Cyanide Girl

Dedicated to Jessa

~*~

The first time he talks to her, she is just there, sitting on the side of the road, drinking out of a paper cup. Her blonde hair is messy and windswept, and her eyes are closed, savoring the breeze as it curls around her fingertips.

Flushed cheeks, shimmering lips, wet eyelashes. 

She gives no indication she senses his presence.

He stands there for a few moments, making no sound. He wonders if she is asleep. But she speaks.

"What do you want?" She asks, he does not know how she knows he is there, but he does not question it either, because she just has that kind of aura. Like the universe is in the palm of her hands, or perhaps her veiled eyes are staring at those infinite galaxies, pupils dilated and glazed over.

Her voice is heavy and carrying a hint of a laugh, swirling around easily in his mind.

"You're drunk." He says.

She giggles, and raises her cup to the sky.

"Sure I am. Care for a toast?"

And as she flips it upside-down, splashing its contents to the ground, he realizes it isn't alcohol, just plain fruit juice. It stains the pavement, dark red spreading across the rock. He watches it, silent. She doesn't say a word either, waiting for him to speak.

"I need help," He says finally. His voice is loud, he winces and looks around to see if anyone is near. 

Nothing, empty houses and empty streets. 

She does not open her eyes. "And what would that help be?" Not mocking. Purely inquisitive.

"I like this girl," He says, then corrects his words, stumbling over himself. "I really, really like this girl."

"Are you afraid she won't accept you?" She asks. They both know how ridiculous that statement is, he can have anyone he wants. Easily.

She tilts her head back, letting some of her blonde hair lie on the sidewalk, exposing a cruelly delicate neck. 

He considers his next words, "I... love her."

Silence. She breaks it.

"Then what are you waiting for?"

"She probably won't love me back," He says, aware of the insecurity of his words. Fake, fake, he wonders if she can notice.

She opens her eyes, revealing her light gray orbs. They reflect the sky, a dull, colorless mirror. Empty windows, like the neighborhood around her. And as she turns to look at him, he freezes, captivated by that striking gaze. It searches him, looking for any truth in his statements. And she finds nothing, as expected.

"You're not telling me something."

He stares into those eyes, refusing to back down, "I've told you enough." A brief flash of something flashes in her orbs, but in an instant it's gone. Disappeared back into those glass houses. And he braces himself for an answer.

"Fine. I'll help you." She turns, breaking the eye contact. Picks up her paper cup, throws it in a nearby trash can with perfect aim. And walks away without another word, long hair blowing in the wind.

He sighs. "Thank you," he whispers to empty air. And the breeze seems to whisper back, things he can't quite hear or understand just yet. 

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