Turmoil

The Heart that Once Was

Tim

Nobody has turned up. Our camp site is deserted an empty expense of space and time. It's just me and the forest, that's there no matter where you turn. No matter how hard you try to escape it. Like memories.

It's odd, this silence, because, wherever I turn, there whole campsite is full of their beign. Their essence. And now, there's just a ringing silence in my ears.

I sit, because, what else is there to do, on that log, and I wait. The palette of colors shifts as the night air grows colder, and colder, and still, no one turns up. I'm surprised to feel a spike of jealousy stir within me, and I catch myself thinking, that maybe they got tired of me, and are off doing reckless things. Without me.

But the thoughts get carefully catalogued and released, like wounded animals, back to where they came from. The ether. My fingers have grown cold now, and I count seconds in my head, one by one, each ticking by as I sit, idle.

Sometimes, I forget how nice it is to sit. I refuse to allow myself any worry. To worry, means to care, and I barely know these people. Or so I tell myself.

And just as I'm about to give up, about to leave my vigilant watch on that dratted log and crawl into the tent, icy now without their body heat raising the temperature inside, when the trees rustle.

Then a figure moulds out of the darkness, peeling free from the shadows, and steps into the clearing.

Phoenix.

He stops when he sees me, and it's too dark, but it may have been disappointment that flickers across his face. Then he keeps going, long steps covering a lot of ground. But he's walking like he's drunk, and he's swaying. I cannot dismiss what my instinct, not a word I'd use often, has been telling me for all those idle seconds that I tried to sit still, 6400 in total, any longer.

Something is terribly wrong.

He passes me, his shoulder brushing my own, without pause, as if I wasn't even there, as if he couldn't see me. As if he was casually just passing by our clearing. On a stroll. Not looking. For someone.

Just as he's about to step off into the trees again, away from me, I say.

"What happened? "

There are many things one may enquire when after being gone for two hours, a fellow camp mate casually walks by with a dead look in his eyes. Many of those things, I assure you, are a lot less nosy and more comforting than a "What happened? " is.

But that is what comes to my mind, and that is what I say.

This is why I prefer to remain silent. If you don't speak, you can never say the wrong thing.

Phoenix stops, and he turns, at least he turns to face me. We're both standing, the log at my feet and three meters between us. He looks at me with eyes so insipid and drawn with worry that now I can't help but dread his answer. I've never seen him like this before. When you think of Phoenix you think of grins, of that guy in your neighborhood who walks his dog and never forgets to say hi.

There's only one person, one single person who could have such an impact on his state. We say the name at the same time.

"Atlanta, "

We're sitting on that dratted log, and Phoenix has just finished briefing me about the recent events. I'm doing what I always do.

Listening. Observing. Except Phoenix makes it hard to just sit and observe. He pauses in the middle of sentences, searching for something and I scramble to make the correct noise at the correct time. This is new to me. Being part of a conversation instead of skittering away from even the sight of one.