This town was surrounded by an unidentifiable bleakness.
The rocky, trodden road was neutral and colorless beneath my feet, and the sky above even more so. Just beyond the small strip of pale blue-green grass beside the road, the flat, calm waters at the cliff bottom resembled a palette of distastefulness that an elephant would have envied. To my right, the high cliff faces sat unchanging, basking in the cold sunlight that peeked through the clouds.
I nudged a pebble along the road with the toe of my shoe, sighing as I pulled my sleeves over the backs of my hands. The sky was heavy with impending rain, but their air hadn't grown cool enough yet to let it fall.
Not far off, a tall, oddly shaped building hugged the dropped cliffside along the water, standing out on the horizon like a hulking monster.
The closer I came, the easier it was to see the carelessly patched red and white awning facing the dusty road. It was a fish market. I smirked at the tired splashes of color on the awning and the building itself. It looked like someone had nailed scrap pieces of metals and woods to the sides of the old house and taken blades to the original paint, which was a navy blue- the color that the lake should have been.
No sooner than I had spotted the market did a cold gust of wind push through the valley and across the road, making me shiver. The rain would be coming soon. I pulled my hood down and over my eyes and jogged toward the market.
The market barely had a foul smell to be found, despite being a supposed fish market. A rusty metal fan hummed near the door, blowing streams of warm air across my bare feet. I wandered around the dusty wooden bins scattered beneath the awning and glanced into one of them. It was filled with small bits and trinkets that looked like they'd been collected here and there over the years. Tools, toys, spare parts, broken things, and antiques I was sure weren't even made anymore.
"Can I help you?" came a raspy voice. The mesh door slammed, and out stepped a short, burly woman in a loose, white apron over a green shirt, pants, and rubber boots. Her thick brown hair was thrown back and loosely tied with a band. I shook my head quickly and picked through the scraps of metal and other odds and ends in one of the bins to avoid her stare. From the corner of my eye, I watched her menacingly wipe her knife on the folds of her apron, leaving blood and beige stains on the crisp white. I shuddered.
A rustling noise across from me made me look up. I looked into the eyes of a tall boy standing quietly in the corner of the market, watching me. He wore dark, patched clothes and scuffed boots that matched the market woman's. His stare was deep, but his eyes dull, as though he were falling into a hypnotic trance. I guessed he was her son. I swore he wasn't there a moment before. I quickly looked down and dropped the razor piece back into the bin.
I could feel the woman's eyes burning a hole through me, even from dead behind me. The wood creaked as she sat down in the white chair with the chipped paint that had been resting against the side of the building, in front of the fan.
I could hear footsteps creeping closer to me. I looked up and the boy stood across from me at the bin. His dark eyes brightened as he leaned closer and smiled.
"Hi," he said. His voice was surprisingly smooth and sweet.
"Hi," I muttered. I nodded briefly from beneath my hood, averting my eyes and pretending to fidget with a round bobble from the bin.
He cast a sideways glance at me, leaning forward to meet my eyes beneath my hood.
"What would you want that for?"
"I don't," I said quietly.
I shrugged as I threw it back, turning to the table behind me and aimlessly wandering through the rows of bins. His footsteps started again, crunching the dusty gravel floor. He followed me as I snaked through the bins, keeping a distance between us, as though I wouldn't notice.
YOU ARE READING
Dream Journal
Random"Dreams are the illustrations of the book your soul is writing about you." - Anonymous.
