Lost

7

Tobias Eaton, July 11th, 2005
We wake up on opposite ends of the bed.
Her hair falls over her eyes, so that I can't see her eyes. She's so beautiful- what am I saying? I'm only thirteen.
I stare at the clock- Wait, it's almost twelve! I shake her awake.
"Tris" I say.
"Hmm?" She says, turning over.
"We have to go" I say, "It's almost twelve"
"Damn" she said, throwing of the covers. She says, "Just grab the bag of food. I got the map"
I nod, and I reach over to grab the bag of food, "Should I take a couple of blankets?"
"That's a good idea. Grab some, won't you?"
I pull a light blanket from off the bed, as I ask, "How far do you think we'll get today?"
"Who knows, depending on how much we stop?"
I begin to walk towards the door, and I grab the handle.
"Which way?"
"The way we came from" she clarifies.
I twist the doorknob open, and we walk out together. She unfolds the map as we step out the door way towards the direction me came.
Beatrice Prior July 11th, 2005
We passed the shed where we once stayed, and passed an old playground. When dusk fell, we didn't see anything, nothing interesting at least.
"Where should we sleep?" I ask. We're still stuck in the country, so only grassy areas, fences and farms surround us. If it were winter, we would freezing, so thank god it's summer.
"Over there" he says, pointing to a willow tree, it's branches draping like a curtain or an awning.
It's like a donut home when we step in; I could walk around the tree with complete privacy.
"It's perfect" I say, tracing my finger down it. The last time I ever touched a tree was the last time I went to the park; I was seven.
I was running around and skimmed a tree, receiving a splinter, therefore, I refused to touch trees, until now.
We unravel the sheets and prepare for a cold night. We lay our heads against the tree trunk, and drape the sheets over us. If you told me a week ago that I would be sleeping with a boy, I would've told you that you were crazy.
But now, it seems right. It sounds crazy and cliche, but it's true.
We sleep on opposite sides of the bed, because, both of us knowing how babies are produced, and that they are produced, in a bed, we choose to stay away from each other.
"Do you ever miss them?" He asks. The short silence makes me know exactly who he's talking about.
"Sometimes. Sometimes I think they're better off without me, as they state occasionally. But they love me. And I them. So of course"
He turns to me and smiles.
"What about you?" I ask, and his grin falters, "I don't, um....I don't. Ever miss him"
The way he says him, like its poison in his mouth makes me think he has strong disliking towards this man.
I give him an apologetic smile, and I stare at his hand; the lump in the sheets where his hand is.
And I gulp.
It takes every ounce of bravery, for me to reach and take his hand.
It fits in mine. My heart flutters when his eyes flick up to mine.
"I just want you to know" I stare at our clasped hands, "I support you. And if you want me to do anything, I'll do it"
His smile warms my heart, and I'm surprised I can see his based I how dark it is.
The thing is, he doesn't pull away. We fall asleep, with his rough hand in my soft one.
Tobias Eaton, July 12, 2005
"So, The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe, isn't actually about a Raven?" I ask.
"Uh, I never said that" she giggles.
Her smile.
Her damn damn smile melts my heart.
I like her.
But I can't believe what's she's doing to my heart. She makes me happy, then I realize that when we get back, we'll never see each other again.
Last night, I had a dream about her.
I was eating dinner with Marcus, for once, and then he tries to beat me again.
But then Tris comes in. Tris defends me.
And Marcus shrinks into a rat. What he truly is.
"I just think it's strange that you like poetry" I comment, "You seem like a music fangirl"
"I am a music fangirl. I don't know if you know, but songs are indeed a type of Poetry. Lyric Poetry"
"Really?"
"Really" she says, as we walk, "I learned it in school. I'm going into eight grade, by the way"
"Really?"
"Yeah. I just past their limitations for eighth grader. I count myself as lucky"
"In going into my freshman year" I confess, but then I shake my head, "But I'm not"
I can see her eyebrows kitting together and the wheels in her head turning.
Then her eyebrows raise, and she mouths "Ohh"
I'm a runaway child. And I'm not going home.
Ever.
.
.
.
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