Darkness becomes her //JackxElsa

Twelve

A Little Journey

"COME ON, WE BETTER GO. CORAINE WILL COME OUT WHEN SHE'S READY."

"It's nice here," I said, lost in the scenery of the Garden District as I walked with Jack to St. Charles Avenue. His only response was a grunt. I hadn't meant to give voice to my thoughts, to share anything with him. It was pretty obvious he didn't have any interest in conversation.

Not that I minded; it wasn't like I was known for my social skills anyway.

So I settled into a nice rhythm next to my guide, keeping my thoughts to myself, minding the cracks in the pavement and the tree limbs that hung low over fences, pulled down by moss or heavy vines.

If someone could've crawled inside my soul and then created a town to fit me best, it would've looked just look like the GD. There was a sense of belonging here that I'd never felt anywhere else before. It could've been because I was born here, and I knew my mother had lived here, but somehow it was more than that. It was in the emotion of the place, the air of abandonment, the slight decay on everything, the wilderness of the plants and trees, the haunted appearance that clung to the grand old houses, and the dark parts where light never reached-deep in the lost gardens, behind vacant lots, and beyond boarded-up windows. It was even in the misfits that made this place home. In Caroline, Wilbur, Aster, Vennolope. And, I glanced over, in Jack with his sliver hair, brooding eyes, and dark pink lips. It was the freedom of being in a place that didn't give a shit what you were, because it was different too.

It wasn't entirely neglected, though. We passed a house with a bunch of twentysomething artist types. A guy on the porch played a twelve-string guitar, fingers flying in a romantic Spanish tone as a woman in a turban painted a picture on a canvas. Voices and the sound of hammers on wood flowed from the open windows. Another person lay in an old hammock hung between columns, a joint wedged in the V of his slack fingers.

The guitar guy looked up and dipped his head at Jack. A few more houses and we crossed St. Charles Avenue to wait for the trolley.

"Charity Hospital, right?"

"Yeah. Do you think we'll have trouble accessing my records?"

Jack shrugged, dragging his fingers through his hair and leaving it wild and rumpled. "Shouldn't be too hard."

"Do you know any Winters living in New 2?"

The streetcar rolled toward us as Jack shook his head and then fished in his pocket for money. "Costs a dollar twenty-five."

"Oh. . .crap." I dropped my backpack on the ground and unzipped the front pocket to pull out two dollars as the trolley came to a stop. Jack was already halfway up the steps. I hurried on, paid my fare, and then sat on the wooden bench directly across the aisle from him.

We rode in silence, the only two on the trolley, until Jack slid over into my seat, surprising me. I scooted toward the window. "So," he began in a low voice, keeping his eye on the streetcar operator, "you want to tell me about the guy who tried to kill you?"

Our shoulders touched, and I tried not to breathe in too deeply because he smelled really freaking good. "Not really." I stared out the window.

"You think he lived in New 2?"

I frowned. "I don't know what to think. The guy acted like he lived on a different planet." I turned away again and muttered, "A different country, at least. I shot him twice, and he barely flinched." The images of last night came back to me. "Weird thing about it. . . my mother knew. She died a long time ago, but she knew someone would come after me. She left me this letter, and then like magic there he was."