1.1 | Lost & Found

xi. euphoria

I N D I G O

There was a period in the short time I've spent in this world when the Sun shone a little brighter and the skies seemed just as arm's grasp away from reach, not far and unattainable like it does now.

I've forgotten what it used to feel like - back in those moment in which the world spun a little slower - just remembering that my days were filled with dripping grapefruit coloured summer skies, honey glazed fingers running through small streams and lightly floating periwinkle sun dresses that felt like cotton candy on my small five year old frame.

I've forgotten what it used to feel like, to bask in the sunlight of a freer less ugly world, but I've never forgotten the urge that pulls at my heartstring to go back.

Back to the time when there used to be only the two of us, back to when the air was permanently filled with mellow scents of ripening raspberries, when we looked at the world through cherry coloured sunglasses and when we could almost taste the lush drops of golden sunlight on our rosebud lips.

That was a different world, eons away from reach, the kind that only surfaces in dreams which we now call our safe haven from cruel realities.

It's like how Mom liked to say, we only ever really looked at the world when we were children. Now we're just experiencing memories.

Are we still children?

Debatable.

There's a tragedy to growing up knowing that we'll run out of feeling something new for the first time. Only if you're lucky, much of those moments will be happy ones pouring into your head like hot cocoa on a warm wintry night - which I know for a fact wasn't the case for me after Mom succumbed to the alcohol. My memories are rotten and putrid, and often you'll spend a lifetime tumbling through them like dirty laundry. 

My siblings are the lucky ones, the ones with sweet memories that mean as much to them as the people they spent them with.

Maybe that's why I'm still holding onto that period when the world was a giant playground. 

I allow the minutes to pass, watching as the soft, sticky snow is caught in the wind outside the taxi and, on its descent, is forced back high into the air. If I'd known the temperatures would be this low in Harlan, I'd have found it within me to put up more of a fight. Even if there was anyone to hear me now, the time for protest has come and gone; I'm a very long way from home.

Home.

A word I'd never thought I'd use before.

Isaac sits on the wheel, perhaps mistaking my silence for fascination, and seems to decide it's safe to speak. "Excited about your new school?" he asks.

I don't reply at once, allowing my finger to slide across the misted glass of the window. When I eventually do, I don't bother to curb the conflicting doubt in my voice. "Excited?"

I don't know why I phrase my response as a question. I don't want to invite him to have a conversation with me, or for anything, he says to be memorable. I don't want anyone to have that much power over my heart.

He chuckles softly before continuing. Isaac Clarkson never chuckles. Isaac Clarkson is all about coffee, silver-framed specks, intellectual conversations, and forensic reports. "Don't worry so much Indie. First days are hard on everyo—"

The end of his question is lost. I watch in horror as he swerves out of the path of an oncoming truck and closer to the edge of the winding, narrow road up the mountainside. There are no barriers along the path, and I feel my body tense as I clutch at the door handle. Every muscle turns to glass as the car, losing its grip on the icy road, coasts to the right. I close my eyes, waiting for impact. Time converts to slow motion, and I wait to hear the screams. For the world to blur out of focus. For the earsplitting pop of the airbags deploying. For the pain.

For a split second, I feel euphoric. Maybe I won't survive this time.

Instead, I feel the car veer back to the left, away from danger, and am drawn into real time as Isaac heavily breathes. He sounds the horn too late when the truck is a dot in the distance, and I catch him looking at me in the rearview mirror. "Crazy drivers," he says with a repentant smile.

In the hour that follows, he tries again to engage me in conversation, but this time I ignore him. I keep my eyes off the encircling mountains, focusing on bringing all my fear-frozen limbs back to life. Trying not to think about what could have happened. Or about the part of me that momentarily welcomed it.

My mind is filled instead with a memory from eight months ago when I woke up one morning in the hospital back to the sound of voices. The bus I had taken back home from school had gotten into an accident. I had sprained my arm, fortunate that there were no fatal injuries. I had waited all day in the hospital for Mom to show up, dozed off into small naps and opened my eyes every time the door opened.

Mom never showed up.

"Indie? We're here."

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