Wake Me From the Dead

Alice was used to structure, even in her life at home these days there was a constructed routine that her father had carefully mapped out for them. He was their protector - both physically and emotionally. Each night, he played his records a little bit louder to drown out the sounds of resistance - to protect Alice and her mother from the truth and reality of their lives. Truth be told, the far-away sound of bombs exploding in the otherwise still atmosphere did not scare her as much as it reminded her of her brother, whose return was still long overdue. But, like the rest of them, she kept these thoughts tucked neatly away so that the only time they could weasel their way out it was in her dreams, when she had not the strength to keep them at bay. They were horrifying thoughts, ideas her overactive imagination had concocted for her. Even though she had been sheltered from the war, she knew the brutalities of it, she knew that there was never rebellion without death and sacrifice and fear that most people on the outside didn’t appreciate. She could see it in his face, there was nothing but unnecessary worry there in his furrowed brow. Well, she believed that it was unnecessary while, in fact, it was very necessary. She was naïve, even now, and maybe she was still caught in juvenile denial that she would forever be out of reach of the worlds harsh hands. His face, hard edges and sharp angles and slanting lines, did not reveal much or maybe she just didn’t know quite how to look for it. She was a little girl used to the light, lost in this world gone dark - shattered, the bent and broken spines of buildings like shrapnel to her heart. In fact, the only thing that had soothed her troubled, agitated nerves in the entirety of her ill-fated adventure from behind safely closed doors was this hated man, whose name she did not even know.

To her, he was a saint - a lighthouse in a dark and churning sea - and she clung to his warmth, though she did not dare to physically reach out and touch him (this was not to say that she did not desperately want to). When he offered his jacket to her, a tremor that had nothing to do with the cold, she reached out and took it with a sheepish smile. In the next moment she was exaggerated, broken lines and human humility as she shrugged the jacket on and allowed the heavy smell of him to wash over her, further soothing her bristling nerves. She sucked in a sharp breath and bowed her head a fraction to hide the fact that she held her breath in a silly attempt to memorize the way he smelled. She knew, even if she never saw him again, she would never forget him or his kindness. He spoke and, whether she liked to or not, she looked up at him and the intensity of his handsome, chiseled face had her breath leaving her in one fell swoop and she hugged herself tighter, mustering a weathered grin in response. This did little to advertise the relief that flooded her bloodstream but she would be far too embarrassed to allow him to see this anyway.

“Thank you,” she murmured quietly and, after hesitating for a long instant, she set off in the direction of home. She was suddenly horrified by the fact that he would soon know she lied about the length of distance between them and her house and she wondered if she should confess now or simply let him draw his own conclusions. It was terrifying to her to think that he might take her for a liar but she kept her mouth pressed tight-closed. Each of her nerves stood on end as he draped his arm around her shoulders and an electric hum accompanied her pulse. Her breath became short and shallow and she inhaled sharply in an effort to steady it and the suddenly erratic beat of her heart. All the while, she subconsciously sank deeper into the murky depths of his half-embrace, pressed herself close enough so that she could feel the valleys between his ribs through the jacket and his light shirt. Close enough that she could feel the thrum of his words as they rumbled appealingly through his chest and she listened more with her body than with her ears, closing her eyes for only the briefest of instants to revel in the smooth tone. She was not taken aback by his inquiry because she has no room to be – she had been a fool to come out here, she had been all too eager to admit that.

“I,” she whispered and her voice broke off in her throat, causing her to grimace pointedly before she could go on, “I am a dancer,” she told him, stating the painfully obvious, “my studio,” she murmured and her voice failed her as hot tears stung the backs of her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she sighed, reaching up to press the heels of her palms hard against those eyes in an effort to press the tears back down to wherever it was they came from. The studio had been so sacred to her that its demise might somehow cause her to breakdown in front of a virtual stranger. “It was very kind of you to walk with me,” she said suddenly, desperately trying to change the subject. There was a moment’s hesitation before she finally said, “what’s your name?” Although she knew that she has no business asking.