Elysian

The Witching Hour

It is the dead of the night. The witching hour, I like to call it.

On any other day, I would be tucked tightly in bed, with my favourite down blanket drawn up to my stubby chin and my head resting on my favourite power puff pillowcase (I'm a kid that way) with my choppy black hair splayed in all possible directions. The light from the bedside lamp would have been at its lowest possible setting (the dark unnerves me) and if you listened closely you would hear the slight hum of the AirCon punctuated by my soft snores.

But this is not any other day, it is one of those days. So I'm standing in my tiny room-for-one-only balcony and staring at the apartment across from mine. Floor no. 12, to be precise. The air is a little chilly, and my flimsy pyjamas- a too big ratty tshirt and granny knickers do nothing to stop the cold. The moon is shining full force, I can feel it grinning from ear to ear, and can only imagine how my pasty skin would be looking worse under its light.

It's the witching hour alright.

Only, I don't expect a tall giant walking down the street, the one I read about in one of those endearing books as a kid.

No, what I feel, see, hear, is something much worse.

The ominous screech of my memories with her hurtling full force through the gradients of my mind.

I look up at the window of the 12th floor, half expecting her to draw the curtains and wave an exciting hi to me. The blood red curtains (or so I think, it is quite difficult to see from here) are drawn tight.

I remember annoying the shit out of our neighbours  by flashing torchlights at each other's windows in what we liked to think was our own code. Thinking about it makes me want to hurl a stone at her glass window.

I remember kissing her under the moonlight on our night walks, we would somehow end up at her house watching reruns of Gossip Girl, making out between toilet breaks.

Now thinking she is probably making out with a guy she doesn't even like, their legs spalyed and intertwined like ours used to be, makes me want to puke in the money plant's pot in the balcony.

But I keep staring at the window.

If I had the chance, if I had known, I would have hugged her, hugged her so tight that the air would have been knocked out of her lungs, the day she left me.

I would have kissed her, and the mole on her neck and breathed in the scent of her favourite shampoo. I would have told her the joke I had been dying to tell her all day and she would have laughed in the most unladylike-manner and I would surely have done the same.

Right now, since its a Sunday night, she should have been at my place revising for the Monday test till the dead of the night, trying to distract me with her dark grey eyes and a sloppy kiss (she was a sloppy kisser) behind my ear. I would have admonished her, of course, and then we would have landed up in hysterics until my mum would have come and would have threatened to send her home if we did not shut up and study.

Instead, I am standing in my stuffy balcony, staring at the curtains now I'm sure are a blood red, with my nose pink with cold and the glaring moonlight for company.

She maybe only two balconies and a street away, but she is gone.

And she is definitely not coming back.

A/N  So? An angsty clichéd story for you guys to lap up.

Much love,

Sarah