The Ace of Spades

Chapter 15

     There is a depth to the silence that follows, an angry shadow that lurks within, turning our faces grim. So consuming it is, that the air around us becomes thick, the ground concrete, yet I march forward, for backwards has been consumed by flames that twitch and twist, flicking outwards like a pit of angered snakes; fearing that if I stop I'll be stuck in the ground of an angered man.

     There is a moment where I glance back, Kaiden unreadable, Stix in a battle of consciousness, and Mary whose head had been thrown back-- catching ash like snowflakes on her tongue. Mama always said I had been born upside down and I continued to live that way. That is the only reason for why I faltered--dangling limp in the air, swaying like a wilted flower, my foot fighting doubt as my brain only registered betrayal; a broken record, I plod onward away from the place that reopened Mama's wounds. So deep they are, that their words have been etched on my bones beside hers.

     Always fear the man who lets his wealth define him, the man whose trench coat is a city sweep, his eyes glinting so mischievously they were like flashlights under the now hazy sky. Surely this stranger would pass by, as I found myself on the magazine street, of white picket fences and barbecues; where instead of birds, children's laughter fills the air. How odd it is, the money weighted man's path, as he weaves between the people with suburban glazed eyes, that my skin begins to itch. Surely my bones are black, painted by smoke, as I have hit rock bottom and started to mine farther. Still, he marches onward, each step written with purpose; his dark coat ominous amongst the sea of cheery pastels. When he passes he seems to drop something, a single playing card, a red spade-- The Red Queen has issued her warning notice.

     Walking with me is fear, pressed to my body like a second skin, tainting my footsteps. Today is a day where the ground is dry, yet in my head it rains. In my throat fear lodges there, unable to cough it out, it steals the words from my tongue-- I am silenced. Unable to voice my discretion on how a child's campfire story has come to life, I lean against the whitest of fences, and empty my stomach contents onto an undoubtedly prized rose bush.

     Unavoidable, it seems--confrontation--shivering in my very bones, I am left to wonder why? Why is it that she desires me?

                      I do not wish for my story to end.

                                                           Yet, there is the lingering fear that a new one has just begun.