The Wild Within

Quicksand

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FIFTEEN

It feels strange — as though for the past few weeks we've been steadily climbing the craggy cliffs of a mountain, breathing in the thin, icy air, surrounded by gossamer clouds of indigo — and now, finally, we have reached the crest. We've conquered its unforgiving summit and the perilous ascent is finally over. Last night felt this way, like a milestone, as though Darius and I have overcome some unseen obstacle, an invisible barrier, and are now linked to one another by an indiscernible force.

I can't remember the last time I cried in front of someone. I mask my pain under a tough exterior like a tortoise hiding in its shell. I obscure my tears with the darkness of the night and the security of solitude, sobbing my heart out almost daily as the horrors of the past refuse to let my mind rest peacefully. The guilt, the sorrow, the torment and anguish — they all lie buried under an impenetrable veneer of emotionlessness, a semblance of calm and control.

But last night...Something about the music had broken down the barriers of my soul, torn it to shreds and exposed the mess within, unveiled my inner agony and grief. I didn't like it. I felt vulnerable, like a deer in an open plain surrounded by a pride of watchful lions. But despite my deep discomfort, there was something reassuring about the way Darius had held my hand, the way tears had streamed from his eyes as well.

You're not alone, he seemed to say. I understand.

We don't mention it afterward, nor does he sing again, but over the next two months, I realize that while his presence once unsettled me, I now find it inexplicably comforting. He's like a carefully brewed potion of contrast: Both fun and serious, kind and blunt, cheerful and full of sorrow.

He reminds me of snow. It's pretty and fascinating to look at, falling from the sky in delicately crafted flakes. It coats the roofs of houses in a blanket of whiteness and turns the streets into a winter wonderland. But while snow is beautiful, it is also icy cold. Frostbite can claim your fingers, avalanches can bury you alive, and the cold can make life slip away so peacefully that you almost enjoy it. Darius is beautiful and fascinating and mostly light-hearted, but I know his smile obscures a darkness as cold and dangerous as a snowstorm. His pain and heartache are buried under layers of pretty snowflakes.

I suppose we are the same, except I'm cold on the outside as well as within. I don't try to be nice like he does, I've given up trying long ago. But snow always melts in the sunshine, and I feel myself begin to thaw under his warmth.

"She was lovely," he tells me.

We're perched on a large, flat rock, overlooking the open plains below where a herd of zebra graze unsuspectingly. The topic of his mother has come up since zebras were apparently her favorite animals. I'm once again astonished at his openness, the effortlessness with which he shares his personal life despite the fact that I have never told him a thing about my family, or my past.

"She'd adore it out here," he continues wistfully. "Anywhere in the open air. The number of picnics we took— " He gives a short laugh.

I keep my eyes fixed on the herd below me, smiling slightly as his words infiltrate my eardrums. Far in the distance, something moves in the long grass. I narrow my eyes.

"And the beach days! We'd go every week."

"Get down," I hiss suddenly.