Beautiful Disaster

Beautiful Disaster Chapter 13

Chapter 13

                Nightfall has fallen over the sun’s blue sky lapsing it with a clutter of stars and black satin. The mid July air is still baked from the day’s sun earlier preheating. After the wind had abated it brings about the essence of fresh forest aroma. There’s all the familiar sounds of crickets chirping, variety sorts of bugs and animals humming, and it all clasping together in the night’s orchestra.     

                What a perfect night for a walk.               

                Behind the mansion, or safe house—whatever it’s really called, I discover three different forest trails. Which, in any case, each must lead to a different destination; I’m really beginning to realize that Troy doesn’t just make something out of a pity whim. In addition, to only telling me half of what is. And what men in general fail to acknowledge is the simple little fact that women will eventually find out everything.   

                When I came about choosing which trail to hike upon, I settle with the ‘eenie-meanie-miny-mo’ method and got stuck in the middle. Thinking I’ll someway find my way back, I went with the middle. So far it ain’t such a bad choice after all.

                The trail’s been cut away from weeds covered over in stone and dirt.  Identical shaped rocks align the trail’s edge as a few others are camouflaged to be motioned censored lights. There is even beautiful assortment of plants surrounding the path’s outer border. I bend low plucking one out from the ground. Its frame is fair tiny pink petals that illuminate such a small faint luminosity that it’s barely manageable to notice. Suddenly the veins fade to grey gradually desecrating itself into a pile of withered ash.   

                My eyes widen as I stare down at my palm now covered in stained ashes. Getting up I swipe it all away not daring to go back and pluck another flower.

                Deepening my way down the path the forest itself thickens. Hundreds of trees canopy over, endless amount of plants decorate the forest grounds, flowers all illumine faint assessment of colors; pink, purple, blue, and white. I even catch a few animals that I’ve never even seen before prowl through the bushes.            

                One stops at the trails edge sniffing its nose at one of the flowers. It looks like a cross between a rabbit and a ferret. Its body is long, with tiny claws, long floppy ears, a short bud tail, and topped with a short pink button nose. Its eyes are the size of a quarter blemished with shades of blue.

                When I reach out to touch it, its teeth lash out centimeters away from biting off my fingers. I falter backwards, somewhat surprised. It scurries quickly back into the thicket of creepers. 

                “Ah Lass, be careful. Those dare are groun’ biters.”

                I gasp, stumbling back in mid step.

                The man chuckles a low hearty sound that rumbles in the back of his throat. He veers off one of the trees, passing a few, and then stepping onto the trail. His boots are piled with mud, his jeans rubbed with stains, and wearing a shirt that doesn’t look any better.

                Ian stands front and center with a Vodka bottle the size of a gallon of milk. There must be about a quarter of it already gone. He swishes the clear liquid around before taking another gulp. I can hear it—it streaming down his throat barely leaving a sting behind. Once he finished there’s only half of it left. My theory is with every gulp he takes it’ll only be a matter of another two for the bottle to be completely empty.