Shattered Refuge

Once they are gone, they never come back.

Shattered moonlight drips across the crowded square. Pouring down buildings. Slipping through even the tiniest cracks. Fiery lights flicker up to where the moonlight ends. Trickling from crowded bars and street vendor’s carts. An explosion of multi-colored lights and rhythmic music fill the small square. With all the distraction, it is difficult the notice the small figure winding through the crowd. Head bowed; black sweatshirt pulled over unruly curls.

Sweat slicked fingers are enfolded in rivulets of blood as he wipes his head. Furtive eyes catch on shattered pieces of light slipping over broken bottles. Pounding footsteps drill into the pavement, drawing nearer and nearer to the racing figure. With each step he takes his despair grows, pain and panic blooming as the scene unfolds in his mind.

He watches himself race through the path ahead.

Watches the shadows give birth to more figures.

Sees his foot catch on the cracked pavement.

His eyelids flutter and his vision clears. Feet skidding on a thin layer of loose gravel, he changes direction and ducks into one of the overcrowded booths.

Head gripped tightly in blood-stained hands, he slumps to the ground. His breath catches in his throat, not from sorrow or even fear, but from longing. Inside each of our minds is a museum, vast rooms to catalogue our memories and experiences and build stunning displays from them—our personalities.

His ruby dyed fingers clutch at strands of hair, in the darkness behind his closed eyes thousands of possibilities unfold. Each flickers by at lightning speed, as if rushing to an important meeting. Millions of futures rushing to work; if one is late another immediately takes its place. The murmur of his pulse vibrates beneath his eyeballs as his mind tries to process the sudden influx of chaos.

Thick black lashes tremble as he opens his eyes. The liquid moon fills his brown eyes and turns them to gold, glistening with tears. The warm wooden slats press into his back, slick with humidity.

He knows that he had a life. Of course he did, otherwise he wouldn’t be here, cowering behind crates in the back of a food vendor’s stall. Just like he knows that he had a mother at one point, one that he must’ve loved even if he was growing too old to spend time with her. Her name would’ve been soft velvet on his lips during sleepless nights as a child. Her loving arms a warm embrace when the world was torn to pieces. Amber eyes glance around, confused when no one comes to mind.

A museum torn to the ground, the only thing in its wake is the charred rubble left behind.

           A sigh flutters from unseen lips and hits the ground with a light thud. It inches questioningly into view, bringing the person who released it along. Eye contact is made only briefly before both look away for a myriad of reasons. A bottle of alcohol and a thin bandage are clenched in her tiny fists.

           She approaches cautiously, like one would a feral animal and places the items by his feet. The burning stench of the strong liquor mingles with the stench of grease and meat around them. Soothing and nauseating at once. A small smile caresses her lips as she turns away.

           Scarred hands quiver as he pours the alcohol onto his tattered shirt. Gingerly, he presses the cloth to the cut on his scalp, wincing at the touch but refusing to let his eyes close for longer than a moment. He clambers to his feet shivering like a tree in the wind, despite the warm night.

Even the ones who return are lost. They lose the most important parts of themselves.

           The vibrating crescendo of a guitar fills the square as he steps from the booth. Nausea churns in his gut, a monster twisting and pulling with a vice-like grip. His eyes flutter closed, trying to coax any recollection of his life back. His mind whirrs to life again like an old machine. Ticking and whirring, possibilities and probabilities flood back behind the dark curtains of his eyelids. When he opens his eyes, blueprints overlay his vision. Minute sketches of what could be.

           Drunken shouting fades to a murmur in the back of his mind. Scarves hung in a booth wave joyously in a slight breeze, the quiet darkness of a shadow revealed in a flickering moment. Quiet footsteps sound like bass drums in his head. The possibilities are endless until they aren’t; each new scenario that comes to mind ends with him in more pain. Panic rings in the back of his mind, and even with his newfound knowledge he knows there is no escape.

           Maybe it is forgotten lifetime of reading science fiction novels. Or just an extremely overactive imagination. For whatever reason, he ducks back into the stall. He crouches down, head in his hands, dark brows knitted in concentration. Fingers tensing and loosening as he attempts to pull the glistening threads. Like a master musician preparing to strike a chord, his calloused fingers close over the silken threads.

           Tugging ever so gently, the images in his mind begin to change. The figures step back into hiding, slowly at first, but faster the harder he pulls. Motions jerky as they are pulled into reverse. Eyes wide with shock and a sudden wave of exhaustion, he lets his tenuous hold go, watching as the thin threads weave themselves back into the tapestry surrounding him. Tightening his grip, he pulls once again. He watches as they back away from where he is crouched, disappearing into the crowded square.

           Pulling his hood up, he starts into the crowd, slipping through the cracks in the throng of bodies, listening to slurred apologies as he is hit by flailing arms. Thousands of stars wink up at him through a haze of human filth. Lilac drops of the moon suspended by heavenly threads, scattered throughout a silent sapphire sky.