This never should have been my story. It should have been hers. The last thing I wanted to do was write about my own life. I was nobody. But the night they took her from me, I was forced to make a choice. I had to set out on a path to become someone new, someone braver, wiser, stronger. Only I learned there was someone else lurking deep within me all along, someone fighting to break free, to claw her way out of my frigid shell…
And seeing that it was a cold October night...I supposed I, like the fog, had no choice but to curl once around the house, and then fall asleep. That sounded pretty good to me. It was time to call it a night.
I shut The Collected Works of T.S. Eliot and got up to lock up the library. It was a quiet Sunday night, and there wasn’t a soul left perusing the lonely shelves. And yes, I was well aware that most seventeen-year-olds have better things to do on a weekend than stay late at their shift at the library reading 19th century poetry. But hey, at least I wasn’t a sexually-frustrated middle aged man stifled by Edwardian society, unable to make a single decision or formulate a single phrase. I mean, not yet. Just give me thirty years and change my gender, and I bet I could put J. Alfred Prufrock to shame.
With a firm shut of the old wooden door and the sound of the lock clicking into place, I headed out into the night. I buttoned up my jacket and stuffed my hands into my pockets, shivering slightly in the cool autumn breeze. The crisp air wrapped around me, smelling faintly of cinnamon, pine, and a soft, familiar earthiness that always seemed to crop up this time of year. Something about that smell pricked at my heart with the knowledge that this would be my last fall here for who knew how long. This time next year, I’d be living the collegiate life, trying to find my place in a crazy new world. Whatever, no big deal, it was just the next phase of my life. What was there to be afraid of?
The cobblestone path was dimly lit by yellow lamplight, and shadows covered the ground like pools of spilled ink. My own shadow crept beside me: a larger, contorted version of my body that blended seamlessly into the night. This town basically shut down after eight, so the only sound that pierced the silence was the soft pattering of my boots on the stone. I was now imagining myself curled up with some apple cider watching some corny cult classic, and I picked up my pace a bit.
As I turned a corner, the breeze picked up some crunchy leaves in my path, tangling my hair and whistling faintly in my ears.
And then there was a sound that must have been the wind, because surely there was no other possibility. But it sounded ever so slightly like a whisper of my name.
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This never should have been my story. It should have been hers. The last thing I wanted to do was write about my own life. I was nobody. But the night they took her from me, I was forced to make a choice. I had to set out on a path to become someone new, someone braver, wiser, stronger. Only I learned there was someone else lurking deep within me all along, someone fighting to break free, to claw her way out of my frigid shell…
And seeing that it was a cold October night...I supposed I, like the fog, had no choice but to curl once around the house, and then fall asleep. That sounded pretty good to me. It was time to call it a night.
I shut The Collected Works of T.S. Eliot and got up to lock up the library. It was a quiet Sunday night, and there wasn’t a soul left perusing the lonely shelves. And yes, I was well aware that most seventeen-year-olds have better things to do on a weekend than stay late at their shift at the library reading 19th century poetry. But hey, at least I wasn’t a sexually-frustrated middle aged man stifled by Edwardian society, unable to make a single decision or formulate a single phrase. I mean, not yet. Just give me thirty years and change my gender, and I bet I could put J. Alfred Prufrock to shame.
With a firm shut of the old wooden door and the sound of the lock clicking into place, I headed out into the night. I buttoned up my jacket and stuffed my hands into my pockets, shivering slightly in the cool autumn breeze. The crisp air wrapped around me, smelling faintly of cinnamon, pine, and a soft, familiar earthiness that always seemed to crop up this time of year. Something about that smell pricked at my heart with the knowledge that this would be my last fall here for who knew how long. This time next year, I’d be living the collegiate life, trying to find my place in a crazy new world. Whatever, no big deal, it was just the next phase of my life. What was there to be afraid of?
The cobblestone path was dimly lit by yellow lamplight, and shadows covered the ground like pools of spilled ink. My own shadow crept beside me: a larger, contorted version of my body that blended seamlessly into the night. This town basically shut down after eight, so the only sound that pierced the silence was the soft pattering of my boots on the stone. I was now imagining myself curled up with some apple cider watching some corny cult classic, and I picked up my pace a bit.
As I turned a corner, the breeze picked up some crunchy leaves in my path, tangling my hair and whistling faintly in my ears.
And then there was a sound that must have been the wind, because surely there was no other possibility. But it sounded ever so slightly like a whisper of my name.