I remember my first finger painting or at least one of them. I don't know how old I was, only that I was very young. The colors rushed from my fingers to lather the paper. I didn't enjoy the way it crawled beneath my fingernails but I absolutely adored the way my grandmother's face would light up as she placed it on the ancient fridge with magnetic alphabetic letters. My sunshine was always drawn in the corners, it's rays barely visible but to her I was all of the sun in the very center. Scientifically speaking, every sun is simply a star that eventually goes out.
The bus ride proved uninspiring and now I'm in a place where I know absolutely no one, Kissimmee, Florida. I prefer being alone, so this is okay. I've been surrounded by chaos for too long. I continue to convince myself that I'm not swimming in crippling loneliness, that all I need is the puff of a cigarette, one good song and maybe a small bottle of cheap liquor.
The sun glares down at me and yet I'm still shivering under my clothes, letting out small clouds of breath aching in my chest as I attempt to hold them in for warmth. Wind whips my face, bringing a touch of pinkness to the pale of my skin. I draw the jacket closer, ignoring the numbness in my fingers as I pull on my mom's beanie, not hating her but wishing I could. Needing a distraction, I sit down on the grass against a large oak tree that appears to have been struck by lightning. Fingerless gloves may not provide protection from the cold but they do shield me from the ever intrusive thoughts. Blades of grass slide between my fingers and I look towards the BK joint in front of me. For a moment my eyes meet a girl's. She's staring intensely and any other time my heart might have fluttered. My cheeks might have flushed. Instead, I look through her. I press my hands into the earth and close my eyes, begging some ancient God to hear me or feel my aching. They'd probably be disgusted with me, a lowly poor human that hasn't showered in days.
Sleep takes me into his arms all at once and I feel myself sink deeper into the tree until my heart pulses in the roots. Here I feel safe, even if only for a moment, only for a dream and somehow I know this is a dream. I know soon I'll wake up and be alone again.
YOU ARE READING
Voices
RomanceEllie is 27 years old and has a problem, one that most her age wouldn't understand. She has four other minds or personalities. Sly is a masculine fox-like oddball, even howls occasionally and tends to change her eye color to a momentary gold. Lilith...
