Flesh and Bone

1.1

Chapter One|Charcoal Sky

A small piece of loose thread peeks up at me from the inside of my purse. The emptiness is almost equivalent to yesterdays. Yet, if I try hard enough, I can still taste last night's oatmeal on my tongue. A sigh escapes my lips.

I lean my head back against the oak tree. The dark shadows of its branches stretch far and wide, almost consuming the entirety of the park and drenching me in its shade. I imagine its roots stretch far deeper beneath the city and maybe, wider than the ocean. A breeze flows through, caressing my cheek like an old friend and taking with it a few crisp brown leaves that fly overhead; swept up and down, at the beck and call of the wind. I glance higher up, past the twisted branches and swirl of leaves, my gaze on the clouds nestled in the sky.

They darken the longer I stare.

Flipping open my satchel I take out my sketch book and trace the sky onto paper. My book is almost full, each page holding a small whisper of my life, but I'd rather focus on the world around me now. At least, this little section of it. I flick my gaze up and tighten my grip on the pencil.

I trace the clouds at first, the charcoal pencil glides over the paper, sliding in and out. I peer up and down, eyes discovering where I need pen to meet paper. My clouds; they should be darker, heavier and bigger. The world around me grumbles and shakes, flashing a deep light and then...nothing. A charcoal line strikes out through my clouds and I wander my eyes over the sketch. Beautiful. Charcoal has smudged my fingers black and I wipe my hands on my jeans, adding another stain to the collection. In a surge of imagination, my sky becomes the sky and for a moment the world I live in, is art-stagnant. The way I wish the world could be. Beautiful and still. A moment made eternal. In a slow flick of my hand, I write my name in the bottom left corner of the page and claim this world as mine.

Freya.

I tuck in a stray curl behind my ear and breath in deeply. The cold creeps up my spine from my seat on the ground and I notice the lamp post coming to life at the end of the path. Where did the time go? A drop of rain drips from the branch above me sinking into my drawing and I curse, trying to rub the wetness from the page. It doesn't help.

"Excuse me."

I startle, nearly ripping my page in two and curse again. "Ah sorry," I splutter, dabbing the page with the end of my sleeve, "I was just lost in," I glance up and my words dry on my tongue.

Not missing a beat, the man stretches his mouth back to reveal a set of white teeth, "-thought?" His voice is a deep probe into my mind; his stature leering down at me. I fiddle with my fingers and nod.

A distant honk from a car blares through our chit chat and his shoulders rise. His eyes, hidden behind the hood of his cloak, bear down on me. I can feel it. I squint up at him, in what, I presume he perceived as invasive. Everyone I have ever met and who have shared the same abrasive tongue with, have had the same thought of me. Too intense, they tell me. Too intrusive.

Gabe had told me it was the stare of an artist. At the time, he had pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and let his eyes travel over my sketch of him. I had wrapped my arms around myself and steeled myself for words of repair. Instead, he'd told me: You draw what you see. What you know. I gushed under his compliment and never asked him what his comment had actually meant but, they weren't words of criticism, so I'd smiled. You're honest, he'd concluded.

Gabe is so much kinder than the people I'd grown up around.

This man does not say anything to pick me apart but, he does incline his head down, tipping his cloak further down his face, remaining shielded from my much too intrusive gaze. Yet, he doesn't appear flustered or irked. His chest rises and falls at a decent pace, his arms hang loose at his sides and he doesn't curl his hands. Everything about him whispers calm and collected.