Page 2 of My Lovely Tragedy
I don’t realize how deep I get until I’m yanked out and left panting and aching from the force in which I was ripped away.
The hole left in the space in my psyche where I was lodged comfortably never heals properly. A gaping wound left open and untreated, festering with the infection of the outside world. A poison seeping into the marrow of my being.
It hurts, but sometimes, prevalence is preferred.
Pain, as they say, is a reminder of life. That we arealive.But I am tired. I’m ready for the release of after. When the time comes where it was allworthit—if that is something that even occurs.
A horn sounds somewhere in the distance, pulling me out of my reverie. I jolt in my skin, swallowing the rush as it comes up my throat and flows out in prickly goosebumps. Shoving my hands deeper into the pockets of my coat, I hike my shoulders to my ears as I round another city block, shoes releasing suction with every step through the slush of snow.
Skyscrapers surround me, steel giant sequoias, the glass encasing them shimmering like diamonds as flakes dance all around, carried by the wind. I strain my neck, following the height of each building until I can no longer see where they end and the low-clouded sky begins.
It never ceases to astound me how small we are in such a large world—made even bigger by human advancements. It’s almost a disgrace how much we have tarnished, but beauty still lies within.
I do up two more buttons on my long, black overcoat to help alleviate the chill as I glance down at my black leather shoes, watching the shimmering crystal shapes float down before slowly melting into the slush caked into the stitched creases.
With a sigh, I focus my gaze back on the road, pushing my glasses up my nose and brushing my hair from my eyes, only for it to flop back against my forehead again while snowflakes melt on my lens, leaving small, intricate dots of water in their wake.
The urge to clear my vision is almost compulsory, but I leave it be. It’s almost… nice, the distortion. A miniscule dot of imperfection.
Feeling vacantly neutral, I meander around a rowdy group of drunken bodies, eyes trailing over each face, picking apart their features. Golden brown eyes that reflect the white wind. Red hair that shimmers from the water clinging to the strands. One of the men’s hands—the way his veins appear to be carved into marble. Cheeks flushed from alcohol and the cold. Smiles wide and bright, teeth flashing, eyes hazy.
My mind stores these observations in a place I will use when it comes time for my next story. Every little detail holds importance. Sets the tone.
They all clamber into a cab, and I watch as it disappears around the corner, a puff of smoke evaporating in its wake. The rest of the city slowly comes to a quiet hum as the threat of the upcoming storm pushes its way in. Dark gray clouds roll, filling the sky like smoke, wind whipping and howling the city’s cadence.
The meteorologists say this snowstorm will be the worst of the year—said to keep everyone confined to their homes for days, and I am looking forward to it. I have always worked best in seclusion, surrounded by nothing but nature in its barest, rawest forms. It’s one of the only things that brings me inspiration anymore after years of pumping every last idea from the recesses of my brain.
Of course, the stories are still there, ideas formulating, the possibilities forever endless. But the process of developing a story from beginning to end has slowly become more difficult, and I worry I have found my end with nothing left worth saying.
I crave the thoughts that once pounded against my skull, inaudibly screaming with the desire to be heard, expelled. Spit into existence, forming life infinite.
My readers will be disappointed if I don’t give them more. Forever greedy for words they cannot possibly swallow whole, but I suspect that’s better than a desultory spiel, for the sake of it.
One can always tell when a story doesn’t come from the heart, ripped from the muscle and bleeding out onto the pages. And I refuse to give them anything less than that.
I just need… inspiration. Impulse and passion. A catalyst.
A muse.
Stopping at a crosswalk, I press the button before slipping my hand back into my lined coat pockets as I wait for the light to signal I can cross. With a quick glance across both sides of the road, I don’t see any oncoming traffic, but I have spent long enough in the city to know how quickly cars can round a corner, and I don’t fancy myself becoming roadkill today, especially with the thinly veiled patches of ice forming.
My eyes sweep the baring sidewalks, footprints left in the wake of a now lifeless city. The snow has piled up, a few inches at least, with drifts more than doubled along buildings and curbs. It’s enough for everyone to disperse into the comfort of their homes. A warm sanctuary.
A shiver slithers down my spine as a particularly frigid gust creeps through my layers. I glance up at the street signs, squinting through the mist. 240thand Mortenson. I’m nearly six blocks from my car, which isn’t as far as I thought.Or maybe I have gone so far, I’ve somehow made my way back.
The thought makes my lips purse, but the moment the soft, wet flesh of my inner lip meets the icy air, I swallow, forcing the chill down into my gut where it settles like a lead weight. Grounding but unsettling.
As much as I’d like to stay and lose myself in the lone city, a rare phenomenon in which I find peace, surrounded by objects larger than life, I know I need to leave for home before the roads are impassable and I am no longer able to get there.
I would rather be stuck there than here at any given moment.
With a deep breath of resigned acceptance, I cross the road as the white light beams on the pole, veering north. With more water dotting my lenses, my view is obscured to the point all I see are liquid waves, so I pull them off, lifting the damp hem of my coat to wipe the water off with the softer and noticeably drier inside.
As I bring them back to my face, the bows sliding along my temples, I’m wrenched to the side as something hard knocks into me. My feet slip on the slush, and I tumble to the ground.
I land with a painful blow, my tailbone and elbow twinging in pain. A weighted pressure increases across my midsection, and my eyes fly open, though my vision is clouded by an array of blurry colors: white, blue, gray, and…gold.
I blink a few times, stunned for a moment, before the person lying on top of me begins to move. He clambers off, crawling onto the sidewalk to my left. A raspy grunt expels from him, stirring something in my mind as it morphs into an empty chuckle. Melodic in spite of its cavity. He leans back against a light pole, the black base to his lumbar spine.
