Cigarette Mouth (1)

Geist

Down by this bridge that's just barely a yard or two vertically over a river, I saw a woman last year.

She looked at me with a very pale face and milky eyes. I couldn't tell if she was crying or not because the way the sunlight hit her body. Her hair matched luxury jewelry, twenty-four karat golden locks draped gorgeously over her oval face. Her ivory lips were busted and bleeding, yet I didn't care to think of it.

Though she was seemingly blinded by the big star she didn't squint or blink once, she only motioned towards the woods behind her.

I was the only one there, and she was very obviously wanting for me to come to her. I remember how I gulped and almost choked, I remember what the air smelt like. Faint of peaches, but not natural peaches. Almost an artificial candy scent.

I stepped across the decrepit wooden bridge, my boots making a very significant noise similar to stilettos on linoleum, but deeper and with more bass.

Lots of volume in each step I took, so much mass being pressed down onto the wood even though I was a featherweight for my age.

And as I crossed that last plank with the rusted nails jotting out and my feet were planted in the dusty dirt, I looked up to see the woman was already walking away.

I rushed my feet towards her yet I still had my head tilted towards the ground, I was weary of tripping.

But I didn't realize that I had already fallen.