Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The line between reality and fantasy was a rising tide, pushing too far into each world like a dangerous game of chance. Real or not real? Trapped for days, years, perhaps centuries. Dead, but not allowed to die— not yet. Alive, but almost dead.
She felt her lonely visitor in the summer breeze. It was sweet. Fading diamonds of sunlight that turned her skin to gold, warming her numbed skin, easing the pain shooting out in every direction inside of her. There was no turning around, not past the apple blossom tree where time began to dwindle like her faltering grip on what was real.
What's real, what's real? She asked herself out loud and silent like a turbulent storm that failed to escape her scratchy throat. The thudding in her head was like an avalanche of rocks or the buckling of her knees as they smashed against the sidewalk. Chills danced on her skin like droplets of Elysian fire, shocking her nerves into a tingling sensation. Her hands reached out to rub against the rough concrete. Red. Her palms were red and speckled with gravel. She picked up the canvas, her sensitive fingers burning on the rough material.
Real.
The doorknob was a hot prick of cold metal against raw skin. The porchlight was dim, frantically trying to illuminate the faded sparkle in her verdant eyes. The weight dangling from her shoulder was gone, bleeding blue blood on a floor so far away from her current world. Sounds bursting and exploding everywhere, burned right into her memory though it was still distant and she could almost reach it.
Her eyes landed on Two-Bit Mathews, standing and bouncing on the couch in a child-like fashion. Her brothers—where are Mom and Dad— Darry, Sodapop, and Ponyboy running around, with cake and beers. A celebration... a celebration. Virginia stared emptily. Steve Randle, fiery-eyed and whooping from the depths of his iron lungs as he rubbed his worn-out knuckles on Johnny Cade's dark tufts of hair. Bitter cigarette smoke and sweet, decadent chocolate.
"Hey, Bluebell! You walk home all by your lonesome?" Steve asked, his bicep outstretched on the top of the sofa. He looked away, cracking a toothy grin at Two-Bit's clumsy flip off the couch.
There was a wall, tall, foreboding, and invisible. Virginia wanted to lift up her heavy fist and break it down into a million pieces. It pulsated in her mind, each scream and screeching of the radio echoing in her quivering mind.
Not real.
"Sam is dead." She knew her voice, a dying mutter was drowned out in the boys' chatter and ignorant laughter— for her. They gathered to celebrate for her. It was almost impossible to see a dead girl walking and she felt a pang of guilt for the fact she was a harbinger of grief.
"Soda, bring that case of beer over!"
"Ponyboy Curtis, get down from there or you'll hurt yourself!"
Police sirens wailing in the distance— no that was just in her mind. She looked at the window shielded by blinds that clattered when Two-Bit stumbled and broke his fall. Red light reflecting on and off like a warning beacon that entranced her eyes far before Darry twisted the doorknob with his heart leaping into his throat. The cold draft as bits of melting snowflakes drifted into their home. The bleak softness.
