Page 66 of Where Broken Wings Fly

Ryder knows as well as anyone that my art keeps me alive. Without it, functioning is excruciating. I’m forced to interact and remember that the world exists around me.

My old therapist said it does more harm than good to isolate myself, but I told him to go fuck himself and never went back. I don’t need anyone attempting to rationalise the madness that runs riot inside my brain.

“I’ll speak to Kill and see if there’s anything we can get in town.”

I cast him a weak smile. “Thanks, man.”

“You got it. Go hike, sort your shit out. Just be careful.”

“Always am.”

Leaving him to continue his repairs, I set off and traipse down the winding path leading back into town. Harold waves at me from his garden when I pass, his hands buried in his vegetable patch. Everyone else is preparing for the storm to arrive.

Reaching the edge of the forest that leads back up into the mountains, a heart-wrenching sound drags my feet to a halt. Crying. It’s coming from inside the crop field, the soft sobs and occasional whimper daggering me in the heart.

Cursing myself for giving a shit, I duck through the towering stalks of corn and barley, searching for the source of the noise. It doesn’t take me long to find her tumbling black locks and tear-logged hazel eyes hidden in the shrubbery.

Willow.

She’s curled up with her knees to her chest. I’m unable to walk away as I usually would at the sight of someone else’s pain. The sound of her anguish refuses to be ignored. From the little I know about her, I care enough to want to help.

“Willow?” I ask softly.

Her head snaps up. “Micah. What are you doing here?”

I gesture towards the trees. “Hiking.”

“Oh.”

“Are you okay?”

Wiping her red-stained face, she doesn’t bother to nod when it’s clear that she’s not alright. Dropping my backpack, I sit down next to her, both of us hidden by the coverage of crops. We’re alone in this slice of solitude.

“Do you want to talk?” I pause, unsure of myself. “You don’t have to though. I don’t like talking, but some people do. Like Zach, he’s a talker. Ryder too.”

She blinks, speechless.

“I’m rambling. Forget I said anything.”

“Wait, Micah.”

Her hand shoots out to grab mine before I can flee, and her sparkling hazel eyes beg me for relief. She’s alone in the world while surrounded by people who don’t understand how she feels. I know exactly how awful that invisible prison is.

“Please don’t go,” she pleads.

“Uh, sure. Okay.”

Sitting back down, we lapse into silence, listening to the sound of far-off voices. Nobody can find us here. I pick a stalk of unripe corn, stripping apart the plant to keep my hands busy until there’s nothing but husks left.

“No painting today?”

I shake my head. “Waiting on supplies. I was going to hike.”

“I didn’t know you liked hiking. Do you go often?”

“Only when I have to.”

Willow fiddles with her left hand, twisting a golden band around her wedding finger. Married. No one mentioned a husband to me. Not that I’ve been having casual conversations with anyone, including my own family.

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