arms // {phan}

chapter seventeen - dan

Chapter Seventeen - Dan:

There was the smell of cinnamon and pine, coating the corners and hidden folds in clothing as I walked towards the open gate. It was potent and mystifying as I entered through the wrought iron gates, to visit the bustling city life. There were people wandering aimlessly through the packs of others, twisting through the gaps and finding spaces for themselves. I stood there for a moment- taking in the scents, and the sights- watching the black and red colored flags whip in the wind. They looked like butterflies lost at the sea.

In the two years that had passed since Phil's abrupt departure, I never once stopped feeling the butterflies he'd given to me, fluttering around inside my caged chest.

I walked through the throng of people, ones talking with their young and others to their old, smiles on everyone's faces. I didn't feel like smiling.

Others were still wandering, in no rush to see all the attractions, eyes full of wonder as they gazed at the magic around them, the special few spitting fire and sliding blades down their throats, only as a circus should be.

I knew my destination, the one place I felt a longing to visit, so that maybe the pang in my heart would lessen; it would stop jerking me awake in the middle of the night, or stop the spear of ice water that fell down my back. Maybe it would stop the hurt that had been dragged along my chest, painted in dark maroon and deep purple satin, the colors my- no, not mine- Phil's pretty bruise had once been.

My lips twisted into a dark shape as I looked at the dark tents, looking and searching for the sign directing me to my destination. I spotted it, atop the blank and oblivious heads, an arrow pointing to a navy tent to my left.

I didn't quicken my pace, for what was the point. I had all the time in the world to be by myself. I shoved my hands into my pockets of my jeans, the scarf around my neck itchy and wool, heavy around my neck like a noose. I knew I was being over dramatic, a brat Phil might have said were he here. Phil loved me, I knew it, he would confess it everyday if he could, and I held no fault to him for his distance. But everyone was wrong; absence doesn't make the heart grow fonder, it makes it grow weaker, and brittle and fragile to the touch. It hurts so much and I miss him like no one ever could. I feel it everyday like something at the back of my throat, like a knife one of the circus folks might play with; there was no difference, we've both had experience in the art of not choking on something so fragile, and sharp and deadly. Only one was a knife, and the other was the silence I carried with me, and the burden of it.

I'd almost reached the tent opening, the flaps blowing in the wind in time with the flags. I stared dead eyed at the movement for a moment, before entering. It was dark, nothing I wasn't used to from all that time I spend sitting in the cool, porcelain tub, dreaming of blue and warm arms. The interior was only lit with a few small candles set on the rim of black tablecloth, a deck of cards sitting in the center. Behind the table was a large woman, with dark hair and eyes closed, the rest of the tent somewhat sparse. I waited for some sort of direction, or realization that I was he, but there was none.

Eventually, I took the stool opposite her, the candles flickering with the movement. As soon as I was settled her eyes opened, dim and shadowed, all knowing as she looked into my startled face.

"Vhat can I do for you?" the woman asked, her voice more husky like a man's, rolling her w's so they sounded like v's.

I pinched the tarot card in my back pocket between my thumb and forefinger, the one Phil had given me, and cleared my throat.

"I'd like a reading, please," I said, remembering my manners at the last second.

The woman blinked, before she leaned forward, eyes like a cat's, face forming into a knowing grin. It was disconcerting, and I recoiled, feeling too exposed, like she knew me some how.