Opia

I was in a state of confusion; not much of anything seemed to make sense anymore. My mind was beginning to be plagued by nighthawks. I felt guilty, guilty that I could not manage to be happy under the circumstances that I was currently living in. I felt guilty, guilty that I could not cry over the death of the the ones in which I loved. But if there was one thing that I would not doubt, one thing I would not be ashamed of, was the fact that I was happy, even if I had no right to be.

I could hear my mother calling my name, though her voice sounded distant. I was too caught up in my own thoughts to actually listen and process the words, but I could hear everything that left her mouth. "Stellan." It was as if I was underwater and it took great ferocity for the voice ways to reach me. "Stellan, would you—"

"Yes, Mom, I'll watch the food for you and make sure it doesn't burn," I assured her. She thanked me, but not before complaining about how long it took me to comply. In an obvious hurry, she grabbed her coat off the back of the kitchen chair and went out the screen door. Due to my lack of listening, I was unaware of how long she would be gone and how much longer dinner had to cook.

With a sharp exhale, I walked over to the stove, eyeing the bubbling soup. It was one of those tasks that I had no desire of doing, but if I wanted to keep my current status of clarity, I would have to. Putting my sorrows aside, I watched the soup with a close eye, stirring it now and then when the ingredients stuck together. Half an hour later, I turned the heat off and set the pot to the side.

I went outside through the front door, not caring enough to grab any necessities besides my cellular and a little cash to splurge on. The color of the sky today was pallid gunmetal and the clouds appeared to be heavy with the soon-to-come drops of rain. I had the desire to walk somewhere, but my mind had not yet decided the location. "For the love of God, don't rain on me," I pleaded, biting the bullet and walking wherever there was to go.

I was beginning to head to the neighborhood's vacant park when I caught a glimpse of a girl with adumbral* hair. Under normal circumstances, I wasn't one for brunettes. I was drawn in by her splitcast, which was a combination of the softening of her eyes and the way her red lipstick-stained lips pouted. I decided that I could make an exception for her.

A small part of me said that I was making the worst decision of my existence.