Spoiler
This is for Trident's Three-Pronged Contest. My things to incorporate are a) a lawn gnome, b) duct-taping an article of clothing, and c) a silver penny. Critique as harsh as you want, I can take it.
Tears are everything to Eilyn. They cleanse her soul, purify her vision, and are her window of escape. Only when she is drowning in them can she truly see.
She flees through the woods, tears curtaining her cheeks before whipping off her chin. She sprints for what must be hours, but her body doesn’t tire. Not physically, at least. Emotionally, she's bound.
When she stops, she finds herself in a weather-faded plastic house. Inside are nick-nacks and lawn ornaments, randomly strewn about. She plops down onto a torn bean bag chair and weeps into her dirt-streaked hands. Her tangled raven locks tumble down, creating an oily barrier around her face.
A ripping sound, like a band-aid being pulled off, but lasting longer, jolts her. She wipes her tears, no doubt smearing whatever mascara that hasn’t already dripped off, and peers up.
In front of her stands a scruffy lawn gnome come to life, holding a roll of duct tape that’s partially unrolled. Wordlessly, the lawn gnome gently applies the tape to her shredded jeans, patching them. When he’s done, he sets the roll on a short counter and pulls something shiny from his tiny, blue pocket; a silver penny.
“For luck.” He places the penny on her taped knee.
She stares at it, then him, before picking it up and making a fist around it. “Thank you,” she squeaks, her voice drowned from the crying.
“Tell Miffle what’s bothering m’lady?” He looks at her with caring eyes.
A small smile pushes its way to her lips. In so few words, she recounts her story, the heartbreak the stupid boy caused and how much she wishes she were her. With patient ears, Miffle listens until she's finished.
He rips a small piece of duct tape from the roll and hands it to her. When she look at him questioningly, he says, “For m’lady’s heart.”
A slight giggle escapes her mouth, prodded on by Miffle’s unearthly innocence. She takes the piece of tape and presses it over the left side of her chest.
“All better?” Miffle looks at her expectantly.
“All better,” she agrees. If only that were true.
Miffle smiles enthusiastically.
After that, they talk for a while, about meaningless, childish things. It brings more pleasure than she's felt in a long time.
But when the sky darkens, her expression grows grim.
“I have to go.”
Miffle looks at her with disappointment, but nods. “Come back soon?”
“Of course.” She means it.
But what she doesn’t know is that, once the tears dry and the pain lessens, the house remains just a play house, and Miffle a decoration. She’ll soon forget all about the little gnome. She will never visit again, not on purpose. Maybe she’ll stumble upon it, like she did today, but she’ll never think to seek it out. Just like she hasn't since she was four, ten years ago, and trips to the play house were frequent at very least.
When she finally returns home, she finds her jeans slit and her palm empty. Her heart is not mended and her mind is not at ease. She can’t tell the difference.
But for when the day her tears become everything once again comes, Miffle is there waiting, sitting beside the torn bean bag chair, holding a roll of duct tape, with a silver penny in his pocket. His innocence remains a beacon of hope, even though a beacon unseen.
But she can’t tell the difference.
