours, but some part of me, some secret, wild voice is screaming that I am not moving fast enough, that I have not gone far enough, and oh god they're coming --
Something has latched onto me. Something is holding onto me. The sharp, unexpected pain that races along my spine is followed by a weight, by a forceful burst of tension, and I suddenly feel like a fish that has been caught by a slippery hook. Gritting my teeth, I force myself to keep running, to stretch the line make it tighter and tighter. I will not go on the mantle tonight you bas--
The line is tight, too tight, and with a sharp snap I feel it tug me backwards --
"Well, this is different."
All of a sudden, the line is gone and I am motionless, frozen in place. But I am not alone.
"You're certainly creative, aren't you?" Naomi continues; it's strange, even though everything is in black and white, I somehow know without a doubt that her old-fashioned bathing suit is made up of green polka dots and that her lips are red, red, red.
"I don't understand," I blurt out, turning my head to scan the horizon line in search of a landmark, anything to help me understand just what the fuck is going on. The lack of color is startling, but there is enough distinction between the layers of black, white, and grey that I can make out the rocking motion of the nearby waves. I must be sailing. How peculiar.
"Why are you dressed like that?" I ask, for no other reason then because Naomi is staring at me expectantly.
"You don't like it?" Her lower lip juts out into a faint pout.
"It's a little old fashioned," I answer with a shrug. How the hell did I get out here?
"Says the one who is always looking behind her."
"I don--" Naomi is smirking sharply and I suddenly lose the will to lie. Glancing away, I realize with a start that I am not on a ship at all. I'm standing on the water, but I cannot feel the waves as they brush against my ankles.
"What is this?" I snap. I feel flustered -- I hate feeling flustered.
"There's blood in the wind," Naomi remarks. "We don't have much time."
"Time? What do you mean? How did I get here? What is going on?"
"They're coming for you. You can feel it, can't you?" Naomi ignores my questions in order to glance at me intently from over the rim of her sunglasses. As if she has flipped a switch in my head, I can suddenly hear the low buzz of whispering in my ears. Whirling around, I scratch at my ears while searching for the source. The voices are getting louder, I can almost make out their voices, make out the words, but I can't see anything but water for miles upon miles. Oh god, I must be losing it again.
"Who? Make it stop -- Christ, Naomi, I'm begging you, stop th--"
"Time's up, sweetheart. They're here."
Glancing down at the water under my feet, I can make a dark shadow swimming below. As it nears the surface, the shadow stretches, becomes multiple ones, and I can just make out the hint of facial features, of a frightening memory, before a hand breaches the surface in order to grab my ankle.
"Naomi!" I shriek when the hand is joined by another, and another, and another, and I'm being dragged down, down, down.
"Mm, isn't it nice to be wanted?" Naomi taunts before laughing and the cruel sound mocks me until the water spills over my head, burning my eyes and filling my lun--
I awake to find myself curled up in the upstairs bathroom, of all places, and my night-things are soaked. The fabric clings to my skin and my teeth are rattling from the force of my trembling. Pulling myself out of the tub, I briefly consider calling out for someone, or even phoning Aden, but in the end I settle for vomiting.
It seemed like the best choice, all things considered.
Muffled noise transformed into raucous screaming and laughter as the First Academy's large steel doors opened mere seconds after the bell rang, allowing tens of students to spill out onto the playground. A herd of pushing and shoving children raced towards the line of parked tricycles and the empty swing-set; a few stragglers, desperately attempting to shove on their tiny coats while running, cried out in vain to save their favorite toy from being stolen, or to keep their friends from leaving them in the dust.
The elder, more experienced teachers could be found leaning against the doors, patiently waiting for the herd to race by them while discussing the latest news and gossip about their favorite celebrities, as well as some local icons. Catching sight of something in the distance, one of the teachers nudges the one closes to her before lifting her chin slightly. Turning slightly, the group snickers softly while watching the newest teacher, a lamb with mousy brown hair and a nervous disposition, attempt to escape from the thickest portion of the stampede without being trampled to death. Clutching her clipboard to her chest, she makes a few desperate attempts to instill a calm the mob of rampaging children, to instill order once more, and the teachers cannot help but shake their heads with soft, wry chuckles as they recall the days when they were once that naive.
"I give her a week before they lock her in the broom closet," one of them says before leading the way down the stone steps towards the main section of the playground.
"You're such a bitch," another replies, rather fondly, before turning her head to watch the mousy teacher finally give up and begin to carefully shove her way through the remaining knot of children. Exhaling wearily, the little lamb raked fingers through her hair before approaching the nearby group of women. In an instant, their snide, mocking expressions had been transformed into politely pleasant facades. The conversation swiftly returns to the discussion of the latest headlines.
"Hello," the mousy brunette calls out when she draws closer, clipboard still clutched tightly to her chest. "What's new, ladies?" Offering a smile that she hopes is confident (because confidence is the key to all women's powers, according to her latest self help book) and she forces herself look each teacher in the eyes while waiting for an answer (as her therapist instructed).
"Oh -- hello, Rebecca," answers an older teacher with closely-cropped blonde hair. Rebecca remembered hearing some bit of gossip about the woman being a lesbian, but she just thinks the woman must like shopping in the men's department because heels aren't very comfortable. "Did you hear about those kids they found?"
"No -- found where?"
"At some cemetery outside of town. They think it's a couple of missing teenagers, but, you know, they've found a couple of pieces of them so far."
"Happy Halloween," joked another teacher, her sharply lined eyes flashing with wicked amusement.
Rebecca had once heard that this teacher preferred to have conferences with the fathers of her children, but she couldn't understand why the parent's gender would make any difference at all. "That's awful," she murmured, mouth pinching as she thought about those poor children. "Have they fou--Mpph!" Knocked off balance, she turned to catch sight of a small dark-haired boy racing after a ball. "Be careful J--Ja--"
"Jacob," supplied another teacher helpfully.
"--Jacob!" She finished, slanting a small, grateful smile towards the woman. "I don't think I've met him before, is he new?"
"Jacob? Nah, he's been here for a few years," remarked what Rebecca assumed was Jacob's teacher. "His mom's an artist or whatever, so they travel a lot though."
"Oh, I thought the mom was sick -- isn't that why the uncle's been bringing him?" The teacher beside her asked.
"Mm, I don't know, he hasn't said anything. But it wouldn't matter to me either way -- that man is delicious," remarked the young teacher with a wide smile."Mm, girl, did I tell you what he said to me the other day?" She asked while tapping her companion's arm.
Turning her head, Rebecca tuned out the rest of the conversation in order to scan the playground, mentally checking for each of her students. In the midst of her search, she caught a glimpse of Jacob, ball clutched to his chest possessively, standing near the fence chatting with someone on the sidewalk. The man -- he can't be more then eighteen Rebecca decided -- was rather pale with an untidy collection of dark, dark hair piled atop of his head like a nest of feathers and dirt. His lean, sharply angled frame seemed to be too large for the clothes he was wearing: the hem of his dirty jeans didn't quite reach his ankles, and his flannel shirt was stretched tightly over his chest, sleeves pushed to his elbows. He was intently focused on his conversation with the young boy but then, as if aware of their audience, he raised his head quickly and scanned the area before focusing on her.
The hair stood up on the back of her neck as she asked, "Who's that?" Turning her head, she searched the other teachers' faces intently.
"Who's what?"
"That -- that man over there."
"What man?" Another asked, her brow furrowed with confusion.
"The man..." But when Rebecca turned her head, she found that the man was gone. "He was ... He was right there."
Rebecca had forgotten the incident by the time recess ended, and it wasn't until much later, when she found herself checking all of the locks on the windows and doors a second time before crawling into the bed that she remembered him at all. And though she could barely remember his clothing, or facial features, she could not forget the burning look in his eyes, or that color.
One didn't normally see golden eyes, after all.
We all lead such elaborate lives,
Wild ambitions in our sights.
How an affair of the heart survives
days apart and hurried nights,
Seems quite unbelievable to me,
I don't want to live like that.
Seems quite unbelievable to me,
I don't want to love like that.
I just want our time to be
Slower and gentler, wiser, free.
We all live in extravagant times,
playing games we can't all win.
Unintended emotional crimes
Take some out, take others in.
We all lead such elaborate lives --
We don't know whose words are true.
Strangers, lovers, husbands, wives:
Hard to know who's loving who.
Too many choices tear us apart,
I don't want to love like that.
May this confession be the start....
(elton john, "elaborate lives." )
( Hah! Oh, he's just some friend of a friend. ;) ) read more
on oh my.