Lavender Mist

Another World

Two excited women talked, speaking one word over another and making their voices sound almost indistinct. One of them was Timothy's mother, and the other one was her husband's sister. Both of them were sitting on a checkered sheet, which was laid out on the ground, with its corners flaunting and crumpling in the wind. It didn't, however, have a big purpose, except to divide the women and Timothy from the grass, full of hidden insects and dew, which had already soaked the very ends of the legs of Timothy's black pants enough. Yet, he didn't care, since the clothes, that he was wearing, didn't mean anything special, neither were they intended for important events. Before they drove to the other family, his mother told him to wear something more formal for several times, every time becoming more frustrated, until she finally gave up and realized that her son didn't have many appropriate garments anyway.

The younger mother, as they talked, was swinging a sleeping baby in her arms, bundled in a white towel with a few pale, pinkish stains. Timothy was surprised that the child never once woke up, even after their piercing laughter and calling out to the fathers, who, meanwhile, sat at a plastic table in another area of the backyard.

A while ago, Timothy had realized that listening to the conversation, that the mothers had, wasn't entertaining him at all, so he tried to make the time go faster by watching two small kids, twin brothers, who were sprinting from one nook of the yard to the opposite, tripping, stopping by their mother and secretly playing with an edge of the towel, in which their newborn sister was sleeping. However, even their screams and giggles didn't manage to make Timothy's mind more lively and, after a few minutes of observing the childrens' joyful game, his head once again started to become heavy and bent backwards.

Cautiously and gradually, he distanced from the eyes of the two mothers and found shelter from everyone behind a broad trunk of an old oak tree, which threw a pleasant shade on the ground. The sheet was stretched out on the opposite side of the trunk, from the one that he was now on, but, judging by the uninterrupted flow of the conversation, he concluded that nobody even knew that he was there. He was hidden enough, even from the curious stares of the little children, who were probably patroling all around the yeard, but Timothy never once saw them behind that tree. He no longer had the thin layer of fabric to separate him from the cold grass, but he didn't mind.

His hand then dived into the pocket of the pants and, before he pulled out a folded paper, that his fingers touched, he looked around again, to be sure that no couples of eyes were there to find out about his secret, that he strictly kept. When he was confident more than enough, he silently pried his hand out of the pocket, holding a page from a book, scribbled with many tiny folds. Although the paper seemed old because of the crumpling, Timothy could still recognize the lake from his reoccurring dream. Just as every time he would see it, the painting looked like there was something missing or wrong on it. It was possible that it felt that way, because it was unknown who painted it and when, or maybe some detail had really vanished from it. Timothy had already seen the place in his dream, so he started heckling himself about if he had spotted something that wasn't noted on the canvas. However, he couldn't point out to what exactly was missing, but he knew that there was something odd about the picture.

From the deep focus and thoughtfulness, that was tied to the book page, he flinched to loud crying of the baby, which made him rapidly look back at the mothers. He expected someone to immediately start yelling his name, noticing that he wasn't sitting on the sheet anymore. However, both of the mothers just poured all of their attention over the newborn. Timothy could no longer see the tiny bundle, since the two women completely surrounded it and, soon after, the wails became more and more quiet, until completely fading away.

The boy released a silent breath of relief and once more leaned the back of his neck on the trunk. His eyes closed, as if he didn't control them, but rather like they moved by their own will. His muscles started to soothe, first at his toes, and then that feeling began rising up his entire body, omitting only his hands, which he used to tightly press the piece of paper against his chest. He knew that he was probably making new folded corners, lines and wrinkles, but, to him, it was only important what the painting was showing, which was deeper than just a simple, crumpled book page, that he took from the library without anyone's knowledge. Who could even know? He was certain that no one, except him, opened the covers of that book, perhaps since the day it had been placed in a vacant space, on the highes shelf, along with the other forgotten titles.