Tim
Lorraine's head is resting on Atlanta's shoulder, black brown hair askew. Her face is smooth like a polished rock, flattened by the sea, sharp edges hacked away by the waves of sleep. Phoenix lies beside Atlanta, black hair snarling into curls from the tepid air inside. They hold hands.
Quietly I extract myself from this tangle of bodies and heat, back hunched until I am outside.
Dawn has just begun to kiss the trees and I know that clock hands would be hitting around half past five by now. A morning bird.Quickly, I pull on my shoes, lacing them, tight, secure, before jumping onto my feet.
There are in fact, many benefits of running. Toned muscles, a lower level of body fat, stronger hearts and lungs are all on that list. Edorphins too, and the decrease in the possibility of acquiring depression, anxiety and other mental illnesses. The cleansing of your mind is not on that list. But it's why I run.
I follow my already established forest route, as to call it a path would have been incorrect. After the whole fiasco with Atlanta and the map, I was quick to better myself and fix that problem. And now, every morning since, I have followed a newly set itinerary while running.
It's harder than on the tracks, my feet slipping at times, roots grasping at my ankles, legs burning as they heave my body up hills. But it gives me something to focus on. Something other than the high cheekbones, the slender jaw, the wider rimmed eyes and the dark hair of... But no.
I have reached the top of the hill where I usually catch my breath, the river a sliver ribbon threaded through the green forest hair. But today, I push myself. Onwards. Forward.
People who have never done sports in their life, will never know that feeling.When your body is telling you to stop and your brain is screaming at you to go onwards. You are neither just your brain or just your body, you are both, and therefore you have to choose a side. I keep running.
By the time I am back at the campsite, they are already up. Atlanta is boiling a pot of something murky and dark, which smells suspiciously like coffee, and Lorraine, still in the tank top she slept in, is making us sandwiches for breakfast on the makeshift table that Phoenix and I had constructed.
Atlanta, seemingly satisfied with the concoction, gets up, holding the pot carefully away from her body. She pours it into four cups set out side by side on the table, the plastic kind, spilling some over the edges. Seeing me looking, she sets the pot down, takes two cups into her hand, and hands me one.
"I'd advise you to down it, " she says to me " it's like a crappy version of tequila, "
I think that any version of tequila is a crappy one, but I don't mention that to Atlanta. Mornings are hard enough without having to navigate the act of talking to people.
Downing something scorching ho does not seem like a good idea to me. I raise the cup to my lips. She watched me, eyes green. I take a sip. I gag. I splutter.
"Told you, smart ass, " Atlanta laughs " do you ever listen to what people tell you? "
"Not if the people are stupid, " I answer reasonably, setting down the coffee. The cup had begun to scald my hands.
"It speaks! " Atlanta cries out, and twirls around in an odd version of a dance, without spilling a drop of the foul drink in her cup " it speaks, "
Lorraine giggles, and hands me a sandwich. All traces of yesterdays conversation seem to have evaporated. For the duration of our stay, I have not seen Lorraine so... Content.
"Leave him alone, " says Phoenix, tugging good naturally on Atlanta's ear.
"Have a sandwich, " Lorraine says at the same time "It'll get rid of the foul taste, "
"If you want to know, " I say indignant at being referred to as 'it speaks' " I try to limit my word count to 150 per person, per day. Oh look, now I've exhausted today's resources, "
"Thank the devil, " Atlanta says with a rambunctious smile " I won't have to hear your voice for the rest of the day, "
"Don't be rude Atlanta, " Phoenix says, forever the peacemaker, and downs his coffee. His face turns sour " uh, this is disgusting, "
"Have a sandwich, " Lorraine reiterates, handing a sandwich identical to the one I'm chewing on to Phoenix and then " no thank you, " when offered coffee.
I hear her mutter before she turns away.
"I plan to live another day, "
I say nothing. My cup of murky death sits on the table. I look at it. I look at Atlanta. Then I take the cup in my hand and I down it. Atlanta smiles. Her coffee is as bitter and odd as she is. I smile back.
YOU ARE READING
Turmoil
Teen Fiction""And you see, maybe people, maybe we're like those cars. We meet others, we crash, some crashes more powerful than others, we change. Impact. It means the death of something, doesn't it?" Tim : (adjective), a writer who's feelings are pressed into...
