Beautiful Tragedies

Eight + The Storm That Waits

Eight + The Storm That Waits.

    It's now afternoon, and the sun has disappeared. I watched as it slowly sunk behind the buildings, a blaze of orange and gold, and then, suddenly, it was gone. We are now left with an abundance of grey clouds that engulf the bleak canvas of a sky. These clouds, they carry no silver lining, there only offerings a slight taste of rain and a wrath of icy air. The world matches my soul feeling. It wants to cry with me, but the clouds hold it back. It wants to be angry, a storm untethered, but the trees hold strong, they know better. I know better.

I can't cause any more damage than what has already been done. And so, I walk quietly next to the boy, Ned. My hands tug nervously at each other, I count and recount my fingertips. He's talking to me softly. His voice a subtle murmur amongst the chaos of street noise. I tune in and out to the tune of his voice. I nod and I think, slowly letting his words wash over me. I stop walking when he gently takes my hand and stops next to me.

"You haven't been listening."

It's a statement, not a question.

I don't want to listen.

I nod slightly, guilt seeping out of my conscious.

He's only trying to help.

Ned sighs and I hear the frustration that is woven into it. His green eyes grow colder and his eyes dart away from mine as if, just for a moment, he can't bear to look at me. I see his lip tug between his teeth, a habit I share with him.

"That's okay," He says after a moment. His hands travel up forking through his hair and his eyes move back to mine.

"No, it's not," I reply. "I still don't believe you. I can't believe you."

That tense silence moves back between us, his frustration hanging thick amongst the air, my confusion caught stagnate, unmoving.

"This is so stupid," I whisper, the words barely leaving my lips. Now, it's my turn to rake my fingers through my hair in followed frustration, and as I do my fingertip catches on something sharp. I pull it from my hair and inspect it. Glass. A tiny sharp shard of what was once my windscreen.

This doesn't make sense.

I kick the ground, my childishness unhindered. A small pebble bounces along on the pathway once, twice, three times. I follow it with my eyes, it lands some feet away after having rebounded off a shop front window. I look up and freeze.

Instantly, my blood runs cold. A cascade of shivers spiral down my spine, they bloom like arctic flowers and dance coldly underneath my skin.

The boy, the one I thought didn't make sense, is saying something again, but once more his words only fall a dull, muffled ache against my ears. I drop the glass shard from my fingertip and start walking towards the shop front, my eyes wide and narrowed trained on the reflection in the glass before me.

With each step that I take the more painfull it becomes to move forwards. I become more aware, aware of my heartbeat, aware of the truth.

Finally, Ned notices. He notices my movement and glances upwards to where I'm painfully advancing. His eyes fall onto mine in the refection and the realisation falls across his face.

He knows.

Whatever the words were that he was speaking fall dead on his lips, only to be replaced by the softest whisper of my name. "Felicity..."

Felicity, what? Don't look ahead? Don't see what can't be unseen?

I stop before myself in front of the shop front. The glass before me is so shiny it's a mirror, a mirror that shows that my reflection is not mine.