The Day(s) I Died {Book 1 - Completed}

10

raconteur

(n.) a talented storyteller

***

When you live as I do, uncertainties are common—even expected.

There are never any guarantees for me, whether it be when I will die next, what town I will move to, and so on.

And yet, throughout my constant existence of living and dying and living again, I have never felt as uncertain as I do in this moment: My palms are clammy, my body is off-balance, and I cannot seem to breathe properly.

The feeling, I decide quickly, is not one I am fond of.

Pushing away another swelling of doubt and managing to suck in a single, steadying breath of air, I let my eyes shift between the pair in front of me. They are walking closely, their shoulders brushing every now and then, but they have yet to speak. From Selah, silence now is rather odd, even when we are outside my apartment, as we currently are.

It had been her idea to go for a morning stroll around the nearby lake before work, and neither Abel nor I had the heart to tell her "no." Besides, there are worse things to do at six in the morning.

The path we are following curves around the entirety of the lake, but it is paved and in good condition, which I know is preferred for Abel's hip. He would never admit it, but I can tell it pains him often; he never walks around the apartment in his skivvies either, so I have yet to see the damage with my own eyes. Nonetheless, the number of times he grimaces and limps are sign enough, and sometimes—such as today—I can see evidence of a brace beneath his pant leg.

He seems to be doing well so far. We've only been on the trail for twenty minutes, but he hasn't slowed his pace, and his limp isn't extremely pronounced.

My eyes are pulled from Abel's back when Selah blows out a soft sigh, her head tilted to the right as she watches the water for a brief moment. I can't blame her—the weather is actually quite gorgeous, and the early morning sun is especially stunning when it glistens off the water. I am almost surprised when, instead of commenting with something along the lines of, "so pretty," Selah remains quiet.

I understand why she is so silent today, though; it is the same reason I am so anxious.

Abel has to make a decision concerning his work by midnight tomorrow night, and I have not the slightest clue as to what Selah is going to do.

(If I'm being entirely honest, I don't think she knows either, which is probably why she wanted to go on this walk in the first place—no doubt she was hoping to make a decision.)

When Selah makes no signs of moving again, I plop down on the ground beneath my feet, laying my legs out in front of me and leaning back on my palms as I stare out at the lake. A beat passes before Selah follows my example, and then Abel does as well, though he is much slower in getting down and is far more careful when he splays his legs out.

There are no words for a minute or two, before Selah breaks the silence with a question. "Do you have a house?" Abel is between us and her head is angled towards the water, so I can't quite see her expression, but I imagine she is gazing at the lake with confusion as she tries to consider all the variables in the decision that awaits her.

Abel rolls his right shoulder slightly, shuffling until he finds a more comfortable position before replying, "No. I have a two-bedroom apartment, though. It's not ridiculously fancy, but it's nice enough."

Selah hums thoughtfully. "Do you like the weather?"

Abel cracks a smile, but I can tell by the stiffness in his body that he knows how crucial Selah's seemingly mundane questions are. She is not asking to make small talk, but because she is weighing the pros and cons of leaving the world she has known so far.