The Fault In Reality

Chapter Twelve

The sun has leaked into the sky, staining the clouds a brilliant and bloody red. My view is effectively skewered by the the silhouette of a distant tree. I can imagine it pleading innocent to the wind, but it's a fruitless attempt. A handful of leaves are jerked from their branch by a vicious tendril of wind.

My chin is tucked securely in the crevice of my knees. With my arms linked loosely over my bare ankles, I can almost find comfort. The porch door, swung wide open to the scent of mowed grass and subtle summer perfume, also gives way to the sound of my mother's voice. With Chase, my father, and Pat all out to a movie, I'd let the phone ring into stillness.

Now I wish I hadn't. Her message chills like the merciless wind, and somehow I feel like the tree. Stuck between something inevitable, buffeted until I give in and let the tears fall.

"Hello, Era. Just checking in to see how things are going. Well, that's a lie, I've already been filled in by Rich- err, that is to say, your father. He tells me you've been flat out disobeying him. Don't get me wrong, it's great you've finally taken an interest in, well, something, but from what I hear this is a dangerous endeavor - one I'm ordering you to drop this instant, young lady - yes, one second Dorothy - sorry 'bout that Era. Well, anyway, I hope you're enjoying yourself at the ranch, and not forgetting your pleases and thank yous. And don't forget to smile, every once in while , ha ha - what was that? At nine? You'd have thought he'd have the decency to at least give me some notice... Sorry, Era, I've got to go...

My mother chirps out a last goodbye before the line clicks dead.

I don't know how long I stay frozen, chin resting against my arm and eyes closed. But eventually the porch disappears from under me, and my legs are stretching out to meet the grass. Barefoot and weary, I wander aimlessly down the lane.

Slowly dust turns to warm sun-baked cement, and I skip over the black lines of tar that seem hot enough to fry an egg on. Shadows lengthen around me. Still I walk, feeling smaller and smaller under the huge sky above. Grass rustles gently around me. I've reached a part of the road where someone has dropped a bottle. I veer into the middle of the empty road to avoid the glinting shards of glass and the sticky puddle of ale.

I'm stuck in an endless maze of my own thoughts. I barely register the distant sound of voices and laughter, not until it's right in front of me. There's some sort of event happening on a grassy hill. The field has a feeling of desolation to it, despite the white tents pitched at around its edges and the countless people milling around, as though it's used to being lonely. Many in the crowd clutch red plastic cups in their hands, the kind you'd see at a party. I pass a long line of dusty trucks and trailers, parked crookedly on the side of the road. Something seems to be happening in the middle of the field, something just beyond my view.

I hesitate before going in, all too aware of my bare feet and blotchy face. Then I hear the unmistakable whinny of a horse, and my curiosity reels me in. I navigate through a group of drunk men, past a tent serving lemonade, and find that many bleachers have been set up to form a ring. People all seem very focused on something happening within the ring.

"Excuse me," I say to a large woman in front of me. She steps aside, and over the rim of some bleachers I see a horse. She's old and bony, with a tired drag to her step. She plods along beside a boy, and even from my less than perfect position I know she's old.

A man in a ridiculous plaid suit stands in the middle of the ring, and babbles into a microphone.

"Do-we-have-a-three-twenty?" his amplified voice asks the crowd.

A woman at the other end lifts a delicate hand. The auctioneer whirls to face her, pointing a sausagey finger and grinning wildly.

"I see a three-twenty, a three-twenty, do we hear a four-twenty?"

With a jolt I realize this is a horse auction. Somewhere around the other end there's a dark hole in the bleachers, and I think I can make out another horse shifting in the shadows.

A greasy man with slicked back hair raises his hat high over the rest of the crowd. The auctioneer falters slightly before resuming his babbling, this time with greasy man's bid in play. I have a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach, a dull ache that demands to be acknowledged.

I look at the people around me, silently urging them to bid. The sweet mare flicks her ears and suddenly raises her head. As though she knows it the vital moment, she lifts her hooves a little higher and arches her neck.

Silence from the crowd. My heart thumps wildly in my chest.

"Going once!" calls the auctioneer.

Still nothing. The woman in front of me turns away.

"Going twice!"

My vision sways, and for a moment reality seems to loosen its hold. A delicious idea begins to form in my head. A dangerous idea. I raise my hand, jump high to the air, and -

"Sold! To the man in blue!"

I blink dully, watching helplessly as the mare is led out of the ring. Perhaps the feeling in my gut is wrong... perhaps the greasy man is not what I think he is...

"That's the fourth one tonight," mutters a nearby woman to her friend. My heart plummets in my chest. I'm not wrong. He's a kill buyer, and that horse's fate is as good as sealed.

I can't bear watch anymore. I pick my way back through the crowd, and burst out onto the road. There's a milky taste in my mouth, and I feel suddenly sick. I lean against a nearby tent, trying to get a grip, tring to focus on anything other than my trembling hands and quivering lip.

In the distance, further down the road, the old mare is being loaded into an already crammed trailer. The greasy man shuts the door, spits out a wad of something, and gets into his sky blue truck. In a moment they've disappeared down the road.

I set off after them, kicking at stray pebbles as I go. Part of me wants to cry. Part of me wants to scream.

In the end I do neither. I walk back to the house, go to Devany's corral, and watch him for a while. Then I return to the house, where my father stands waiting on the porch. A worried expression melts away to anger as he catches sight of me.

I only half listen as his voices washes over me. With each word I feel myself drifting farther and farther away, until all I'm aware of is the floor under my feet. The planks of the porch intersect neatly, fixed into a pattern that alternates between bland beige and more bland beige. Its overall blandness is broken only by a faded stain. The strange rustic hue to it makes me think of blood. Blood makes me think of the mare.

I stumble up to bed, pushing my father away. Loneliness has twisted itself around me like a net. The more I struggle against it, the more it seems to tighten.

A/N: This story has hit 1k! Thank you to all my readers for sticking with this story. I know it's been tricky, and it's not perfect, but honestly every little vote and comment means so much to me. So again, THANK YOU!