Alicia

A short story i wrote a while back. Hope you enjoy!

I slip through the shadows beside you, but you don’t see me there. I know you can feel me, though. The way you walk with your face towards the ground and a more hurried stride than normal gives you away. The brilliant red rose you hold loosely in your hand sways back and forth with the motion of your steps. Your jet-black hair wraps tenderly around your pale face in the bitter wind of fall, thin brush strokes scarring an otherwise flawless canvas.

You don’t talk much anymore, do you? I see you with him but no one else seems important. I don’t even think he’s important to you, Alicia. I can see it in your eyes when you promise him you care. You don’t care anymore, not about him or anyone else. I know you still blame yourself for what happened. I suppose there is reason for that. After all, you’re the only one who could have stopped this so-called tragedy. If only you could have seen it coming.

As I follow you down the street tonight, we stroll along the edge of a sunset. The sky is painted an array of oranges and pinks like nothing I’ve ever seen before; the visible hemisphere of the sun so vibrantly dyed that it’s almost as if all the color in the world has come together in one place for just a solitary moment. Somehow, you manage to ignore it. Watching your eyes trained so steadily on the lifeless sidewalk moving beneath you, I realize you are not the girl I used to know.

The house at 235 First Street hasn’t been yours for long, but it is as close to home as you've ever had. You hurry up the steps and sneak inside, eager to hide from the freezing wind. You scan the empty room; almost as if you are disappointed that no one is there. But who would be? You live alone, like you always wanted.

Before you head up the stairs, you set the rose on the counter. It’s a stunning contrast to see the red burst of life against the icy granite of the kitchen counter but again you miss the flash of beauty in your life. What has happened to you? You used to live for the moments of beauty, but now you’re as dead as any corpse in the ground. I can’t believe they let this happen to you.

You simply wander about for an hour or so. Your life seems normal enough. It doesn’t look like anything has changed much since the last time I came by about four months ago, but you knew I was there then. Back then you chose to ignore me, but the way things are now is my choice. I like to think that you’d do almost anything to change that. I like to think that, for once, you're the one who wants something more.That’s only wishful thinking on my part, though.

Around seven o’ clock, you leave the humble house again and walk down the street towards the restaurant on the corner. You always said you hated that place before you met him. They’d built it on the field you’d played on as a little girl. Watching that innocent childhood memory built over had shaken you up and you had sworn to never support it, but you 'compromised' for him. You didn't want to seem difficult, so you tried to get over the bitterness.

At a quarter past seven, he arrived. Looking clean-cut as usual, he did nothing special to greet you and you responded with nothing more. The two of you walked inside, hand in hand. Your face twisted slightly in displeasure, knowing the place you practically lived as a child had been turned into this. The restaurant is nothing special, just another cheaply decorated building that serves expensive, mediocre food.
I watched as the two of you talked over a plain dinner of spaghetti. At least he could get something right. Pasta is like your drug. We used to laugh about the amount of it you ate, but it doesn’t seem worth it now. You don’t laugh. I don’t laugh, so we won’t laugh together. It’s as simple as that. Laughter is a luxury, I’ve realized.

I have to hand it to him; he’s as blind as a bat. Every time you smile is so painstakingly fake that I want to rip it off your face; scream at you for doing this to yourself. I want to show him who you really are because the mask you wear isn’t nearly as beautiful as the girl underneath. I almost feel bad for him knowing that that’s a girl he’ll never get to see.

When dinner is done and it’s time to leave, he offers to walk you home. You accept politely, but the two of you walk in silence. I can tell you are secretly grateful that it’s not a long walk and you’re home in minutes. With a quick kiss goodnight, you watch. You watch him walk away, but you don’t go in the door. Instead, you wait until he is gone from sight then walk back down your front steps. You head away from your house, away from the restaurant, away from the night. Maybe there is one thing about you that is the same after all.

Like you always used to, you walked down to the shoreline. A clear fall night like this is absolutely stunning from this beach. The stars shine like diamonds against crushed velvet and the moon bathes the landscape in a pale white light. Kicking off your shoes, you walk along the sand and stare up at the sky. I watch the earth shift beneath your feet and the long grasses brush against your ankles in the wind. The life of the earth fills your lungs and your own life finally returns. You’re smiling, Alicia, and I believe the smile.

A half of an hour passes, and you finally decide it’s time go home. When you arrive and walk inside, you see the rose on the counter. Shockwaves ripple through your face and I know you can’t believe you forgot. I can hardly believe it as you grab the rose from the counter and run outside into the depths of the darkness. Is it really that important to you?

I’m struggling to keep up as you dash down the street. Up ahead, a dirt road splits off from the newly paved road. You don’t slow at all to turn. I’m struggling to keep up, but you sprint through the gates a hundred yards down the dirt trail effortlessly, like a wild animal closing in on its prey.

You navigate the twists and turns of the paths that run through the graveyard without thought. It’s easy to tell that you’ve done this many times before. Finally, you come to a stop. We’re in the far corner of the plot. A nondescript tombstone stands but feet in front of you. As you approach, a tear forms in the corner of your eye. Stepping forward, you set the rose neatly in front of the grave and say a prayer, though you hardly believe in any kind of god. “Beloved Son and Friend,” the inscription on the gray stone reads. The boy buried beneath it never felt that way, but as I watch you cry for him, I know he was wrong. He had a better friend then most people ever do. Eventually, you turn to go and I stand alone in the night, staring at the stone.

The name upon it is my own.