Underneath The Leaves
She looked up. And smiled.
She liked sitting under the tree. It was constant, always varying, but somehow never changing.
She could feel the rough bark against her back through the cotton shirt and it was comforting, a familiar coarse pressure.
Her year was ending much as it had begun, alone.
Alone. One word, two syllables, a multitude of meanings, but only one that mattered to her right now.
He’d left her just before New Year’s Eve, and as summer closed and turned to autumn, the same arguments, the same tears, the same passion turned to venom. She’d left the apartment they shared to make sure she’d not be there when her latest lover packed and left. She couldn’t handle seeing her face again. Not now.
Not ever again.
She shivered, and it was a surprise to her; she’d not expected to feel cold.
The book she was holding slipped from her hand, and fell, sliding over her calf to fall gently to the ground.
With an effort, she turned her head and looked across the park, for a moment remembering happier days when she’d spent hours walking around the lake. With him. With her.
She could feel her eyes brimming and hated that they did. No tears; she’d promised herself, no tears.
She blinked twice, then looked up again, focussing on the green and brown dappled leaves.
And then she closed her eyes, not wanting to see any more, any more than she wanted to see the blood from the two deep long cuts, dripping down her arms, soaking her jeans.
She was tired, so tired.
Tired and cold.
And then she didn’t feel cold any more.
Nicolas Papaconstantinou
I knew the picture might bring out people’s reflective side, but that’s very evocative.
I actually wasn’t expecting that ending, mind. Eep.
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Budgie
Thanks, Nic – appreciated. This was one story that I knew the final sentence before I started writing.
Glad you appreciated it.
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