𝐚𝐥𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐞; eugene roe ✔

PART NINE

Word count; 2,190

Valentina

Quietly, I descended the stairs of my home, aware the steps were anciently worn and any wrong movement could wake those on the floors surrounding it. All night, I had tossed and turned, sweat clinging to my forehead, the summer air reaching its brink. For the last couple of weaks, all fans in the house seized to work, and almost every night was a bother, blanketed with humidity, discomfort and hassle. It was most nights now, in the early morning, where I found myself outside on the veranda, leaning against the stone parapet in hopes the cold rock would cool my skin and supply enough repose to propell me back into slumber. Yes, it rarely worked; the only time I could ever sleep fully was when every night's restlessness piled up nad my body had no other resort but to crash into my bed and rise hours later.

I brought Martin's book with me, this time, hoping the pages would tire my eyes and, in that way, I would be able to return to my bed. False hope, maybe, but it was better than doubt. I sat in the corner of the patio, observing the lake for a while, how the moon glistened off of it. My head dropped against the stone parapet and I opened the book. As I read it, I thought of the translation; I knew how to speak English, write a few words perhaps, but reading would always take me hours longer than it should've.

We tend to forget the sense of reason when love is a part of the question, it said. We make rash decisions - the future is an afterthought, always. We trip and don't feel the pain, not until we rise to a crack in our centres, a scar, which doesn't seem to heal. Even then, the distance between us and reason appears far, the trek seemingly not worth it. Of course it isn't worth it, not when we've abandoned so much and still suck on the memories despite the sourness. Instead, we try: grab back onto the rope which tied us here in the first place, hoping to heal what can't be. Is it not right?

"Is it not right..." I muttered, finding my eyes glancing away, towards the lake.

"Is it not right?"

My head darted towards the statement, the silence of the air and the hushed tone of it catching me off guard. I thought it was my own mind, only to hear the sentence repeated in the same level of stillness. I knelt forward, focusing on a tile of the patio, hoping to hear it once more. When it came again, I stood rapidly, book in my arm. My eyes fell over the edge of the veranda, to the slowly declining slope which lead to the lake and wrapped around this side of the mountain. A man was there, almost a part of the wall, sat cross-legged and hugging his knees. I nearly called his name but smacked my mouth, noting the open windows of the walls behind me.

I hurried down the slope, waddling along like some kind of unbalanced bird, the path full of gravel and dirt and other layers of sediment. After a while of struggling, I removed my shoes, holding onto them in one hand as I continued along the road. When I came to a halt, there was a heaviness in the air, a tension of some kind.

"E-Eugene?" I said in an undertone.

He was muttering to himself, his stare focused somewhere in the distance.

"Is it not right? There are so many, so so many. How is it fair? One after the other after the other, how is it fair? Is it not right?"

"Eugene?" I repeated. "Are you all right?"

For a split second, his eyes cleared, silence between us, only for the words to return alongside that blank stare I couldn't recognise, not in anyone. Again and again, he repeated the same thing - a prayer, almost. I approached him, extending an arm to grace his shoulderblade.

I couldn't think, not for a moment or two.

Then, it hit.

Small shards of glass, the colour of deep green sea-glass, were implanted into my hand, dark red streams of blood slowly leaking from beneath them. I didn't even know where the bottle came from.