Turning Away Warm Bodies

Chapter Five: Without Time

(Photo: Cameron Turner) 

[Sheldon Niles]

  Time, the indefinite continued progress of existence and events in the past, present, and future regarded as a whole. It's never ending, moving forward whether we're there to read it or not. Even in our death, time moves forward as it always has. It does not need anyone or anything to continue, moving on its own. It's said to be the best medicine, helping us forget everything we loath about ourselves.

  Time; it's infinite, with no end and no beginning. It's everywhere, all at once, going on all the same, the difference, if any, vague. Time; it is forever; it never dies.

~

  Renee follows along side me, her eyes ahead of her, not daring to even shift the slightest bit. Her legs carry her forward, as if a machine, the pace even and steady, consistent with itself. Her expression is frozen in the same emotionless state, as is her body language, which gives me no hint, whatsoever, of the surprisingly vivid thoughts that could be running through her head. Who knows what kind of things could be in there, considering what she's been through.

  In all honesty though, I'm not quite sure I believe her story. Not out of general doubt, but the story I heard doesn't quite line up with what I see in front of me. As far as I can tell, she's not physically harmed in the least bit, which leads me to two theories: she's lying or she's really what she claims to be. Call me stupid, but part of me inclines towards believing her tale of necromancy.

  Normally, I'd call bull shit right on the spot, but she seems different. I can't necessarily say I fully believe her, but the fact that she's so honest with reality leads me to expect nothing less than that. True, she's not the only pessimist in the world, but unlike the others I've met, her doubt comes with reason, add that with her being only seven and done deal, she's got me. Besides, what could she possibly gain from making up a story like that? She knows it and I know that the answer to that is nothing.

  Still, everything about her seems to be more intense than any old pessimist. The look in her eyes whenever I'd smile at her was bitter with resentment. She need not say more for me to know that she envy's every inch of me, all of my joy. She resents my life for all of its glory, even though she doesn't know the first thing about me. Fake a smile, everything's alright, even if it's not. My theory is that nobody needs to know every detail of my life. It's my burden to carry, not theirs, I don't need to waste anyone's time with my petty problems.

  Yet even with this in mind, she still resents me, her envy burning with an untamed rage. That, and her courage, even with everything that has happened to her recently, she still manages to find enough strength to keep walking her stubborn self forward. It's like giving up is just not an option for her. The fact that she's so young makes matters even more depressing, though all the more impressive. I doubt I was anywhere near as independent as her when I was her age, in fact, I don't think I am even now! Even without anything left, she's still so strong, as if she still has something to fight for. If I was her, I doubt I'd even have the nerve to stand.

  Yet here she is, beside me, marching forward with the strength of a solider, her stance tall and brave, even for a seven year old. She shows no sign of weakness, no fear of being alone. In fact, she seems to almost accept the darkness with open arms, as if saying Come to me, let me enter your endless void. Let me come home. Her entire makeup is collected in her as a mass of courage, beating the fear that  may rest on her tiny, unbeating heart. It seems so unfathomable, yet my mind still urges me to believe her farfetched story. I finally let go of my doubt, and the rush of truth sinks into me.

  "You're suddenly quiet." she muses, though her tone is emotionless.

  "Sorry, I was just thinking." my tone is relaxed, my eyes admiring her yet again. Her long, onyx hair subtly bounces with her steps as she continues to march forward, her eyes ahead of her, not daring to shift away from her unseen path. Her body, so small and delicate, holds so much confidence, and her stride, yet so small, doesn't struggle at all to keep up with me, despite how much shorter her legs are. I dare a glance down her, and yet much shorter than I, she still appears so long and elegant. I can't help it. My heart beginning to pound just that much faster, I feel the blood surge through me, until I recall what she said earlier.