Status: Updates Aug. 10 - Aug. 14
At the Edge
You're the Only Thing in This World
It was two days later when Mary collapsed. After only an hour of walking she was done for the day. Arthur stood still to test the air, but decided at length that it was no hotter than it had been the previous day. He offered small sips of water to Mary. She took a few then pushed him forward.
When she fell again twenty minutes later Arthur yielded to the small suggestion of taking a rest. He handed her the water again.
Mary rested on her back and let the water fall down her throat. She didn’t bother to taste it or wet her tongue. She only wanted the relentless scratch of her throat to go away.
Through the fog blanketing her mind, Mary had the distinct urge to sleep. Through that same fog she could feel somebody—a voice sounding a lot like Arthur’s stilted scratch—telling her to keep her eyes open.
She lets her world spin with nothing but a cough because she didn’t have enough moisture to hum. She let her heart beat slowly against a hard surface that she’s unwilling to open her eyes to see.
Arthur could feel that heartbeat against his back as he struggled to his feet. Mary isn’t heavy, but the sand holds no shape and he was breathing out his strength with every huff, his skin somewhere beyond sweat.
Arthur understood somewhere in his mind that he could have just left. He registered the obvious fact that it would be easier to continue on without Mary. There would be no more pauses on top of steep hills, he wouldn’t have to constantly rest, and his eyes wouldn’t continue to glance over his shoulder for the familiar shape of another human body.
He kept his feet moving and shifted Mary into a more comfortable position.
When he had to stop and collapse under the weight of the sun, the heat, and Mary’s small frame, he used the five minutes of rest to pour more water down Mary’s throat. He took a small mouthful and held it against his tongue while he dabbed some of the liquid against Mary’s burning forehead. Her throat made another grinding noise that should have been a hum.
Arthur swallowed his water thickly. He at least manages to keep half of the liquid down as he coughs up on the sand.
The minutes tick by until Arthur can feel his heart steadying and is finally able to pick himself up again. He barely manages to hold Mary and stumbles twice before he makes it to the base of another towering hill. It’s the worst climb of his life. He thinks about giving up halfway, considers letting them both drop down and be buried in the sand and wind. If they’re lucky a snake will bite them tomorrow. If they’re lottery winners the dogs will decide their bones are worth picking.
But he doesn’t do this.
He pushes himself forward. He stumbled again and the sand doesn’t offer a place to grab, but Arthur manages to shove his right hand deep enough into its surface that he slows.
When he makes it to the top, he is no longer checking for the heartbeat against his back. He is no longer wondering how to split the last drops of water. He is falling and he can feel his skin festering. He can feel the hot sand falling down his clothes, sticking in crevices he wished he didn’t have.
Most importantly, he can smell the salty air and see the coming clouds.
When she fell again twenty minutes later Arthur yielded to the small suggestion of taking a rest. He handed her the water again.
Mary rested on her back and let the water fall down her throat. She didn’t bother to taste it or wet her tongue. She only wanted the relentless scratch of her throat to go away.
Through the fog blanketing her mind, Mary had the distinct urge to sleep. Through that same fog she could feel somebody—a voice sounding a lot like Arthur’s stilted scratch—telling her to keep her eyes open.
She lets her world spin with nothing but a cough because she didn’t have enough moisture to hum. She let her heart beat slowly against a hard surface that she’s unwilling to open her eyes to see.
Arthur could feel that heartbeat against his back as he struggled to his feet. Mary isn’t heavy, but the sand holds no shape and he was breathing out his strength with every huff, his skin somewhere beyond sweat.
Arthur understood somewhere in his mind that he could have just left. He registered the obvious fact that it would be easier to continue on without Mary. There would be no more pauses on top of steep hills, he wouldn’t have to constantly rest, and his eyes wouldn’t continue to glance over his shoulder for the familiar shape of another human body.
He kept his feet moving and shifted Mary into a more comfortable position.
When he had to stop and collapse under the weight of the sun, the heat, and Mary’s small frame, he used the five minutes of rest to pour more water down Mary’s throat. He took a small mouthful and held it against his tongue while he dabbed some of the liquid against Mary’s burning forehead. Her throat made another grinding noise that should have been a hum.
Arthur swallowed his water thickly. He at least manages to keep half of the liquid down as he coughs up on the sand.
The minutes tick by until Arthur can feel his heart steadying and is finally able to pick himself up again. He barely manages to hold Mary and stumbles twice before he makes it to the base of another towering hill. It’s the worst climb of his life. He thinks about giving up halfway, considers letting them both drop down and be buried in the sand and wind. If they’re lucky a snake will bite them tomorrow. If they’re lottery winners the dogs will decide their bones are worth picking.
But he doesn’t do this.
He pushes himself forward. He stumbled again and the sand doesn’t offer a place to grab, but Arthur manages to shove his right hand deep enough into its surface that he slows.
When he makes it to the top, he is no longer checking for the heartbeat against his back. He is no longer wondering how to split the last drops of water. He is falling and he can feel his skin festering. He can feel the hot sand falling down his clothes, sticking in crevices he wished he didn’t have.
Most importantly, he can smell the salty air and see the coming clouds.