Innocent Things {among them, love}
..
There you were again: looking, as usual, at your mother's back.
She was tall, but not monstrously so, with a thin frame. She was so delicate – even her hair, the color of the belly of a house fire, seemed as though you could sift your hands through without the sensation of hair against your skin, as if it were air.
She stood a certain way, a certain distance from where you stood. It was the sort of distance that was not grand, but if any sort of misfortune were to befall her, you couldn't reach her in time. And, as luck would have it, that is precisely what happens.
There she goes - tips herself forward ever-so-much, as though to not much disturb the molecules of air around her - and off she falls, down the cliff.
It would be silent for a while. You couldn't breathe, nor scream, nor utter a word. No goodbyes, no 'wait's, and certainly no 'I love you's.
Finally, with the fading of the colors of the sky, there comes the roar of the ocean and the rushing of the wave. It comes toward you, and you can do nothing.
It comes, and comes, and comes…
"No!"
And you awaken. Every time, it is the same.
She stands the same way. She falls as delicate as she. And the wave comes to swallow you up – there is nothing you can do.
You drink in the air and steady yourself. It's late; the moon casts its milky shadow long and pale along your covered feet. The silence is deafening, and your heartbeat thunders in the hollows of your ears. Steadily, carefully, you raise yourself from the dip of your bed and onto the floor. The coolness of the wood feels like God's own breath against the soles of your feet, helping to clear your stirred head. Though there is no one else in the room of the tiny inn on the edge of the sea, you feel the need to quiet your footsteps, and you take care to move gingerly.
With a creak and a moan, the old window gives way, allowing in a nighttime sigh of breeze. You rest your chin against the frame and breathe in deeply the cold and the dark, filling your head instead with images of the strip of land creating a C against the black ocean water. Goose-pimples rise on the snow-colored flesh of your arm, and you watch the peach fuzz straighten.
There are so many lights: the few stars unsheathed by purple clouds, the glitter of the moon against the sea and the flickering gas lamps and streetlights of the town across it. Although you find yourself skittish around large bodies of open water, this particular night, you welcome the view, as empty and unforgiving as Mother Ocean might be. The lights make you feel less alone, and the cry of the waves against the dock remind you that dreams are not real; it was merely the echo of the water that had penetrated your sleepy subconscious.
Again, you see the images of your nightmare play across your open eyes; though invisible, they make quite the impression. Your vision has repeated itself again and again for years upon years, haunting you like the memory itself. You close your eyes and inhale once more, imagining that you could actually feel your heart ache.
Resonating from the deep trenches of your soul, you pray for her.
"Mother… mom. I'm so sorry." You exhale and give your prayer to the wind.
You slowly shake your head, burying it into your arms as you fight down the hot thing rising in your throat. And slowly, very slowly, you fade back into sleep.
..
"Ah, bollocks!"
You curse at the side of the speeding locomotive, of which you are currently in hot pursuit.
"You couldn't… have… left… 5… minutes… later!?"
The mechanical beast blew its horn, belching up a great deal of steam, and steadily gained speed. Panting, wheezing, and thoroughly defeated, you slow to a stop and double over, gasping for air.
"Fuh… fine!" you shout at its glistening backside, watching hopelessly as it ducks beneath the arched exit.
You swallow a few lung-fulls of air and stand, brushing the dirt from your knees. The station – though it was quite early – was already full and loud. Visitors, returns and salespeople mulled about; it was a chorus of babble and briefcases, laughter mixed with shouting and a few uncomfortable children crying somewhere far off. Everyone was moving – no one stayed, or at least, not for long. They all had places to be, deadlines to be met, people to meet and trains waiting to be caught… except for yours, of course.
"Nyeagh," you muttered and turned sharply, only to be sent back down by a collision into something both hard and soft, simultaneously – an oxymoron. Or was it an idiom?
"Gah!! Excuse me!" said the idiom.
"Ahh… Oww!" you hollered, "What the hell!? Watch where y-"
Silenced by the hand. It appeared that the collision-ee was offering one to you: a sort of peace offering. Huh.
"Forgive me. I haven't eaten yet, and I get clumsy when I'm hungry."
Looking up into the face of the idiom, you noticed a great amount of innocence about it. He was a boy no older than yourself, grinning in an apologetic sort of way. Apart from his kindness, you counted two very peculiar aspects about him: one, the marking drawn in deep red ink along his brow, tracing down his cheek and beginning with a pentacle.
The second: his hair, which was the color of snow. The latter of the list would not have been surprising, had he been an even 50 years older than he was. It fell in locks above his eyes.
"Oh, uh…" Those few things about the boy caught you off guard. You accepted his offer of a help-up and steadied yourself before letting go. "It's… it's alright. I'm fine – a-and I'm sorry, too. I was upset, I suppose. I was meant to catch that last train, but as you can see… Yeah, I'm in a bit of a spot, now."
The boy laughed lightly. Babbling… you were babbling!
"I see what you mean," he sympathized, "My train doesn't leave for another hour… but I thought I could get some breakfast before then…" There was a short silence, filled with semi-awkward smiles from both parties.
"Uh – oh!" The boy perked up suddenly and you stiffened in surprise. "My name is Allen! Allen Walker."
He re-extended his hand toward you, which you re-accepted. It wasn't until then you noticed it was gloved; a third oddity, followed by his equally strange wardrobe – a black, hooded cloak adorned with elaborate silver ornaments. The whole thing seemed quite strangely… familiar.
"Tabitha!" you said, excitedly, after another moment's pause. The several odd things seemed to have piled up, and you found yourself quite distracted by the boy's mere existence. A distant whistle echoed somewhere far away.
"Ah… Nice to meet you, Tabitha!" The idiom-boy with the white hair grinned again, as though everything was fine and would always be fine. And you found yourself becoming submerged in the happy, smiling, cloaked thing that was he.
"Well…" he began, "Uh, if… if you're not catching another train for a while… ah. Maybe – er, maybe you'd want to…"
He blushed. He blushed! His open eyes and goofy smile… Could he look any younger? "…Yes, I'm listening," you prodded, and hoping you didn't seem too pushy afterward.
"Um… Well, maybe, you'd want to have breakfast, too… With me?"
No; no, he couldn't seem more like a little boy. And that was it – standing there, in the station, you fell madly in love with this kid, whoever he was. You blinked once and sighed a little.
"Yes. Yes, I'd love to."
Allen Walker, the idiom, visibly lit up before you. "Great! I know this place down the road, they're excellent." He didn't wait to finish his sentence before turning to lead the way.
You laughed at him, and at yourself, a little. He wasn't like a boy – he was like a romping puppy.
You looked sideways at the station's clock tower. 'I've got time…' you thought, agreeing with yourself. And you followed Allen Walker out the main doors.
..
Thank you for reading~! Please let me know what you think - what you liked, or anything you didn't, I suppose... But I would like the first much better.
~ l.l&p
n.t.