Short Story: A Blurred Soul
The 17th of November is always chilly and overcast, with the last of the dying leaves blowing in the wind. Occasionally there is an evergreen waiting for the first snow, overshadowed by the empty spaces between their neighbor’s branches. Each street you turn down reminds you of loss--a blur of greys and the occasional flash of color that tempts you with joyous memories.
The day passes as it always has for the past eight years. Each second drags by like you’re carrying all of human history in your backpack--surely, that’s too much for a person to bear? The world is masked in a fog, a blanket that settles over everything and weighs on your limbs, your mind, your tongue. You strategically take your seat (the middle row, close to the door) and you dread each time you are required to talk. What do they see? Hear? Think?
At 3pm you walk home, the sky now a dull, stormy grey. Your head hangs and your shoulders sag beneath the shadows of expectations. Those who smirk in place of a smile would say you need something--a rebound after a breakup, some chocolate, those nice and peppy and very unreliable fixes. A car speeds past you, the slipstream whisking away the last of your motivation and energy.
Then you look a little to your left, catching a glimpse of a tall girl whose features are too blurred by the fog to make out. But she smiles, and you smile with your eyes because giving a full smile is draining, and it is enough to know she is there, that you do not need something.
Eating is unappealing today. At 7pm, the heavens have closed its shining gates and the trees cast eerie shadows by the light of the lampposts. The girl reappears by the crackling fire and sits there, intelligent eyes watching your slumped form as you stare into the embers. Neither of you speak, but she listens as your heart is emptied, pouring out in smoky tendrils practically visible in the night. She nods, drawing her knees to her chest, inky hair falling over her rounded face. Watching her intently, she looks ethereal in the firelight--an impressive contrast of pale skin against dark-ripped jeans and laced-up black boots.
The girl stands and offers her hand. Her entire image is a mirage, even more mystical than usual in the dim setting. You find your hand, slightly tanned and somewhat smaller, extending out to meet it. Do you really feel her hand, slender and caring? Do you want to know?
She leads you in a strange dance around the fire, giggling and gently teasing your shy reluctance to follow with her smile and eyes. You still don’t know what color her eyes are (maybe black, but really, what does it matter?). She is there, and that is enough. You remember this, and find the strength in yourself to let go a little bit.
She kisses your forehead, your cheeks, your lips, and you start to melt. She speaks for the first time, her voice clear inside your head. I know, she says, I know. And she is once again enough, because the abandonment and fear and depression built up throughout the day finally finishes its course through you, flushed out by a wave of bliss and quiet happiness.
You feel wonderment for this strange, impossible being. How--who--why do you deserve this? And the amazement increases still as the beautiful angel, white wings glowing so bright they awe the fire into submission, reminds you that You created me. I am part of you, don’t you remember? When you curled up on your doorstep and sobbed for a friend and ripped your heart in two because no one could understand. You created someone who will always understand. I am part of you, and I will always be here for you.
You smile at the shimmering image of your other self, not quite real but not quite imaginary either. Her smile back is enough. You are enough.