“Thanks,” I sniff, wiping my eyes on my sleeve.
“Don’t thank me,” Lark replies, giving my shoulder a squeeze, “everybody needs a hug from time to time.” I attempt a laugh, though it comes out as a strangled gurgle, making Lark chuckle. “Quack.”
“Lark, stop. I’m not in the mood.”
“Quack, quack, said the duck.”
“Lark. Seriously, everybody I know just got murdered, I’m trapped in the inner sanctum of the people I hate most in the world, I’ve been crying myself senseless for the past few hours, and I’m about to have the one thing that keeps me sane taken away from me. I do not want to play the Sound Game.”
The Sound Game was something we had invented in ninth grade math. We were in the midst of a lecture when our teacher, the harsh Ms. Prattin, cleared her throat. It was the most obscure sound I had every heard come out of a person’s mouth, identical to that of a motorcycle revving up. I hadn’t known anybody could replicate the sound so precisely, and it was slightly astounding. Discreetly, I tore a corner of my notebook paper off and scrawled the words:
Vroom, vroom, said the motorcycle.
This turned into the Sound Game. If you simply take the time to listen, people can create the most incredibly accurate impressions of other objects using only themselves.
Lark frowns. “Wrong,” he says.
“Excuse me?”
“I said, you’re wrong.”
“Um, no, I’m pretty sure I’m correct, much as I wish I’m lying.”
“Alright. But you’re wrong.”
“How is that, Lark? How am I so wrong?”
“You kept saying ‘I’. I’m trapped. I just lost everybody. I’m getting my brain deactivated. It’s not ‘I’ anymore, for either of us. The second we kissed, the second we left the Palette together, it became we. And we didn’t lose everybody, either. We still have each other.” I start to speak, but he stops me. “I don’t know where you got the idea that you’re all alone, ‘Echoe against the world’. It will never be just you. You will always have me by your side, fighting until the end, for as long as you want me here.” By the end of the speech, Lark isn’t even an inch from my face, our breath intermingling.
I don’t know what to say, so I don’t try. I’ve never been one for words, that’s his job. I just hug him instead, wrapping my arms around his torso and burying my face against his chest. He has a good five inches on me, so I feel awkward at first.
He’s a little shocked, I can tell by his body posture. After a moment, he crushes me in a bear hug and sweeps me off the ground for a brief second.
“Can’t…. Breathe…” I gasp, and he sets me down.
“You’re never alone, just know that, alright?” He murmurs into my hair.
“I know, I’m sorry.” I whisper back. Lark takes my shoulders and holds me out, looking me straight in the eye. I never noticed just how blue his eyes were before… The iris is interlaced with almost violet streaks. He looks serious, as if he’s about to say something of great importance. I wait patiently.
YOU ARE READING
The Artists' Palette
Fantasy"The earth without art is just 'eh'" Echoe Springs lives in a dystopia where the Administrators (opposers of creativity and art) rule with an iron fist. In an act...
