7 Years Later

March 18, 2010

Silently he walked down the cold concrete path. He stopped, breathing the cool night air he began searching within his cloak. Pulling out a large metallic lighter he flicked open the lid releasing a large flame. The flame blew and cracked in the wind, but lit up enough around him to see.
He staggered towards a small bush of bright pink flowers, not visible in the cool of this Winters night. Under the light of the flame they glowed, brighter than the stars. The cloaked man looked around, almost paranoid if anyone was watching, and wanting the beauty of these flowers to belong to himself. He reached into his cloak, reaching within his seemingly endless pocket and pulling out a small book. Bright blue with small grey spots covering it. He opens it to a blank, and gleaming white page. Picking the most beautiful flower of the bunch, he places it within the pages and presses it closed slowly.
Looking around himself, he places the book within the pocket of the cloak, and closes the lid of the lighter. The light of the flowers vanishes, and they disappear from reality. He removes the hood of his cloak. The man is old. Greying hair and dimly sit eyes with a hidden sadness behind them. The cool wind blowing the hair across the front of his face, he shivers. The wind penetrates his body and sees deep inside him, knowing his innermost secrets. It knew. It knew what scared him.
That one day… the shiver…. oh it had been too long. How many more were there?
“One more.” He said, voice breaking, difficult to speak.
He was close to death.
He began walking again. Soon he found himself at the foot of a mountain. In the distance he could hear the heiress singing. She would notice and come for him. He stumbled up the hill, old and fragile, deep in thought. The heiress of Silence. The voice of Wind. How he would pay for taking her flowers.
Reaching the crest, he removes the cloak. Standing, naked and his wrinkled old body. It would not do.
He reached down and pulled the little blue book out of the cloaks pocket, opening up he pulled out the flower and placed it in his mouth, swallowing a burst of life came to him as he felt as if he had been born a new. He holds his arms out and inspects his hands.
They were young…. he had young hands. Reaching into his cloak he pulled out a diary, a glass of gleaming yellow dust and the lighter. He poured the dust into a pile on the ground and set it alight with the fire from the lighter. Holding the diary in his hands he spoke very little again.
“Take me home.” He said as a harsh wind blew, blowing his cloak off the cliff.
She was here.

He placed the diary with the fire and closed his eyes.
Death would come soon.
He hadn’t been fast enough.
He would never see her again…. he could still see her face clearly in his mind… and it had been so long…

He opened his eyes. He was atop the mountain on a bright summer day. He had escaped.

He was home.

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One Response to “7 Years Later”

  1. lastlady Says:

    The darkness within this old man, the not-knowing…the final escape. I like it.


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