Modeled after Giovanni Boccaccio's classic from the 14th Century, this collection similarly brought 100+ short stories to Wattpad readers. The original's premise was simple: ten individuals entertained themselves over a span of ten days by telling a...
I clench my already sore jaw and focus on the swirling pieces of orange ash as they float around turning black and grey like a changing light show. My eyes sting as the wind shifts my way and the thick plume of grey smoke clings to my clothes and skin as if it was a soldier of karma wanting to smother me. I wouldn't doubt it, or beg it's mercy, so I suffer through the assault.
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The group I am traveling with babbles on about goals and growth and somehow the topic shifts to the tragedy of love and loss and it is all I can do to hold my tongue and wait it out. I need the cover of this group, and the shelter they provide, but the sharing I can do without. My anger surges as they talk of love as if they understand it, and loss as if it were something you can measure. It sickens me, because I know loss and love so deep it drowns you, and when you finally manage to surface there's nothing you want more than to dive back in and give up any hope of ever coming back.
I keep my eyes focused on the flames as they talk and weep and wipe away snot like any of it makes a bit of difference in the world, as if it will clean their soul or bring someone back. I've been with them a month, each day working at pretending to care about their off grid cause. They keep their distance, but deep down they know, I'm not exactly like the rest of them. And it's true, I'm not. I've got a hurt so deep no amount of talking or crying would make a dent in filling it. And so I'm silent, waiting for something or someone to show me where to find myself.
The girl talks now, the small one who reminds me of an owl with her large dark eyes and fur lined hood. She cries as she remembers an old friend, and I watch her curiously, trying to fight away the memories swimming towards me in the smoke. It's her silent tears, even on my side of the fire, I can see them trickle down her cheeks like diamonds. I almost forgot what it was like to see someone crying, and despite my battle to forget, tonight, with the turn of the group conversation, and those slow sliding tears I remember the last person I saw cry, my Anna.
Sweet, sweet, Anna. I can still remember the feel of the rain soaking through my clothes as I knelt beside her on the uneven pebbled ground holding her bleeding body. Her bright red curls repelling the rain as her ruby lips begged for my help. And I tried, even as her green eyes dimmed and her skin turned cold, I tried everything to bring her back. I pleaded with God, the Devil, Buddha, and any fricking entity I could think of to bring her back to me, just to repeat that last moment.
I stifle a rage filled scream and bite my lip so hard I taste the tang of blood. I want nothing more than to tell these sorry saps they have no idea what loss feels like. Loss is not being able to take a single breath because your chest feels so heavy, and when you finally do, it hurts so bad you beg for it to stop forever. That's loss, and love, and all that can destroy a man.
I tune them out, and close my eyes, remembering Anna on our last day. Me in my slicked back hair with a beat up blue Camaro picking her up from college. Smart girl, my Anna. I may have been a two bit loser with a grease monkey job breaking my back for next to nothing, but I would have done anything to keep her happy.
