With You
With You
It was storming all night. Big drops of crystal clear H2O were hitting the ground. Mixed with light and wavering snowflakes, they were grazing her cheeks, smearing them pink. The massive, pitch black clock with golden, overlapping pointers, stroke midnight, echoing from the nearby cathedral. She shuddered. And loudly sighed. Her eyes met nothing; not even the swaggering moon. Not even a car vanishing in the distance. Nothing. Just one cold, Canadian night.
Her shabby boots were leaking yet her stubborn mind could not care less. Her flamboyant frolic spirit enjoyed jumping in the puddles. She was drenched, out on her own in the pouring rain. She did not mind. Being thirteen, in the clothes blended with the darkness; without strict parents’ eyes - her life was now perfect. Just her perky self and - infinity.
Hopping around hollow streets, she was playing with the rain. Its strength smote the snow. She's been pacing for hours, looking for a remote village; far away from the street lights. She imagined it as a castle from some almost forgotten fairytale. In this world, the princess was missing. She didn't have a frog, she didn't kiss the green creature. There wasn't her prince. No love. Just an old, gray haired man, striking a match.
1:08 AM. The time she has to be there. She will. She always does. No fear in her fragile bones, just the pain. Every time she has to take another life, the pain pours out. She knew the house, the last house on the left.
It looked nothing like that imagined castle. Nothing. It appeared to be a fading blue painted house where any form of life had died centuries ago. She could see the man from the distance, followed by the moon that jumped on the night sky. No snow, no rain. Just a cold, winter breeze, chilling her young face.
She didn’t make any noise. The snow wasn’t crackling underneath her feet. A smile. She cracked a smile. Her swing was still there, the very same swing in which she was trying to reach the clouds. Its color faded to light, barely visible red. But it was her swing; swaying in the wind.
She glanced through the window. The yellow candle was almost done. The lemon scent fulfilled the room. She could smell it. The man was sitting, sifting through a family album. She saw herself on the photo, swaying, stretching her arms; trying to catch the stars. It was so vividly played in her mind.
The man was coughing so loud, so bad. The candle flame was fighting, striving not to go off. Not to resist to the darkness.
The man turned around, feeling a gentle, childish pat on the back.
“Molly!” He yelled.
“Yes, dad, it’s your little birdie bird”, she retorted quickly, sitting in his lap.
“Oh, Molly”, he started crying, “you look so pretty, so beautiful, like your ill heart never stopped beating”.
“Oh, daddy, but it did stop, long time ago, 50 years ago, remember, when I was thirteen. Dad, you’re sick, I’ve come to take you with me so we can all be a family again, with mom.”
He crashed. The tears covered his skinny face. Shaking in her embrace, she could feel his heart beating slower. And slower.
“Are you ready, daddy?” She asked.
“Yes, honey, I am.”
The clock paused at 1:08 AM, right after she blew out the candle on their leave.
Her shabby boots were leaking yet her stubborn mind could not care less. Her flamboyant frolic spirit enjoyed jumping in the puddles. She was drenched, out on her own in the pouring rain. She did not mind. Being thirteen, in the clothes blended with the darkness; without strict parents’ eyes - her life was now perfect. Just her perky self and - infinity.
Hopping around hollow streets, she was playing with the rain. Its strength smote the snow. She's been pacing for hours, looking for a remote village; far away from the street lights. She imagined it as a castle from some almost forgotten fairytale. In this world, the princess was missing. She didn't have a frog, she didn't kiss the green creature. There wasn't her prince. No love. Just an old, gray haired man, striking a match.
1:08 AM. The time she has to be there. She will. She always does. No fear in her fragile bones, just the pain. Every time she has to take another life, the pain pours out. She knew the house, the last house on the left.
It looked nothing like that imagined castle. Nothing. It appeared to be a fading blue painted house where any form of life had died centuries ago. She could see the man from the distance, followed by the moon that jumped on the night sky. No snow, no rain. Just a cold, winter breeze, chilling her young face.
She didn’t make any noise. The snow wasn’t crackling underneath her feet. A smile. She cracked a smile. Her swing was still there, the very same swing in which she was trying to reach the clouds. Its color faded to light, barely visible red. But it was her swing; swaying in the wind.
She glanced through the window. The yellow candle was almost done. The lemon scent fulfilled the room. She could smell it. The man was sitting, sifting through a family album. She saw herself on the photo, swaying, stretching her arms; trying to catch the stars. It was so vividly played in her mind.
The man was coughing so loud, so bad. The candle flame was fighting, striving not to go off. Not to resist to the darkness.
The man turned around, feeling a gentle, childish pat on the back.
“Molly!” He yelled.
“Yes, dad, it’s your little birdie bird”, she retorted quickly, sitting in his lap.
“Oh, Molly”, he started crying, “you look so pretty, so beautiful, like your ill heart never stopped beating”.
“Oh, daddy, but it did stop, long time ago, 50 years ago, remember, when I was thirteen. Dad, you’re sick, I’ve come to take you with me so we can all be a family again, with mom.”
He crashed. The tears covered his skinny face. Shaking in her embrace, she could feel his heart beating slower. And slower.
“Are you ready, daddy?” She asked.
“Yes, honey, I am.”
The clock paused at 1:08 AM, right after she blew out the candle on their leave.