WILDFRUIT

——

You always grew sideways
rooted in cracks I never noticed
Until you bloomed there
bright and strange
a Wildfruit in a world of neat rows

I watched you twist toward light nobody offered you
I watched you carry sweetness and bite in the same soft skin
And I will always watch you
no matter what
Because your dim sheen light my world
though I know I put yours on fire

Don’t hide in the smoke
make your way through
and ride it’s rollercoaster

Because you don’t owe anyone softness
Not them
not me
not even yourself

Just grow
how you do
My Wildfruit. My Cherry.
- Your Cliff.

——

CHAPTER ONE — SILENT RUNNING

The crash was quieter than anyone expected. No one in town saw it happen. They only heard the thin whine of wheels tearing down the road at fifty miles per hour. The tires sparked and scraped ragged against the asphalt before they finally gave out in a sharp U-turn, which then sent the whole car into a violent flip. The car laid upside down on the road, it’s smoke almost covering it whole. No one knew why the the car turned so sharply. It seemed so odd while being on the straight highway, still it was obviously an accident, right? Seeming the boy in the car was as reckless and restless as town said, “Of course it was Cliff.”

Because I never felt at home in this shitty town anyway. I’ll rather stay buried beneath it, as a punk dead forever a teenager. They always said I’d been too loud and alive for a town as silent and dead as Hawthorn. That it was only a matter of time til I’d drown in the hollowness. Now It’d finally happened; I’m in a casket buried beneath it, passing the hollowness for the little sister to behold—the ripe Cherry Abbot—fourteen on her first day of high school.

High school was tough. Especially while still grieving heavily after the crash. She’d always been quite anxious and paranoid as a kid, although none of it compared to now. She carried a churning sorrow that made her crook even smaller, like she could fold herself into nothing.

Just like it, Cherry walked hunched over to Dolly’s Diner. She made it to the window seat, practically her seat. Valerie the waitress walked to greet Cherry, her eyes painted with a sympathy she’d seen one too many times. ”Your usual, Cherry?”, Valerie asked with a titled head, her black stuffed braid falling of her shoulder. ”Yes please.” Cherry replied with a stifled smile. She ordered tea instead of coffee, since she said she always hated the bitterness.

Infront of her laid a neat notebook, dressed in a black fakest-leather-possible and completely covered in jabs. Our grandpa gave it to her as a gift once, and she never let it go. Now I wonder if the book’s pages were infinite, and whether it’d be called a diary or not I wonder as well— but my guess is that she would’ve corrected me on that instantly—so I’ll stick to notebook.

The notebook consisted of this rising tension, starting with her regular creative writing; of ideas and things she observed— turning into complete compel of my death.

[notebook pages]

She stayed completely quiet about it, but mother soon figured she was struggling. Eileen insisted she was only paranoid and depressed, which was true, Cherry wasn’t well—she was mute with hell inside.

But Cherry doesn’t believe it was an accident. How can you claim an accident while leaving it simmer like a mystery? Cherry knows this town hides something. And that’s why I watch her. But she doesn’t know that.

Cherry couldn’t even cry at the funeral yesterday, she was too busy studying the fake tears. It made her realise I didn’t have that many close ones. I had past friends.

The grown ups at the scene whispered a lot, seemingly gossip. Cherry wanted to hear it, she needed to. She felt like going mad. Unanswered questions drove her to absolute insanity, she was afraid she was going to go delusional. She decided to walk behind the black-dressed circle to peek a listen. Even being a deceased’s sister she was unnoticeable. I think it just might be her nature.

”You look just like him.” An old lady spoke to her while she was still lurking behind the crowd. She stifled a small smile and quickly skimmed the area for an escape.

Cherry did look a lot like me. The red hair was definitely the most prominent parable. Her Irish curls lays full and frames her delicate face. She looks so innocent and elegant, which is not one of our similarities. Mother makes her wear preppy clothes to look elegant at school. Which I know actually just means wealthy.

I also know mother just wants the best for Cherry. She can get a little excessive or degrading when she’s very worried. For Cherry it’s all she is to her now. They don’t smile to each other no more, if even look at each other. Only out of assessment. Yet mother is extremely sensitive, just like Cherry.

Father is a different discussion. He’s another reason to why I’m happy not to be alive. He was loveable when we were children, until something changed, and he turned vile. It was almost like he had this delusion that he was protecting his family. Meanwhile what he did was was abuse us.

He didn’t cry at the funeral, either. Only mother did. Instead he stood firm and had his head really high, for some reason. His hand held mothers shoulder, a lot harder than firm.

Cherry found a tree to lean back by. Both close and far enough from the funeral. She stared at the ground before looking up. She pressed her head against the tree harder and harder, and her feet suffocated the ground. She closed her eyes and stayed like it. Cherry felt so heavy yet so empty. Everything felt empty; the funeral felt grey, empty with people, sky cloudless, and her insides hollow—all except her sadness.

Cherry dreamt that night of running.
Not the kind she did in gym class or when I used to dare her to race me down the block. This was different. Endless.

Her sneakers slapped a pavement that never crossed, never widened, never let her breathe. All while complete silence. She tried to stop running, tried to look around—but behind her she could feel a hard pressure.

In dreams, you don’t need footsteps to know you’re being chased. You don’t need a face to know it hates you. The chaser was neither darkness or light. It didn’t grab her or let her go. Cherry screamed.

”Can you hear me? Can you hear me running?”

But nothing could make a sound. Nothing could be. Only to be was her, me and her silent running in a world that wanted her quiet. 

(This is a choppy and undone first chapter, thank you for reading & let me know your thoughts!)