The Fault In Reality

Chapter Five

I'm lying on my back, listening to the wind whisper around me. I can feel the laden gaze of the horse watching, am painfully aware of the fear that courses under my skin.

Relax, I tell myself, and suck in a deep breath. Just relax. Easier said than done, of course, but gradually my shoulders loosen and my breathing comes more easily. I focus on the smell of dry grass, dust, the distant tang of manure.

I close my eyes, and when I next open them, the black horse is standing over me. I can make out a long, spiralling scar curling over his eye and dropping down to his nose. Like some awful interpretation of a blaze. His breath blossoms over my face, and it takes another moment before the full reality of my situation sinks in. I'm vulnerable, I'm on the ground, and his hooves are inches away from my face.

The dust presses against my stomach as I roll to my feet, forgetting any earlier clarity. Blinding terror beats in wildly in my chest. Memories and fleeting recollections of my fall drown any rational thinking. I duck under the corral rail and slump against the wall of the barn behind me.

There he is. Standing like a statue, mane and tail teased to the side by the wind, eyes filled with what might be dark amusement.

Or perhaps malice.

The two emotions often toy with one another. Sometimes they find themselves so tangled up among themselves they're impossible to differentiate. I've played host to their dances many a time myself; pressed the wrong joke one step too far.

Asked for one more ounce of strength.

Demanded one more step of bravery.

And ultimately I have taken more than I could give. Ever.

I lean my head against the rough wood of the barn and let my breath even out. Slowly I become aware of distant voices and footsteps. The first I recognize immediately to be my father's. His brisk, friendly tone is unmistakable. But the second of the two is a mystery.

I shrink into the shadows, and wait for the men to round the corner. When they do, I'm surprised to see a thick, burly man with swinging arms striding alongside my father.

"He's got a wonderful foundation," my father says. His gaze spins around for a moment, and comes to land on me.

"Ah, and here is my daughter, Era," he says, in a cheerful manner. I glower a bit, then reject the action in favor of a more tactful approach, and set my face into a grim smile. The man opposite from me, the stout one, overshadows my grin in his own large, toothy one.

"Hullo there," he says. His voice is big and happy, nothing like the kind I'm expecting. I shiver slightly in the nonexistent breeze, and dip my chin into a nod. Hopefully it's an adequate greeting.

My father's face tell me it's not. I roll my eyes around a little and mutter an informal 'hi'. They laugh a bit, flashing crinkled eyes and pearly teeth, before heading off in the direction of the house. I watch their receding figures, wondering what on earth they find so amusing.

I find my attention wandering back to the black horse. His coat is rippled into stiff lines, tense shoulders and hips jutting out of his meager coat. He looks underfed, and his mane is a jumble of general disarray. A few burrs have attached themselves to his tail, and countless tangles chip the cascade of his mane.

I feel the weight in my chest unravel, slowly. This horse needs help, and since no one else seems up to the job, I suppose it'll be my chance to redeem myself. It's fruitless to try and blot out a mistake, especially your own. But perhaps a sort of trade, one life for another. Something in me twinges. How cold I feel to myself. As though I could ever trade Eclipse's life. As though anything I do for this stupid horse could ever bring her back.

That's not what I'm trying to do, I remind myself. I deserve this guilt. It's my insurance, insurance against oblivion, insurance against forgetting. As though that's a possibility. My mind is a whirlwind of memories; Eclipse's sweet smell, her warm eyes, her friendly nicker. The way she'd nuzzle me when I was crying over something stupid, the way she'd test me when I was acting arrogant.

I furnish my lungs with a deep breath and take a few tentative steps towards the black horse. Enough, I tell myself. I won't stand by and watch another creature, horse or not, fall away because some people don't understand. He and I are on the same page. We're both lost, both battered, both broken to the will of fate.

Maybe, a little voice in my head whispers, maybe that's just what it takes. Another being as fragmented over the mangled memories as I to understand. To heal one another.

With hope brimming in my chest, hope I try desperately to forestall, I set off. If this is a ranch, there's bound to be a flake of hay somewhere, and some meat on the horse's bones won't hurt. I wander into the barn and listen to the sound of my shoes complaining to the straw. I cast my gaze all around me. There are several bridles hung on pegs in a row to my left, and some western saddles adorned with useless tassels and embroidery done in thick, colorful stitches. Their large rectangular shape, with huge stirrups and a faded horn, are foreign to me. The striped blankets that hang under them only add to their anomalous appearance.

I tear my eyes away and find bales of hay stacked high to the rafters, where upon beams cross over each other in a creaking, begrudging sort of essence. Before a smile can spread over my lips, Chase steps out from the corner, clad in a mottled shirt and jeans.

"And what are you doing here?" he asks.

I toy with the idea of not answering, but peel open my dry mouth and say, with just the right hint of annoyance to sound casual,

"I'm getting some hay. You know, to feed horses?"

I watch as one eyebrow arches over the plains of his brown. He makes a doubtful little mh-hm? sound, which I choose to ignore. It's not as though he'll physically stop me from stepping past him, and so he doesn't. I stalk over to the bales of hay, and pull off a flake or two. With the twine of it strung around my fingers, I move back past Chase and am about to leave the darkened barn when my mind slips back to the image of the horse's rumpled appearance.

"Where do you keep your brushes?" I ask, trying to keep my voice innocent.

Chase takes his time, and when he does finally open his mouth, he returns fire with a questions of his own.

"So I take it you've found a horse?"

"Take it however you like. Where do you keep your brushes?"

"We've got a bin of them in the far corner," he replies, obviously better mannered than me. I entertain a smile, twirl a twinkle into my eye, and laugh.

"Thank you," I say sweetly. There. Perhaps that will appease my father for a while with the whole 'being nice' thing.

A/N: Bit of a strange chapter, I know. First of all, I want to thank everyone for all the support. It's just amazing to come home one day and find these perfect strangers have left awesome comments on my less than perfect book. Second of all- whoops, there is no second of all. I am tricks-ey, yes.