Decipher | Watty's 2017

LXXIX. Evocative

Evocative

/əˈväkədiv/

adjective

bringing strong images, memories, or feelings to mind

"It's not your fault," Luke continuously whispered as we approached the colony. We had received a call from one of the men, stating that Michael was being taken into surgery but it didn't look good for him, to which Luke glared at the communicating device and willed it to turn off before I had a mental breakdown. Although I understood Luke's point in it not being my fault, I couldn't help but remember how Michael would yell at me to run while I stood helplessly.

Guilt took over my mind as I remembered the few seconds that I stood with the gun merely aimed at the man who had caused Michael this much pain, yelling at myself inwardly for even taking time to consider not killing the man. I wondered if my standing there had caused Michael's injury to get worse. Was he going to die because I stood helplessly in shock? With that, a whole new round of sobs came spilling from my mouth, taking over my body as Luke held me closely to his chest and sighed helplessly.

He probably felt so helpless and angry at that moment. It was his best friend and he couldn't even mourn properly because here I was acting as if I were the one dying. All he could do to calm me was remind me that he was a fighter and he wouldn't dare die before Luke was there, which made me laugh slightly through the pain clenching my heart. That was the moment everything seemed to click for me.

Luke didn't want to be officially attached to me through marriage because he had been through this at such a young age that it had affected him in that way. I couldn't imagine the fourteen year old Luke crying over his younger sister like I was crying over Michael. Granted, Michael and I weren't siblings, but he was the closest thing I had to a brother. He was my mentor and my refuge when Luke was being a dick, but now he was fighting for his life and that brought my heart to a halt as I took in that information.

I sat quietly on Luke's lap, letting him believe that I was sleeping on the way back to the colony, which eventually did happen, but my mind was wide awake, going through the memories of Michael and I.

His red hair appeared to be fire in the bright hallway, sending me into a frenzy of laughter as I observed the newly dyed hair. "Do you like it?" he asked cockily, posing slightly with his hand on his hip as I threw my hands over my mouth in an attempt to make my laughs quieter, which failed epically.

"I love it," I told him honestly, walking up to his and running my hand through it before he could stop me, which resulted in some of the leftover dye rubbing from his scalp onto my nails and causing a mess. "Damn it Michael!" I shouted jokingly as he laughed, holding his hands up in mock defense and wiping my hands on his spare towel around his neck that he used to prevent the fresh dye from rubbing onto his clothes.

"I tell you not to do that every time I dye my hair Melissa," he responds repeatedly. I poked my tongue out at him, taking in the mock offended look that he gave me afterwards.

"I forget," I simply responded as I lied on his bed, relaxing into the feel of the mattress as he sat on his chair in front of the bed, able to see me to the point that we could have a conversation without the risk of someone becoming offended by lack of eye contact. "You never told me what that tattoo was for anyway," I said suddenly, pointing at his 'To the moon' ink, which graced his upper left arm.

"I got it before my first mission," he explained, leaning back in the chair as if it were no big deal. My eyebrows rose at this, remembering that the boys' first raid was when they were only fourteen year olds. Michael seemed to notice my confusion and shook his head lightly with a laugh, "My first raid was when I was fourteen, but a mission is different. A mission is more like a suicide notice than a raid is. My first one was with the boys when I was seventeen," he explained, taking in my facial expression when he stated the age easily.