This story is sort of dream-like, not meant to be realistic. Also, I tried for the first time writing a story in the second person. Let me know what you think!
___
You take his hand and he smiles at you. It doesn't make you weak in the knees. Rather, it makes you feel safe, like a big balloon has inflated in your chest. You trust him. You like the way the little scar above his left eye crinkles when he smiles, and the tiny gap between his front teeth. He's tall, and the sun behind him forces his face into semi-darkness but you can still see it so clearly.
Then he tugs at your hand, pulling you gently forward. You're walking side by side, hand-in-hand. The sun is still shining so bright, warming the earth. Green grass shoots out under your bare feet and around you white-flowered trees wave hello in the sweet breeze. There are no words here.
You're nearing the foot of a hill. You feel the gentle pressure of his hand under yours: here we go. You start to climb the hill, with him at your side, leading you on.
The ground slopes upward and it's not a hill, after all. It's a mountain. But it's not difficult to climb. You wonder why. Rocks and hard earth pinch your feet, but you still feel the comforting pressure of his hand in yours. You climb on, and soon enough, you're standing on the summit of a mountain. The moon has risen, and night has fallen. The air has cooled, but the sweet breeze has returned, swooping mischievously around the two of you.
And so you stand at the top of a vast mountain, having traveled there with the man whose hand still forms a warm cage around yours. You turn to face him, and find that he's already looking at you, sweetness in his eyes. He's looking through you. And you are known. He unlinks his hand from yours and brings it your face. You move closer to him, wrap your hands around his neck. The breeze stops and watches, and the moon twinkles in silent approval. He leans down and touches his forehead to yours. His kiss comes slowly and sweetly, and for the rest of the night you stand there, silently woven together, watching the night change, and then comes the bleeding sunrise. Unspoken in the air is this: this is perfect.
When the sun shoots in the middle of the sky, he moves himself away from you. A pained expression warps his beautiful features, and it scares you. He's leaving, and it's killing him to do it. He holds your hand again, tentatively; his touch is a goodbye. You cry. Warm tears fall to the earth, and the ground swallows them, eager to be a part of you. Of both of you. He fades. As you look at him, the sunlight pours over him, through him. The breeze blows him away. All that is left is a whisper of a promise, the whisper of a return. He'll be back...
Though you know this, you crumple to the earth. Warm grass is a comfort, and the tendrils curl against your skin, sympathetic, sensitive, mourning. Sun streams down through the trees, forming patterns on your face. Clouds roll in and form cover. After a while, you stand up. You know what to do now.
Slowly, you look down from the mountain. Water ripples and dances from so far away. You smile, and the gesture loosens your face. You allow the sun to shine again upon you. And then you begin to build. In your head is the image of a vast lighthouse, a beacon of light to call him home. It is this image that keeps you building with each heavy brick.
When it's finished, you start to climb again. The steps are harder to scale than the mountain was, but you know it's worth it. One thought repeats in your head: always, I'll wait. And so you climb.
You reach the top, and lean gently against the railing. The moon has come back out now, but it's not as bright as you remember it. You thank the night. Then you turn around and switch on the light, scattering the darkness.
From far away, he sees the light from the lighthouse on top of your mountain. And he'll come back. To you.
I wasn't really planning on reviewing much tonight but your piece certainly caught my eye straight away, so I thought it would be rude not too! I've never seen anyone write in second person before, so that was defintely an experience for me. I can safely say that if this was any longer than that style of writing would begin to irritate me, but for the setting of the piece I feel it truly worked.
