I sit with my legs crossed. Uncrossed. Crossed... in the end I give up, simply folding my knees into my chest as I sit on this damned frozen bench.
Of all the places, why would he want to meet here??
I look around the park, and I gotta hand it to him- it's completely isolated, perfect for privacy. A gust of wind passes, sending chills down my body. Winter is not the best time to be doing this.
Is it the icy air that's making me shiver? Or the daunting thought of the conversation that is yet to come. One that I have fought so hard to avoid, yet, here I am, soaking my arse off in this miserable frigid weather for a conversation I'd rather burn alive than actually go through with.
I guess this is my own fault, but I don't even want to think about responsibility. Not when it comes to this. It's too much for me to handle- especially since this effects everything. Everything I am, and will be... it will never be the sparkling image I so wish to paint in everyone's mind. But is now forever tainted with my own dark faults.
I stare at the empty swing set a couple of meters away, it's chains creaking as the wind pushes it this way and that. My gaze lowers to the little puddle of mud beneath it. I almost laugh.
'A stick in the mud' is what they called it. The little 'saying' the villages would mutter about reputations. In other words, one mistake, one foul and utter act of idiocy, and your fucked in this world- your reputation ruined forever. And they weren't wrong.
For some people, it's shaken off with no worries, no panic that a single wrong turn could defy them till the day they die- no. They simply laugh it off and let it roll right off their backs. Me? Not so much.
Whoever said 'time heals' was a complete liar, because here I am, centuries after.... let's just say, not one of my finer moments- only for it to come back and bite me in the arse.
My thoughts are interrupted when i feel eyes on me...I'm being watched. I spin my head round, standing from the bench when I see him.
God, how long has it been? Almost 300 years... ugh, now I feel old.
I always wondered what would happen if I ever saw him again. Would I be sad? Angry? Hell! I would've guessed overwhelmingly guilty.
But, standing in front of him right now, looking at the body of a man i once knew. I feel nothing. Not one thing. Because this isn't him, this is not the friend I once knew, only a shell- the person standing before me has been torn of his hope, and in its place stands loathing and evil.
I stand neutral, as we make sure to not drop the other's gaze- a sign a weakness, we both knew that. How could we ever forget that lesson?
He looks....good. His broad shoulders are fitted with a crisp white shirt, Complimented with a black blazer- matching tie. Not a scratch on his perfectly polished shoes. Clearly doing well for himself, I see.
Yet again, even when I met the scrawny son of a poor farmer all them years ago, the boy had always had a good sense of style.
We regard each other, wary of the words about to slip through our mouths.
Ah, there it is, the bitter touch of uncomfortable silence as we stand, eyeing each other- willing for the other to talk first.
He gives in before me, as usual. Even in centuries, some things don't change.
"Well well, Mary Warren. long time. "
What? Not even an attempted smile?
His resentment stands as a firm wall between us, dropping the temperature even colder than it already is while the death stare he's piercing me with holds strong.
