"Was bittersweet to say the least

One life begins, one comes undone"

✦

They put up a good fight, the leaves, brown and wilted; combating the wind's push with a little pull until their stems betray them, snapping and sending them skydiving only to crash and crumble.

I wonder when I'd crash after all this whiplash inducing falling, all this waiting. Always waiting.

The crunch of an autumn leaf's slaughter is quite satisfying, tickling your ears in a symphony of notes. I think Matt would take the same comfort in my own crushing; his foot hovers only inches above me, ready to stomp me into a mass of broken bones and bloody arteries. Sometimes I wish I could just yank it down myself; finish me before he gets the pleasure of doing so himself, though he always gets his way. So I'd wait. Always wait.

An orchestra of death surrounded me as people strolled, executing lives with every step. It made me not feel so alone.

My skin was prickled in a cast of a crisp breeze, a sheen of cold over the right side of my bent figure. The bench I sat on was slightly battered and uneven edges of worn out wood molded into my thighs somewhat uncomfortably.

Then I heard it in the wind. I felt it in the wind. I could taste it in the wind. A subtle ringing so limp only those acquired to listen to such a sound could decipher.

It was a laugh—the kind that curls around your ear canal and slithered down your spine. There's something different about the expressions of a girl in love; a shift in their emotion's embodiment. Their giggles resonate deeper within when provoked by their love.

She wasn't far from me, cascaded in a blanket of shade from the leaves hovering above her. Presumably her partner, a man hung upside down by her with his knees clutching a branch to carry his weight.

The girl gently pushed him, sending him swaying back and forth. His arms were like jelly, moving around his body freely. He shouted little bouts of detest, but the craters by his gaping lips and teeth undermined any opposition.

"Rose!" I overheard as he began doing crunches in attempts to reach his arms to the wood. She was feverishly tickling him and it seemed as though he was having struggle preventing his fall, wiggling in an awkward fashion.

A short yelp foreshadowed a crunch, his lanky lot of bones smooshing into the patch of grass beneath them. He went down head first at an awkward angle that made me grimace. The woman, Rose, gasped and her eyes burst wide open before she heard his chuckle mid neck crane and joined him. They were in the midst of a guffaw, both now one with the ants and beetles, laughing to the point of tears.

Minutes passed before the man sat on his calves and played a poker face of sadness, rubbing his head. Immediately Rose sported a pout and took his cheeks into her palms, leaning up to kiss his injury better. When she retracted he had wrapped his hands around the back of her neck and pulled her into his lips, interlocking them.

Upon peeling a strand of hair from my mouth had I made contact with my damp, cold cheeks. My eyes were dry and strained for moisture. I sniffled and got to my feet. Death, death, death.

I was submerged into arctic waters. My shoulders were grasped tightly, impaled by ragged fingernails that were digging beneath the surface, piercing through the bone and stirring the marrow in painful laps. Though I didn't struggle. I couldn't.

My muscles had no motivation to attempt to break free of their grasp. I was a stone figure, an abandoned ship nestled deep into the sand at the pit of an ocean; a lost anchor sent adrift.

Matt held me, my mom held me. They held my lungs, squeezing out any oxygen, excavating my will and any salvation. I was choking, salt water gushing down my esophagus. And all I could do was wait. Wait for the final breath. Tick, tick, tick.

My mind reeled memories of Matt and when I was practically a kid and he was sweeter than any candy I could get a hold of. The addiction hasn't run its course but he has.

I let my feet carry me as they wished and eventually rows of assorted bottles filled shelves in front of me. Death, death, death.

Beneath a roof, heat swarmed the ventilated solitude around me, the buzzing sound synchronized with the buzzing of my skin. Tiles supported my soles and a chatter of prescriptions was the only thing audible other than my breaths. The pharmacy.

The pills begged to be shoveled into my arms. They begged to free fall into my stomach acid to fizzle out in my blood stream with poison; to freeze and coagulate it.

I reached out towards them, the reflective orange and pasty white plastic shining under the fluorescents in a tortured, beautifully twisted way. It felt like it was beyond my control as I fit five into both of my palms and scurried towards the register.

Passing through the women's products isle, I came to a halt, my boots skidding along the floor. Her. She. The secretary. Examining the rows of assorted pregnancy tests. Why'd she need them? Matt? Who's impregnating her? Matt? Matt? Matt? She certainly didn't have a ring on her finger. Well, neither did he.

She noticed me and turned. Her face morphed from focus into content.

"Just in case," she giggled and shrugged, "us girls know how it is."

But I didn't—cause the man who I was supposed to maybe-have babies with on accident was maybe-having babies on accident with her. With her.

I needed out, but my feet were locked to the ground. And I was being pulled deeper and deeper into pitch black waters.

The secretary watched me obliviously, honey dripping from every orifice, pooling within her collarbones and slipping down her breasts and trickling along her fingertips, splashing onto the floor with echoes of its amber sweetness. She gleamed in a saccharine glaze, her silky smooth black hair shining. Her lips were glossy as she smiled, her eyes just as warm. She was all golden sugary candied syrup, desirable and sought for. Addictive.

"You alright?" The confused secretary was directly in front of me.

I shook my head, biting my lip and swallowing a gulp of air. I stepped around her, the pills now littering the floor, and sped walked to the automatic doors.

I didn't know where to go when I stepped out of the pharmacy. The house? The grocery store? The park? No. As the only places I go to, they were quite redundant. I was running track in slow motion, passing through those places in circles over and over and over again.

Turning right and feeling the slap of the wind against my face, I decided to just walk and focus on the drop of my hips and thump of my foot against the sidewalk to attempt to calm down.

I fiddled with the ring. Pushing it up and down slowly, I felt the roll of skin being lulled from and back to place. So close, I teetered the cusp of my knuckle, but the slightest touch had it flying to its residence.

A sign clutching the roof of a building caught my attention. It said "Thrifted Styles" in bold cursive letters, engraved into the wood. When I passed by, I peaked through the glass and caught the outline of a figure, what I presumed to be female by the size of their stature.

Before I had the chance to return my attention to what was in front of me, my vision became a blur of colors and my body made complete contact with a foreign object. The impression of fingers dug into my forearms, abruptly stopping my movement.

"Whoa there," laughed a deep, familiar voice.

When my sight stopped rocking side to side I looked at the man of which I had bumped into. The dreaded singer.

It seemed he might have recognized me from the embarrassing encounter the previous night as well, his brow slightly twitching. After showering and mopping the floor I was hoping to burry the memory for good.

We were just staring at each other, he in contemplation, me in anxiety.

Realizing his hands were still cupping my shoulders, I gently jerked them. He cleared his throat and dropped his hands instantaneously.

Unsure of what to do, I began to look down at the sidewalk and it's tiny crevices that captured a shadow despite their shallowness; a slender tendril of what seemed to be the toddler of a plant had begun to curl out in the crease between two of the tan concrete blocks. It made a brave, solid effort growing in an environment it would inevitably be crushed and killed by someone's sole in.

When the man extended his arm out to me to shake and I responded, I noticed the similarities between the plant and his eyes. They were both an exuberant shade of green, teetering on the edge of lime but glazed over by a tint of olive that shifted according to the light.

"Harry," he said flatly. He definitely had a british accent.

"Evdoxia," I returned feebly.

He puffed his lips out for a split second, an action acknowledging my name's rarity.

"Is it odd to say that I feel like I've met you before—"

I began picking at my nails, deciding whether to tell him and relive the awkward moment or play it off as if we were total strangers, but he cut off his rambling himself and gasped with a snap of his fingers.

"Wait! You're the girl who chucked a rock at me!" He exclaimed, a huge grin eating away at his face.

I sighed and internally cowered, shuffling my feet and biting the inside of my cheek.

"You sure you're fine? Looked like a murder scene, scared me shitless if I'm being honest," he said half-heartedly. Properly amusing himself, he waved his hands around animatedly.

My cheeks heated up and I gave a curt nod before swiftly stepping out of his path so I could continue my own. The surprise of the meeting had faded and every thought was of the secretary.

"Hold on!" His eyes bugged open and he twisted unnaturally to grab my wrist, yanking me to a stop.

I inhaled sharply and ripped my arm from his grasp as if his hand was aflame.

His bubbly demeanor was replaced by one of shock and maybe fear? He retracted slightly, his eyes inspecting me like I was a porcelain doll, like I was a fleeting moment from shattering.

After the moment I had had in the drug store I was playing tug of war with my sanity and he was taking a glimpse into the first stage of a catastrophic hurricane. The air was growing humid, but the wind was yet to strengthen and kick start the ruination.

"I... uh, never mind," he said faintly, worriedly. A frown etched small lines into his once joyous face, wrinkles growing between his slanting eyebrows.

I think Harry was deciding whether to act upon my clearly fragile state. He knew I wasn't okay. I knew I wasn't okay. Matt didn't know I wasn't okay.

Despite having a poor talent for reading people, it seemed to me as though Harry definitely wanted to do something, wanted to ask again if I was fine. But, we both knew I would nod and that would be the end of it.

I was slipping and he yearned to catch me before I fell, but we both knew even if he were to lend me a hand, I would still crash and crumble into pieces right when he let go.

Harry might just be a compassionate person, but again, I cut of his airway with a rock for reasons unknown and probably benign to him.

I had won the short standoff, spinning on my heels and speed walking away while his mouth parted and closed. My breathing had begun to fasten and I was desperate to just go to the house.

When I was a fair distance away I turned back around for a short glimpse to catch Harry with a quizzical look on his face, talking quickly to a girl who was listening intently to his ranting, which was probably about our odd encounter.

It was the girl from the park—Rose.

As she reached out and intertwined their hands to drag him inside the nearby store with a minuscule smile, I understood that he was the lot of bones crumpled into the grass earlier too.

Even if I had for some weird reason expressed the horror of today to Harry, it would have been pointless for he could have never been of any aid. All he would have to give is pity.

He had Rose. Rose had him. Matt had me. And I had no one.

⇢ ⇢ ⇢

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p.s. I'm a lover for constructive criticism