~CH 4…wow…well, I hope some of you are still with me. I Thank you all again for reading and reviewing thus far. I veryveryvery much appreciate it. Anywho, here it is, here we go, a quick…or not… trip to the past.
Forever the fool,
~Kyre~
Disclaimer: This world is not mine. It is the sole property of Amilia Atwater-Rhodes =)
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IV: Brighter's Path
Away we go, on Brighter's Path,
Along the shallow field,
Where happiness falls down with rain
And Joy, the flowers yield
Where is success, in breathing found,
Rewarding cries and dues,
They throw about, glad, left behind,
And overall abuse
Inside this place, a happy note,
In every cord is made,
For if the music's loud enough
They can forget the shade
And go about, blind, light of eye,
Turn as the shadows pass
Ghosts whispering their like demise
To these deaf ears in mass.
It was a dry, summer evening of early August three years previous, and the house shuddered under the tension that had bled into it. Like bitter sweat, the hatred stuck to the walls and flowed out of every pore in the stucco. Karah watched the stale white divider as if she expected it to speak. There was no eagerness in her face however, only dry acceptance of the dull throb coming from the next room. Who knew 'I statements' could include so many four letter words? She pondered this, and many more things than could be guessed in her blank stare, as she ran her fork across the mostly empty plate on an even emptier table. There was a crack down the middle (of the table, perhaps the girl) that seemed to have grown larger that evening.
Funny.
Scientists spoke of concerts, headphones, and church bells as being detrimental to hearing, yet none, it seemed, had explored the power of shouting. What better tool to deafen a teenager than the rage soaked screams of the parents? Though, it needed not be a yell. One softly spoken word of loathing was enough to shatter a small world and bring it under a tearing silence.
It was a still torment. Her stomach was falling, her chest locking, her head pounding, her soul ripping, her eyes filling, yet for all this, she appeared normal enough. The red flag was so small, a slight crease between her eyebrows. The façade was an art form that many of her age had mastered but for in which few took pride. Who wanted, after all, to recognize the lie they lived? She was choking on bile, drowning in stifled breaths, yet to all the world appeared listlessly playing with the last scraps of a heartless dinner, elbow placed rebelliously on the table, head resting sideways in her hand.
The fork clattered dejectedly upon the plate as she dropped it, voicing its own selfish concerns. She got up suddenly, with less control then she would have liked, and walked out of the dinning room, up the indifferent stairs and down the following hall to her bedroom.
It was white mostly, unoriginal but comfortable enough. There were a few scattered paintings on the walls, some sketches, a handful of photographs and a Van Gough calendar. It reminded Karah of a sitcom room, simple and sterile. It was as if she was watching herself in a space untouched, unlived in.
She let herself fall, slower than usual, to land on the bed. It formed around her, not wanting to get too close. Hostile. There was something pulsing, red.
She turned her head slightly, catching the dull throb of her answering machine. It was one of the oldest devices ever to be graced by the sun's rays, she was certain of it. The casing was a dull gray plastic, the same shade that one could see on old beta cassette players or objects just beyond memory's reach.
01-----01-----01-----01
She shifted, slowing reaching to press 'play.' A voice greeted her, not one that seemed particularly happy to speak to the girl, but then again, Karah didn't really care for the answering machine's stiff feminine tone either. It reminded her of too many.
YOU HAVE----ONE----NEW MESSEGE AND---ZERO---OLD MESSEGES
BEEEEEEEEEEP
The box began to crackle and there was a pause, an intake of a quick, excited breath. The happy and hardly familiar voice began to blare, like an unwelcome foghorn in the paws of a mouse.
HEY KARAH IT'S JANE, GOD, I WISH I COULD TALK TO YOU….PICK UP THE PHONE! OH WELL, I JUST WANTED TO SAY THANKS, ME AND NATE ARE TALKING AGAIN. HE SAID WHAT YOU SAID MADE A LOT OF SENSE, SO, YA THANKS FOR WHATEVER YOU SAID-
The voice paused to laugh, creating an ironic disharmony with the shouts that wafted up from the kitchen.
-ANYWAY, SOMETIMES I THINK YOU CAN SOLVE ANYTHING, YOU REALLY KNOW—
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP.
Her twenty seconds were up and painfully too late. Karah reached over to slap the 'delete' button, a prelude to burying her head under a pillow.
Life could be too bitter sometimes, too ironic. Perhaps she was merely too susceptible to existence. Only, that didn't sound right. How could one be vulnerable to living?
She sighed quietly and sat up (for which the bed was much relieved).
Some air, she decided, was all she needed. The problem with this lay in that to reach the front door, she would have to pass the kitchen, and, at this point, she would not do so for any price presented her. So, feeling restless, reckless (and an unrecognized/unremembered third adjective starting with the letter 'r') she threw open the window and gazed below. Just as she suspected, there lay the convenient trellis her mother had placed last month. She drew away from the pane to scoop up her charcoal sweatshirt that had been resting peacefully, curled on the carpet. She donned it quickly, leaving little time for her nerve to escape her, before lowering herself out the window.
She let her feet catch the trellis, with the hopes that it might aid her by letting her climb down. However, it seemed the garden ornament had betrayed her. She had barely descended a few feet before the trellis let out a moan, then vindictively snapped beneath her in quick succession, like so many staggered teeth of a separating zipper.
She landed in a loud pile of sweet potato vine and splinted wood, the small, white blossoms of the plant clinging to her clothes, laced in her hair.
Contrary to popular belief, trellises are not made with escaping teenagers in mind.
Apparently, her fall had been sufficiently smothered by the din from the house. Karah brushed herself off as she got up, removing as many of the pesky flowers as she could. She looked down the street tentatively. The sun had set only a few moments before, leaving all she surveyed basking in the glorious twilight. Her mood was so quickly improved, it seemed almost strange. Granted, Karah was a crepuscular creature to the core, but, even so, it was more than being immersed in her element. The blanket of stress that her house trapped over her had been lifted, bringing with it a sense of freedom she rarely felt. The contrast was so defined, like being taken from a steaming pot and dropped into a vat of ice water. She even managed a smile.
She started off down the block at a walk, a steady and unhurried pace, taking in all she could of the late-summer dusk. She passed a gray bench, but paused, momentarily stunned by the tree beside it. It was a swamp maple in full, crimson glory. The leaves were so vibrantly red, they appeared unnatural, though blessed or cursed she could not say. Eventually, she continued on, heading towards the park.
Nightingale Park was created long before Karah was born. It had stood for longer than her house, her block, and most of what filled the quaint New England town. It smelled old. The area was large, many square acres of well kept grass, elm and ash. Small dirt paths ran through the place like veins.
She entered from the east side, and heading down the main trail, marked by a small, wooden sign that announced proudly that the girl was walking along 'Nightingale Way.' It was moderately empty by now (as most respectable places were come sun down), but she could still see stragglers crossing in shadow on their respective routes. They oddly reminded her of phantoms; trying to return to places they'd forgotten.
The small road seemed to unwind before her feet, carrying her farther than she'd gone in years. It was calling quietly, encouraging her, almost. It also helped that, subconsciously, she had no desire to return home, not yet. Even the dark waited longer than usual to descend, feeling no need to remind her of the time. It was holding its breath. Finally, It could no longer keep itself in, and in a whoosh of release, full night burst forth, encompassing the girl.
She stopped. That was her signal to go home, or it would have been, had something not caught her eye. She had halted right in front of a fork in her way, of which she had already passed many that formed trails diverging from the main road. This one, though, felt different. She looked down and read the wooded sign: 'Brighter's Path'
Afterwards, she would not have been able to explain what made her choose to continue down this second road. Perhaps it was the irony of traveling down 'Brighter's Path' at night, or the insistent tug in her chest that wanted to stay as far away from home as she could manage. Perhaps it was something more.
All that didn't much matter, not really. She took the path, and that was everything.
(*wipes brow* a bit longer than usual…..So, what do you think? Digame, por favor)
