Blaze

15. Grains of Sand

I'm alone, and it feels much worse than I imagined. Suddenly the horizon is a lid. Trapping me under its weight. Rationing my air.

The cliff, the vertigo—they both migrate to my chest, where my heart makes the jump again. And again.

I have strange thoughts.

Will Austin survive the walk back home?

(He must.)

I should have offered him part of the jug!

(Thus precipitating my own death.)

I should have let him come!

(Too late.)

I shouldn't have promised a lie.

(Too late!)

I see him die a million different ways.

There's always blood.

Another strange image.

The blood forms words.

RATIONING.

DAY.

---

I'm alone. But I keep walking.

Scarf pulled tight against my face (it smells like dust and rough earth). Mind barren. I lose track of my steps, but not of the imaginary red line, yanking me forward, like I'm tethered to it. It's clear as blood, and I step over it with dry, dry feet. It's all that remains. Everything around the line is blurred pink and forgotten—staring away, looking at that unreadable mess, makes my mind swim.

I keep walking, because although there's nowhere for me to go, there's also nowhere for me to stay.

(I would be alone if not for the line.)

But a dizziness strikes, stalling my motion.

Could Austin be home already? Could he be buried somewhere beneath Jackie and Mother's arms, explaining my promise, alive? Could they be sending hope my way, believing the lie, believing I'll survive?

I wait for the dizziness to pass.

I keep walking.

---

The other man is not a Bandit.

(No, he's a drifter.)

He doesn't ride a motorcycle. I can't see his eyes, because they're hooded—until he looks up. They're brown. Brown like his skin, a rich colour that appears to be independent of a tan. There's a smoky quality to his demeanour, mostly attributable to the liquid flow of his scarf and prolite jumpsuit. He holds an empty water jug in his hand. His skin is melted, flaky elastic. He has no hair.

He's running.

It's an awkward, limping run. Like his legs are resisting the motions he thinks at them. The jug must be made of something inconvenient like metal, because it glistens and clinks against his thin shiny belt. Rhythmic. Infuriating. Light bounces off of it to blind me, but I'm not looking. (I'm looking away.)

I don't stop to appraise him (I wouldn't want him to notice my tension). I merely move to the side of the road, giving him all the space he needs to barrel past and not into me.