We Are But Scattered on Careless Escapades

Your gaze

I awake by the fireplace with cold sweat on my brow. I've lost my diary and my fingertips have gone cold. It must have been a nightmare, I think, painfully aware of the pen sandwiched between my body and the manchette, its end sticking into my ribcage. I've sunken into the seat, blanket snaking on the floor as I adjust my position. 

The fire in front of me crackles and spurts juts of soot-tipped flames out from the fireplace's mouth. Like a tongue it swallows the stoker, reaching for your hand. Quickly you pull back and wipe a trail of ashes from your cheek. The sound was loud. Loud enough to wake me up, but you're not surprised per se. The momentary spark in your eyes fades and your face settles into a familiar blankness—soft and unfocused. Delicate. Then you approach again, careful this time. I observe you for a moment, replaying the recoil of your body in my head, frozen as if afraid to wake from this near dreamlike stupor. 

If I'd stay quiet and still, would you let me see you? Unfortunately, stillness is nothing I can afford. Pulsing in my ribcage spreads over my shoulders and sends a sharp pain through my neck, the kind that leaves a prickling sensation under the tongue. A hot flash of heat erupts in my neck.

"Ouch, shit!" A bitter aftertaste is not far behind. I stretch my neck out over the headrest and push the nape of it firmly against the cushion. From the corner of my eye, your silhouette straightens.

"Did I wake you?"

You're not looking at me, not about to reprimand me, but I know what I did. It's what I always do.

"No. It's fine, I just dozed off for a minute," I say and dislodge the fountain pen from between my ribs before it takes the opportunity to puncture my spleen. My vision is still hazy from the nightmare, and eyes find it hard to adjust. You stand before me like a contrast in the shadows, flames lighting your face. Behind the glass panes surrounding us lies the great beyond, snow falling in large bits from the depths of a gray bucket. The harsh light erases all contours, indoors disappearing from view. I'm inside a cozy box.

I sit back up just to get a glimpse of Octantis skidding across the floor on a small decorative carpet. Her fur is so dark against the backdrop of ebony-stained wood that I almost miss her. The commotion following it is a scramble for balance. She dashes behind the kitchen counter before you turn around and follow my gaze. All is quiet again, with the only sign of change the crumpled-up carpet ridged against the counter.

"I tried to feed her, but she keeps hiding from me, so I left her some food and went for a walk." You stick the stoker into the ashes and push back a burning piece of paper. It has the visible linings of a notebook page.

"Do you think she has fleas?" I ask. The piece of paper twists and turns black, no words revealing themselves. I let my gaze wander over your hands and coat pockets. Your boots and jeans are still wet from the snow, damp hair on your temples and the back of your head curling slightly. I must have slept for a while.

"I don't think so. I took her for a checkup before coming here, remember? The vet said that change of scenery may be a source of stress, but I thought she had already gotten used to us."

"Us maybe," I sigh and peek over my shoulder to where you were looking. There is a sign of faint concern on your face, the way the corners of your eyes crinkle. On someone else, it would look like pain, but I know better. "Do you think we should have left her with your sister for a couple of days?"

"She's away for Thanksgiving."

"Ah, yeah. I was surprised you wanted to skip this year though."

A breeze of cold air brushes past my toes, so I gather the blanket and wrap it carefully over my legs. Pen in hand, I pat the seat beside my legs and then look under the blanket. No diary.

"By the way," I started, "why didn't you wake me up? I thought we were supposed to hike to the chapel today."

"We were," you reply, "but I thought you had forgotten."

My fingers caught behind something smooth, a hard piece of paper wedged between the blanket folds. At first, I thought I might have ripped some of the pages while tossing around, fighting monsters in my nightmare, but what stared back at me was a shred of a photograph, my own smirking face staring back at me. I was much younger there, smile lines a necessity not a concern. That summer was my first and last attempt at sporting a crew haircut not very popular outside the circle of high school troublemakers, but that made me look a few years older than I was. It was supposed to impress an older girl I had met selling ice cream at the beach, but instead of hitting it off with her, I met you. We took this picture here 9 years ago, standing on the porch, my hand draped around your shoulders, your head angled back, eyes locked on me. I turned the photo around as if expecting you to pop up like a fold-out. The tear cut off my arm and chest, creating a small boxed portrait. Behind me, the soft, unfocused light was glowing between tree leaves.

You were back to poking the flames, making them dance around the logs, sizzling. I push the blanket aside and look up at you, searching your eyes. Your face is flushed from the heat, and when the stoker gets caught between the logs and bangs against the stone, a pillar of sparks bursts towards you. You recoil again, turn away and brush a hand over your cheek.

I still, my body shaking from the sheer strength it takes to cease all movement. These are the inner core muscles working, the ones hardest to activate, the ones keeping me intact. The ache is a mixture of pain now—ribcage fighting with muscles. I stifle a groan. I can feel the weight of the pen, the traces of where it's been, what it's done, perhaps in a nightmare. No hot flashes overtake me now, my hands and feet are cold.

You hear soft paws padding on the floor and turn to look over my head, but I cannot follow your gaze. My eyes flick to myself looking back at me from our photo, inquisitive. What is it that I fail to see?