“Did you think I’d forget you, my Mischa?” Somehow, her voice didn’t falter into emotion, yet her chest sunk as she looked into the human’s eyes. She swallowed. Focus. Oktavia, in her dark moment, squeezed tightly before dropping Mischa to the ground. At her feet, she found something joyful. The horizon cleared and she too sat on the ground. Her gaze locked with Mischa. “I didn’t think we’d see each other again.”
It is 1949, and I have now seen the world. I've seen Germany on its knees, its people both horrified and grief-stricken for the soldiers they lost and the crimes they committed before dying. It seems it really was true that most people had no idea of the atrocities that the Nationalist Socialists had carried in the name of 'strengthening Germany', even though many claimed to be devoted followers. I saw Dachau and Auschwitz in front of me on their worst days of cruelty, and there were many of them. Had to see it from a distance, because I neither look German nor speak any. If I'd been seen, they would've probably thought I was a gypsy and matters would get complicated.I was in Hiroshima on D-Day.
Surreptitiously, she plucked them away and stashed them into her tiny fur bag bemoaning how she missed her Mom. Next time she won’t come along without her Mom. Not for all the tea in China! She wished her Dad had the nous to bring Mom along. “Come on, Dad!” She exhorted in the manner of a raving loon. Tom couldn’t help but smile only. As they arrived at the threshold, Clarence inadvertently hit a bump and stumbled headlong.
Darkness wailed, as they shuffled silently ensuring Anastasia had indeed left the basement. Tom balanced himself up with one of the boxes sequestered in the room. “I don’t want to see her,” his eyes twisted shut.
Clutching a sharp knife from her satchel, she sliced away and pushed aside the climbers and branches that obtruded in their way; Lauren forged her way through the forest, Tom following right behind her. They had drawn closer to the neck of the woods, occupied by trees laden with luscious and succulent fruits, that stretched for a few miles.
Leo woke without moving, without even his breathing changing. He had grown used to this way of life. He’d gotten used to the danger involved with surviving in the Underworld. He heard the door open.
“He’s asleep,” a voice noted.
It was an abandoned garden at the end of the creekside. And like a dense forest, the flowers withered already and the grass grew similar to the movie of Stephen King “The Grass”. It’s a path to perdition. Local people said that you can never go back once you go there.
He clears his throat, turning to leave. I grab my umbrella as the darkening clouds started to form. The shade covers me, and throughout the empty streets, I walk in the direction of the man.
My grip loosens on the umbrella, now angled downward; it slices easily into his thigh and he starts to bleed, the red now burdened, padding his brown layered pants. He slips a tad on the concrete, whirring slightly deeper into the dark dawn tip of the knife.
No hero loves adventure,
No hero enjoys the path.