TIME

Lonely

Time Frame: Before

"Lonely"

ˈlōnlē/

Adj

1.sad because one has no friends or company.

~

It was about that time of day, I suppose.
The time of day when my compassionate father would lean over from his make-shift workspace on the far end of the living room and request I go out, and """get some fresh air."""

Previous refusals and arguments from this daily occurrence ranged from,

"Why? Oxygen isn't going to keep me alive"

to

"Let me finish me show first"

to the classic, (and my personal favorite)

"No thanks, pops."

But today I agreed (which I did 90% of the time, for staring at the same 4 walls every minute of the day is bound to drive even the sanest of people insane).

I always ended up in the same place anyway, stationed in the middle of a flower meadow and river bank, just on the slight outskirts of town, the only place I ever went to 'get some fresh air'. It was peaceful, no doubt but with peace came silence.

And sometimes silence meant lonely.

This was the same meadow my mother had took me to when she was alive, it had become my thinking and writing place, memories flooded each millimeter of land. Some were from before my mom's passing, and after, like now. Gorgeous flowers bloomed from every which way, the breeze always smelled of jasmine, the grass was never so green, the sky never so blue and sun never so warm. The creek edged its way across the field, then transferred into a vast forest, cutting off the city limits. The townspeople were not permitted to venture past the forest and after awhile I stopped daydreaming about one day having the guts and doing it. There were rumors that an insane asylum or county jail was on the other side of the forest. I always thought that was bullshit.

My thoughts were trampled when I felt a presence behind me, watching me, almost. That was one quirky thing about me, I had amazing space relations, like a sixth sense, per say.

"Who are you and what do you want?" I asked quietly, eyes trained on the cherry blossom trees, adjacent to a small water bank.

"I-I don't want anything, just a place to rest" his voice was husky and his breathing uneven.

"Why are you so out of breath?" I acquired, still not turning to the stranger.

"Just traveled about 7 miles east, to get here, by foot. I think im allowed to be a little tired." He explained, even chuckling a bit.

"What's 7 miles east from here?"

"The county jail."

'So it was a jail!' I thought, and immediately decided to pretend I knew it was there all along. "And what's 'here' to you?" I questioned.

"A fresh start."

And after that, there was silence. Peaceful silence, because I knew what he meant. And there was nothing else to be said. I knew this would not be the last time I encountered this guy.

There was something in his voice. Maybe it was the honesty of his tone or the purity in his words, but I knew he was different.
A felon didn't fit his façade, as far as I could tell. But it was clear he was no angel, but he had been through a lot, just like me.

I turned and finallg faced the man who had traveled 7 miles, for a 'fresh start'. His dark green eyes peered at me guilty, as if he was ashamed of all he had told me. His skin was battered, bruised and even bleeding a bit. His hair was long and curly, held off of his forehead with dark blue bandana. He had a cut on his pink lips and his cheeks were red from the exertion of his travel. His arms held a mass of ink, some even disappearing into his shirt. He had so many tattoos I couldn't even find his personal lifetime. I met his eyes again and I knew who he was,
He was like me.

And no, not in the whole 'dying' aspect but in the whole - we were cut from the same fabric but sewn onto two different masterpieces - aspect.
Anyways, he was still like me.

He was lonely.

And so in this silence we sat, watching each other with inequitable breaths and soaring minds.

We sat peacefully, quietly, and lonely; together.

A/n

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