Marietta Munroe.

The wind blew a stray curl of auburn hair into my eyes. It whipped against my face until my skin was as pink as the setting sun. I huddled further into my cloak, tucking my hands into my pockets and burying my chin into the fur lining of my hood.

Every step I took was like a minute hand on a clock ticking down, a string slowly winding up as it drew me closer. Leaves swirled around my feet as they drifted down from trees alight with the orange of autumn, crunching underneath my boots like brittle bones. 

At least the leaves were the same, I quietly reflected. When the sidewalks and parks and buildings had all been torn down and rebuilt out of steel and brick, when the houses had been painted dull greys and browns over the bright colours that once caught the eye of every tourist, at least the leaves would remain a bright mosaic of orange and yellow and red. I turned with the street, the wind blowing hard against my back now.

There were children laughing on this street at least; a few dressed in windbreakers and rubber boots splashing between puddles littering the paved road, their laughter sweeter than the nectar of a flower, brighter than the clearest summer day. I let myself take in a deep breath, relaxing my shoulders against the cold. The houses rose high to the left of me, each at least two stories with bland walls and white-painted decks, wilting flowers the only splash of colour in sight. To the right, a community centre loomed beside a park overflowing with hills and small valleys, playgrounds and swing sets, fields and basketball courts. 

My eyes drifted to the small ditch that could pass as a stream that ran between two larger hills in the centre of the park. Uniting the two rising lands, a rusty metal bridge arched into the sky. Against the setting sun, it was black as night, like the shadow of some great monster. 

“Will you forget me – this – when the summer is over, when you go back to school?”

“I’ll never forget you.”

Suddenly I was blinking furiously to keep away the tears, and wiping my face with ice cold hands. I promised myself I would never come back, yet here I was. His face swam in front of my eyes, all chubby cheeks and childhood innocence, shaggy blonde hair and eyes like amber. When I blinked again, he was gone, and before me a little girl stood in a bright pink rain jacket, her hair braided back from her dark face.

She turned her head to the side as she looked at me, but before I could turn and hurry away, she said, “You look like someone I know.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat and tucked my hands into my armpits. “I–I used to live here, a few years ago. My name is Marietta.”

The girl shook her tiny head. She couldn’t have been older than seven or eight. “I don’t know no Marietta. I’m Stanna.”

My eyes drifted back to the bridge. Leo’s face materialised again, this time younger yet, when we were still young children. When we didn’t know what it meant to be in love, when we didn’t have to worry about adults finding out. When I didn’t have to hide the bruises. When I didn’t have to beg him to stay.

“Hello? Miss?” Stanna’s squeaky voices shattered the image in my mind. I shook my head. 

“I have to go, I’m sorry.” I walked off quickly, drawing my hood up against the wind that continued to howl around me. I absently brushed off the salty tears that tracked down my cheeks.

Not again, I reminded myself. Never again.

I could still hear Stanna’s giggles when I rounded the corner again, her laughter loud and melodious. Some day she would be like me, walking through this town practically a ghost, the innocence gone from her like moisture squeezed from a sponge. That laughter would turn into soft sobbing.

This street was quieter, with both sides lined by locked up houses. Streetlights were starting to come on now, flooding the roads with pools of warm yellow light. The evening was filled with the scent of approaching rain and the sound of tittering crickets. 

At the end of the street, a house loomed taller than the others, its sloping metal roof and high brick walls making it seem like a fortress in the shadows. A wrought iron gate surrounded the neatly cut lawn and an old tree creaking with the wind, leaves fluttering from it like dandelion fluff. The sight of the Victorian styled windows and fluffy white curtains brought a lump into the back of my throat.

“What do you want to do tonight?” Her hand brushed mine as she reached for the remote. A slight touch, just enough to cause my breath to hitch in my throat. “Marietta?”

“We can…” Had her eyes always been so beautifully brown? Had her lips always looked so sunkissed? Had her skin always been as golden as the sun? “Ollie…Whatever you want to do.”

My feet betrayed me, and I came to a sudden halt in front of the house. The gate creaked when I leaned a hand against its cold fixtures. We had been so young, yet older than I had been with Leo. I could still taste the way her tongue lingered inside my mouth, like honeydew and summer time. 

I stared up, my breath clouding around me. Did her parents still live here?

My head snapped away as a door opened across the street. It fell shut with a hard bang, followed by heavy footsteps. I hurried away, crossing the street just as a dog went off and the owner of the heavy footsteps shouted at the animal. 

I was still jogging by the time I hit downtown, though I hadn’t truly been aware. The burning in my calves was a welcome respite from the bitter cold. 

It was nearing true darkness now, the lanterns lining the streets the only source of light. Above the sky was a dark indigo, streaked with a haze of silver-grey clouds. There was once a night so similar, with a sky so dark and the wind so cold, a night when I had ten thousand paths stretched out before me, like an endless storybook, waiting to be written. But that night was long gone.

A baby sat nestled in its mothers arms, wrapped in a snug fur coat. She smiled at me as I passed, all gums and slobber, not a thought of worry or repulsion. Her mother tried to smile too, but I could tell it was fake, in the way most adult smiles are fake.

The only open store on the street was a restaurant, tucked in between a boutique and travel agency. The blaring sign out front read “Junior Munchies”, but some of the bulbs had burnt out, and others were so faded they were barely visible. It looked more as though the sign was for “Juir Muchs”. 

I shouldered open the door, letting a small square of buttery light onto the sidewalk before the wind pulled it shut behind me. Warmth and the scent of herbs hit me instantly, and a queasy feeling that I couldn’t truly describe. 

The faded green leather of the booths by the window were exactly the same. The dusty menus had the same faint picture of a curly moustache over horse teeth. The table had the same chips and cracks in the edges. I stared blankly across the table at the empty booth, expecting him to suddenly appear as though he were already a ghost. His beady eyes, his wiry black hair. His voice.

“Marietta, don’t slouch.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Marrietta, do you ever listen to me?” He slams his fist on the table, and a few heads turn before he regains his composure. But it is too late, I am already crying and he is already rolling his eyes. 

“Can we go home?” I plead, my voice nothing more than a faint whisper.

“Finish your supper.”

The memories come flooding back, rushing through me like a tidal wave rushing over the shore. If I was an easier child, maybe he would have been an easier father. 

There were no ifs, ands, or buts now. 

A young man asks me what I want, and I know he is talking about the menu, but I don't’t need to look at it to know. I have it practically memorised by now, but that is not why I don’t respond to him. I stare at the empty seat across from me. I look down at my hands, where my callouses gouge holes in my palms, where my head and heart line intertwine, where faint scars freckle my wrists. I know what I want. I want what I didn’t get all those years ago, the person I left behind, the person I ran away from. 

I leave a five dollar bill, and I head back out into the city. When I reach the house, I knock twice for good measure, tucking my hands into my pockets to keep the cold off. It isn’t long before the door swings open.

I worried I would have too much to say, but now I am left speechless, my mouth hanging open like a fool, and all I can manage is “You’ve changed.”