The Contradiction of Solitude(88)

The water flowing from the faucet was ice cold. I watched the blood wash away. Red and thick, the drain swallowing it up.

I rubbed the soap over my hands. They were steady. Always steady.

The sharp tang of copper coated the back of my throat. It was familiar.

It was home.

Elian’s voice rang in my ears. But it would fade with time.

His tender affection. His promises. His misguided belief in life and us.

I scrubbed harder. The blood was caked underneath my fingernails. Buried deep where it belonged.

It was a part of me.

It branded me with a love willingly given. Bled from an unwavering, secretive heart.

Elian.

My earliest memories were of blood.

I smiled.

The blood was all I saw.





“Here are your seasoned fries and ranch dressing. Is there anything else I can get ya?”

I looked up from the newspaper spread out in front of me and gave the waitress a smile.

“Some more iced tea would be great,” I said before picking up a French fry and dunking it in dressing.

I smoothed my hand down the page laid out on the table. A smiling face and dancing green eyes stared back at me. At least I knew they were green. The black and white photograph did nothing to dim the brilliance that had once been there. As they had been, in the beginning.

Police are still looking for any information in relation to the disappearance of twenty-eight year old Elian Beyer. Mr. Beyer was last seen six months ago. Sheriff Johnson of Brecken Forest, Virginia is asking for help from the community as the search continues.

New stories that were only mine.

Only ever mine.

They belonged to me. Not to my father. Not this time.

I never wanted to share Elian.

Some things were too special.

I folded the newspaper over and put it on the seat beside me, feeling nothing. The numbness had resumed its place inside of me.

I slowly chewed the fry and watched people as they walked in and out of the Denny’s that sat in the middle of Mole Valley, Indiana.

Watching strangers provided the same enjoyment it always did. Imagining their stories made me feel closer to the man who used to tell me tales of the stars.

A man, who had knowingly molded me into his image.

I pulled the tattered copy of Swann’s Way from my pocket and opened to the page I had dog-eared.

The sound of laughter a few feet away caught my attention. I recognized the man who sat in the booth across from me. The one with the blond hair and smiling brown eyes. He was grinning at an older woman I believed to be a co-worker. There was clearly no familial relationship, nor were they romantically involved. Their body language made that obvious.

I wondered what they were talking about?

The weather? Love or life and death?

Or something inconsequential?

The man with the smiling brown eyes put a handful of potato chips in his mouth. He crunched them nosily.

I liked the sound of his laugher. It wasn’t deep and low but was instead high and delighted. His cheeks flushed red as he smiled.

I had been coming into this Denny’s since moving to Mole Valley three months ago. Every single day. No matter the weather.

Just like always.

Smiling Brown Eyes and the older woman came in twice a week. I had come to recognize the sound of his high-pitched laugh. I listened for it. Knowing his was the laugh I had been looking for.

He was random. But my actions weren’t.

He wasn’t special. The man with the smiling brown eyes. They didn’t dance. And they weren’t green.

This one was…unimportant.

I continued to eat my fries. One at a time. Dipping them in the ranch dressing before popping them in my mouth.

Smiling Brown Eyes was paying their bill. I knew they were about to leave. He always paid for lunch, never letting the older woman get out her wallet.

They’d argue good-naturedly but Smiling Brown Eyes always won and the woman would grumble but grin all the same.

He was a nice guy. It was obvious. The kind that would pay for his co-worker’s lunch each and every time.

The kind that couldn’t help but notice the beautiful woman with coal black eyes that sat in the booth opposite him every week.

“Hi,” Smiling Brown Eyes said as he passed by my table. I looked up at him, our gazes meeting and clinging.

I felt a buzzing.

Buzz…

“Hi,” I said quietly, giving him a small smile. He stood there, beside my table, staring down at me, and I knew he liked what he saw. I could see the pulse in his neck thudding just under the skin. His pupils dilated just a fraction.

“Whatcha reading?” he asked. His voice was clear and clean. I liked the sound of it. I felt it in my gut.

I slowly pushed the bruised and battered copy of Swann’s Way toward him. His hand came down to pick it up, fingers brushing mine ever so slightly. He flushed.

I didn’t.

He thumbed through the pages. “I’ve never read it. Is it good?” he asked.

I nodded. I didn’t give him the words even though I knew he wanted them.

I never would.

This time would be no different.

“Come on, Josh,” the older woman called from the front of the restaurant.

Josh with the smiling brown eyes blinked as though waking. “I’ve got to go. I’ll see you around?” He posed the statement as a question. They all did.