Then I saw the man in the trench coat. He was across the street, leaning against the big dead tree.
It was not the first time I had seen this man. And certainly not the last.
We've been in reach of each other so many times that we could be known as accidental acquaintances, however, I would never wish to be in an alliance with this man. I'm far too young to shake his hand and follow his scythe.
Yet this time, I wouldn't turn away from his intense aura. I wouldn't run home and hug myself impatiently as if I were a hibernating squirrel. I wouldn't tell myself I was not hibernating, just waiting, before realising that hibernation does include waiting. I would not rewrite another letter to mother, to Laura, or to Michelle. I would not hide it from my counsellor.
This time, I was ready for confrontation.
The wind around me seems to agree, almost pushing me towards the opposite end of the scarred street, its voice crying into the once-undisturbed air. It curls my hair around its' gusts, up and everywhere. The jacket I wear doesn't help to fend off the cold as whips of the whining wind slip down the collar. I shiver and comply with the atmospheres urges.
The wailing quiets as I cross the road, leaving my heart beat and footsteps to blare and echo throughout the houses, bouncing off the variations of melancholy hues of brown and red. That seems to be the repeating shade; the brown. Somnolent singed sienna, sick sepia grass, limbs of light mocha leaves, the man in the tan trench coat.
The area seems so drowsy. Like you were seeing it through an ancient window, but once you wipe away the dust, the colours become vibrant. It's like you were in a painting of a cold autumn day. The only somewhat simulating tint illuminates from the quiet yellow street lights. The colours look like they are slurring together when my heart begins to batter. Its eeriness emerges from my rib cage to pulse along with the rest of me. My legs seem to falter once I'm close enough to count the buttons on the man's coat.
It seems as though the world has begun to turn in slow motion. It seems as though cracks have begun to sprout through the gravel around us. It seems as though the world has crumbled and left only this street, this tree, this man, and me.
A sour taste rises to my mouth, combining with an already unsavoury coffee aftertaste. My breath heaves with regret. My eyes squint together uncontrollably and my hands' tingle. Although it seems distorted, the tingle feels normal. It's a tingle that hurtles through my veins when I'm too close to danger. A feeling of a reverberating radiance that seems to rollick merrily. However, it is not merry at all.
Something is not right. Something is about to happen.
The globe has shut down.
A ring resounds through my ears. Snow envelopes my vision. Blood outlines my teeth. A light fire ignites within me.
The sound of a vehicle's horn crashes through my bizarre state.
I turn toward my right and the truck roars toward me.
Panic. Panic leaps through me, adrenaline surges through me but my life doesn't flash before me. I always expected it to do that.
But I am far too young to shake his hand and follow his scythe.
Gasping terribly, my breath releasing from my own grip, I attempt to run aside, when I trip and fall, luckily out of the way.
The once zephyr air gasps its own grand gales. My hair doesn't get to curl peacefully now, it flies back. My eyes are wide and unbelieving. My breath syncs with the rapid and harsh clobbering of my petrified heart. My chest rises and falls quicker than I've ever seen a chest do. Before I know it, tears are drowning my eyes and cascading along my cheekbones.
I sit up, but I don't stand up. I think that if I did I would fall right back down.
The pavement underneath me is cold and hard. My hands sting suddenly with the scraps the ground bit into them. What could have been my corpse still clammers however the adrenaline begins to dry up. My clothing- the clothing I could have died in, hugs me tightly, now warmly. My mind is the only thing that stays loud and alert.
I could have just died. I could have just died.
I had seen the man many times, I always thought that it had been for me, but it was always for someone else. It was supposed to be for me this time. I could have just died and I wasn't thinking of mother, or Lauren, or Michelle in those last moments. I was thinking about walking over to the man. The man in the trench coat across the street, leaning against the big dead tree.
I look up swiftly.
No man leans against the tree.
Looking to the left, however, a man in a trench coat walks solemnly down the drowsy street, leaving no echo of footsteps, and disappearing into the forming mist.
Silently weeping, I know that he agreed with me.
I'm far too young to shake his hand and follow his scythe.
~Author's Note~
This was a short story I had to write for class using a quote from a book without knowing the context. I think the quote is from a Rick Riordan novel.
