There were times when she would stay up all night watching, waiting for the tell tale flicker of distant lights moving across the dark sky, thinking of all the people coming and going to places she could only dream about.
Maybe, she would think. Maybe one day she too would be a light among the stars.
She danced to a different drummer; in patterns, checks, and bows.
This lake, surface shimmering under an unblinking light. It calls with a slow undulation, sweeping left to right then back again. Vapors play, swirl and dance. I pray to the nymph or the Lady of the Lake, bring me treasures; the pearls of Poseidon or the sword of English kings, but let not these waters be barren, for they are the dreams of my youth.
She had forgotten the sharp tang of salt, mixed with sand and seaweed. The predawn air held a chill as it blew across the beach, the sand cool and gritty beneath her feet. With a deep breath she coaxed her weary muscles to relax, a sarcastic smile turned her lips, such simple things to ease an aching soul even if for just a moment was worth the price paid.
At this hour the beach was mostly deserted, just a few early risers like herself, souls seeking solace. There seemed to be an unspoken agreement, each keeping a respectful distance. She slowly made her way to the water line, where the waves hissed and foamed, splashing coldly across her feet.
If only every moment could be like this.
So tell me beautiful, where have you been all my life?
So, do you want to marry that rose or just buy it?
We stood eye to eye, daring the other to look away.
He was already gone. She knew it, wondering, not for the first time, how long she had refused to see. He wasn’t looking at her, hadn’t the entire night. His eyes were unfocused, thoughts somewhere, anywhere but here. She glanced at the closest tables, the smiling faces, the deep red wine, the food, often forgotten, sitting on gleaming white plates. He saw none of it. At last he stirred,
“I really do care about you.”
Bella stared out the window, her brow wrinkling as she slowly caressed the purple cloth cover of the book in her hands. Outside moonlight turned the world into painting of silvers, blues, and blacks. The stars faded in the glow of the full moon, only the brightest making their presence known. Around her the room was dark. She had turned off the lights when she realized she no longer needed to read what was contained within those purple covers to know what was there. The words forever seared into her heart.
It was one of her mother’s many journals, written in her neat hand and still holding a trace of her perfume even after all these years. Bella smiled and held the book to her chest. Of all of her writings this was the briefest. A single sentence placed in the very center, surrounded by pages of the purest white.
‘Darkness, hidden in light, makes a meal.’
She looked at the glass scattering across the floor. The shimmering tones of silicone on terra-cotta. A frown creased her brow as pieces skittered and spun, flinging off sharp sparks of light. This wasn’t the first nor the last, but damn, she hated to be reminded of such things.
Turning she glanced at the hand hanging insolently over the arm of the chair, unaware or uncaring of what happened on the chipped and cracked floor below. She wanted to feel anger, the heat of blood rising to her cheeks as it did so long ago, instead she sighed and careful made her way to the broom closet, being sure not to disturb the figure slumped in his chair. The shards glittered like lost diamonds again the black dust pan, somehow enhanced by the thin coat of dust which swirled between the jagged pieces. Taking a deep breath, she slowly stood, careful not to tip her hand and release the wreckage once again.
She emptied the pan, wiped it clean and returned it to it’s place along with the broom. She let her eyes close for a moment before closing the door and turning to place a thin, blue veined hand upon his shoulder, feeling his bone thin frame through his house coat.
Looking down at his face, relaxed now but still handsomely rugged to her fading sight, she spoke softly.
“Take him,” she told the figure waiting in the doorway.
Venessa looked at herself in the reflection of the dirty mirror, frizzy brown hair in need of a good salon, watery blue eyes, bloodshot from too many sleepless nights and the blotched completion which came from a life too hard and fast.
A crooked smile came to her dry, chapped lips. They say if you think your crazy, your not.
Then what about the talking mice in the walls?