Status: just started
Tie Apart
Sunset
'As if anything could save me from what I already am. As if the clutches of the woods are anything more than a tie apart from humanity.'
I lie alone in the field.The breeze tosses my hair across my face. The sun sets crimson, throwing rays of fire across the sky. I inhale. Exhale. The grass makes my bare arms itch. I don't care. I only care for the spectacular show in fron of me. It was the opposite of Northern Lights. It was as normal as waking up in the morning. It had always happen and always will as long as the sun still hung by a thread in the sky. As the last threads of warmth were sucked away, I sat up.
I saw fireflies in the distance. They danced, they woke, it was a new day for them. They were as bright as the city lights in the distance.
The city. The beautiful city, the city with a past. Some say the city had no future. There was a certain presence, a certain vibe it gave off. Some say they had seen horrible things there. Horrible things with big teeth and claws. Monsters.
I don't believe them. I'm not gullible, like the rest. There have always been hoaxes. A lot of people are stoners there. The drugs only got to their heads. Only this, nothing more.
I make my way back to the house. It's a short walk. I see the lights up ahead. I almost trip on the uneven land. This field has always been here. Ever since I moved in at four, I remember the field. In the fall and winter it stayed soggy, drenched by the passing rains. In spring, it was the most beautiful land ever. There were dozens of different wildflowers growing there. It must be from all the rain. In the summer, the grass is dry, itchy. Like it is now.
I quietly slide open the back door. I smell food. My parents must be making dinner. What time is it? I look at the clock; the short hand is on the five and the long hand is about halfway in between nine and ten. 5:47? I had difficulty learning in school, but I was fairly positive I had time-telling down.
I walk quietly into the kitchen. My parents don't notice me. My mother is stirring a pot of spaghetti sauce.
"Eleanor! Just in time!"
She dishes me some spaghetti. I want to say something, but I can't. I'm 18 and I can't move out because it's too difficult for me to communicate. It's stressful.
Instead, I smile, mumble an unsympathetic "Thank You," and sit at the counter. I twirl my pasta around the fork many times before I eat it. My parents don't mind. They sit next to me. I eat slowly, finishing when the long hand of the clock is one marker past the six.
I lie alone in the field.The breeze tosses my hair across my face. The sun sets crimson, throwing rays of fire across the sky. I inhale. Exhale. The grass makes my bare arms itch. I don't care. I only care for the spectacular show in fron of me. It was the opposite of Northern Lights. It was as normal as waking up in the morning. It had always happen and always will as long as the sun still hung by a thread in the sky. As the last threads of warmth were sucked away, I sat up.
I saw fireflies in the distance. They danced, they woke, it was a new day for them. They were as bright as the city lights in the distance.
The city. The beautiful city, the city with a past. Some say the city had no future. There was a certain presence, a certain vibe it gave off. Some say they had seen horrible things there. Horrible things with big teeth and claws. Monsters.
I don't believe them. I'm not gullible, like the rest. There have always been hoaxes. A lot of people are stoners there. The drugs only got to their heads. Only this, nothing more.
I make my way back to the house. It's a short walk. I see the lights up ahead. I almost trip on the uneven land. This field has always been here. Ever since I moved in at four, I remember the field. In the fall and winter it stayed soggy, drenched by the passing rains. In spring, it was the most beautiful land ever. There were dozens of different wildflowers growing there. It must be from all the rain. In the summer, the grass is dry, itchy. Like it is now.
I quietly slide open the back door. I smell food. My parents must be making dinner. What time is it? I look at the clock; the short hand is on the five and the long hand is about halfway in between nine and ten. 5:47? I had difficulty learning in school, but I was fairly positive I had time-telling down.
I walk quietly into the kitchen. My parents don't notice me. My mother is stirring a pot of spaghetti sauce.
"Eleanor! Just in time!"
She dishes me some spaghetti. I want to say something, but I can't. I'm 18 and I can't move out because it's too difficult for me to communicate. It's stressful.
Instead, I smile, mumble an unsympathetic "Thank You," and sit at the counter. I twirl my pasta around the fork many times before I eat it. My parents don't mind. They sit next to me. I eat slowly, finishing when the long hand of the clock is one marker past the six.