The Day the Earth Met the Sky
Page 9
“So… do you believe it? Do you think that’s where Gwen… you think she’s alive up there and wearing blue cloth and all that?” Quinn’s heart thumped in her chest. She’d never been brave enough to ask about her sister before, but she’d heard the rumors many times.
“Oh, dear girl… I don’t know. None of us can truly know what happened to Gwen, or any of the others. But, anything is possible. Your sister might be living the life up there for all we know! Geraan is rumored to be devastatingly handsome, as they say. I believe that is a prerequisite to becoming a god.”
“Gramma, I’m serious!”
“As am I, dear girl.”
“Well… one day, I’m going to save her! Everyone just lets it happen, but not me! And I’m going to find Geraan’s real name and make him come down off that damn mountain and help us!”
“Language, child!”
“Sorry, Gramma. But, I mean it! Everyone complains, but nobody does anything around here! One day, I’m going to be a hero, I promise! I’ll bring Gwen home and I’ll get Geraan off the mountain and we’ll take back our land from the Queen of Air and things won’t be so hard after that! I swear it, Gramma, I swear it!”
“I believe you, my dear Quinn, I really do! Now, go to sleep. You’re on supply duty, bright and early tomorrow.”
Gramma pulled Quinn’s quilt up to her chin, tucking her into bed—though Quinn was sure she was too old for that stuff already—and left her to her thoughts. Quinn tried to sleep, but her mind raced with visions of grand adventures and magic, as it did on most nights. Eventually those visions would turn into dreams though, and she would dream every night of being the hero her world sorely needed. She continued to dream those dreams until the day she met the Lost Man.
The Lost Man
It’s been 437 years, 2 months, 6 days, 4 hours, 32min— Kidding, kidding…
I haven’t been counting.
How could I? Every day since I lost you has felt less real than dreaming. I’d rather stay asleep where my memories of you are most vivid. In my dreams, events unfold naturally, weird and unpredictable… and a bit out of this world, just like you. My waking fantasies are too contrived, even when I make an effort to keep them from perfection. Too consciously constructed… too obviously my imagination. But, I can still see your face in my mind, exactly how it was. As I lie here, alone in this gratuitously large and empty room I built for reasons I can’t remember anymore, I can still see you so clearly: sprawled out in my bed, beneath the open window, naked and bathed in moonlight, the cool mountain breeze toying with your unruly hair. You’re smiling like the devil. I can see that mischievous humor that never left your eyes no matter how dark things got, no matter how desperate we were…
That will never leave me, I couldn’t possibly forget.
I wish I could just slip away like you… be wherever you are…
I told you once before, I don’t exist without you. It’s like some kind of beautiful disease. I can’t feel anything but nostalgia and this aching void. Here I am, stuck in an everlasting body with a dead soul… eternity never felt so long when you were here. But, I know you’ll come back to me, one way or another; that’s just your nature. I still have faith in that, if not much else. It’s all that keeps me waking up, day to day… or, at least every few days or so. Sometimes I lose weeks. I couldn’t tell one day from the next if I tried. It’s cold and stagnant… The girls wake me up when I stay under too long, but then I’m at my most vulnerable and I can’t hide the pain… I hate it when they see me like that… they try to help, but they have to know it’s hopeless. Sometimes I think of sending them away so I can sleep forever, but I’m too afraid of forgetting—of missing you, of waking up to centuries of pain and loneliness flooding in all at once…
I’m still a coward without you.
And they say I’m a god, you know, just like you used to. I can’t help but laugh at that sometimes. But, who am I to correct them? It’s like good or evil or love… just another word to describe the indescribable, the truth depending on our own subjective definitions. But, some “god” I am…
I miss you… It hurts! It fucking hurts, every day! Fuck, what am I supposed to do? Move on?
Fuck me…
You know, normal people lose loved ones all the time; they hurt, they heal a little, and they get on with their short lives… I can’t even fathom how they do it, and I’ve had centuries to work it out. And they think I’m a god… I can barely get out of bed, and when I can I’d rather not. Some fucking god…
I never understood what you saw in me, and I don’t understand what they see either. Some god, indeed… truth is, I’m afraid of what you’ll think of me when you come back. I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed… with everything I’ve done…
Or, everything I haven’t done…
Everything I let happen…
Please, forgive me…
It’s just that… I’m nothing without you…
To be continued…