Crimson

Chapter Two

|Chapter Two|
Not So Closer To Death

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I have a habit of kicking rocks when I'm pensive. I subconsciously do it in preparation for when I 'kick the bucket', but no one knows that.

"If you keep this up, your toe will eventually start poking out your shoe."

Joke's on you then, I think and glance down at the small hole at the front of my over-worn leather boots.

Jécob and I were idling by our lookout spot- The Rocks, a vast collection of white river stones. The small river had run dry years ago, leaving scattered shrubs and weeds to settle in the stream-line— wreaths for its death.

I settle on a large rock facing Jécob's wheeled throne. He looks comical today; quite unlike him. He's wearing his silly old red scarf (he calls her Iris), a washed-up cream-colored pair of jeans that may have been white once, and his shirt put on backward.

"Wasn't feeling very dressy today?"

He faces my direction, lifeless mossy eyes seemingly piercing into mine. I shuffle uncomfortably despite myself. Sometimes I forget that he cannot see.

"Maybe not, why?"

"No reason," I fib. He's much too defensive for me to judge his wardrobe choice. And even so, he still manages to maintain his handsomeness.

Jécob had one of those faces: the sharp jawline, the fair skin, the sandy-blond hair, and the glazed over sea-green eyes. In another life, he might've been a ladies' man.

"I have my shirt on backward, I know. It's a new life metaphor, you see."

Ah, the unending plethora of life metaphors. Signature Jécob.

Last week it had been him holding a cigar in his mouth but desisting from lighting it. [You put the killing thing right between your teeth, but you don't give it the power to do its killing]. He had read it in an old book somewhere.

"It means that my life is somehow on the doomed side of the spectrum. Whenever flipped over, the lighter side to my existence will be revealed."

I always liked his rare outbursts of hope, but I doubt the other side of his shirt–spectrum, sorry– would be revealed. What with cancer thwarting any prospect.

"Interesting."

Silence looms between us.

"Anyways, here," I fish for the jar in my jacket pocket. "Willow's homemade wine. I saved some for you, you're welcome."

I open the jar and bring it to him.

"Shit. . ."

"Burns right?" I laugh as he goes in for another swig.

"Burns like a bitch."

My mind wanders a bit as I look out into the woodlands beyond The Rocks. The Radioactive Wasteland lay somewhere in that direction. 'Inert' they had said, but I doubt it.

Life snatching fucker.

My head hurts again, and I almost topple over the edge of the rock as my vision swims.

Down the river's grave, you go.

Jécob senses my discomfort. "Are you okay?"

"Just the usual headache," I brush him off and regain my composure.

He frowns but drops the subject. Jécob and I have been friends for many years, and I've come to realize that he's just naturally reserved. It's understandable, with him being blind and all. I too have days where the Dark Place is my friend. My morbid analogies don't help much either.