wind
helium lost

Author’s Notes: I was aiming for a more symbolic writing style with this piece, and I also focused on atmosphere. Hopefully, you can see it from my eyes and understand what I was aiming for. If not, that’s okay; I’m open to other interpretations, as well :)

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In a moment, it was all gone.

He held the necklace, cupping the pendant in his palms. The ends of the chain swayed in the breeze, water trickling out of his hands.

Gone, taken from him.

The sky was a dark, gentle blue. The stars were just beginning to emerge as the sun disappeared below the horizon. The wind whispered through the field, tousling the long strands of the dried, yellow grass, playing with the soft, pink flower buds drying up in the heat of summer. It danced around him, drawing up small clouds of dust at his feet.

But he paid no attention to the wind, noticing only how the pendant caught the starlight, how it glinted like a sharpened blade. It was itself like a blade, its graceful curves tapering into a single, blunted point.

It was the same necklace as . . . .

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It was Sunday. He walked along the dirt path, jumping into the puddles on the way. He held his umbrella carelessly over his head, as if it were more like a decoration than a cover from the rain. He wasn’t worried about getting wet; after all, a little rain had never hurt anybody. No, he was only focused on the house on the path above. It was a quaint little house, surrounded by fields and gulfs of long green grass like hair growing from the head of the earth. It stood only a story high, and it was a plain, dirt-brown.

The front door was always open. He walked into the house and closed his umbrella, leaving it dripping by the coat rack. He took off his shoes and tossed them unceremoniously next to his umbrella; he then ventured into the house, slipping and sliding on the hardwood floor in his wet socks.

He stopped. Something was wrong. The hallway was the same, yet it seemed to be darker and longer than usual; the furniture and decorations were all in the same places, yet they seemed to be hiding something in their shadows. He proceeded cautiously, running a hand against the smooth wall. Everything was still and quiet, waiting.

Step, step, step. He reached out to grasp the brass doorknob, to turn it like he’d done a million times before. His fingers shook as he hesitated, holding his breath.

Blood began to ooze out from beneath the living room door. First, it reached out a skeletal finger, scratching and yearning for release. Sickeningly red, it began twisting itself into serpentine lines and gradually pooled up at his feet, soaking into his socks.

He closed his eyes, took a firm hold of the doorknob, and flung open the door.

The curtains were drawn and the lights were off. His eyes took a moment to adjust to the gloom, and he gradually began to make things out.

There was a dark lump on the ground. It was—it was him, the one who always had a smile on his face, always laughed, always darted around with so much energy, always . . . always . . . .

And now, he was staring at him. No . . . he was staring past him; his eyes were dull and lifeless, his mouth ajar. He was too still; it looked as if the spark within him had broken out and flown away, tearing his body, leaving behind an empty shell.

There was no way that he could be . . . .

His eyes traveled to the necklace, and as he looked at it, he absently clutched the one he was wearing, identical to his. The chain of the necklace was like a single strand of a spider’s web. It pooled and rested so lightly on the ground that it looked as if it were weightless. The pendant was face-down; the scars of the wielding reflected all that was left of the light in the room. The pendant, too, seemed weightless, floating in the sea of red.

And from that sea rose a shadow, dark and murky like spilled ink.

The shadow was a woman, slender and beautiful, with a god-like, suffocating aura. She stood over the motionless body, reigning over it. His eyes met with hers, and she fixed him with a cool, icy look. Her hair flowed to the ground, smooth and liquid, gossamer strands of pure black. She held a gleaming pistol loosely to her side.

Her lips parted, as if she were about to say something. But she said nothing. Instead, she turned and left through the back door.

The sound of her hair trickling on the ground was like the whispers of the dead.

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He ripped apart his cocoon and unfurled the wings of his hate.

She did this to him. He’d lost the only person who understood him, who treated him like he mattered. The one he’d been proud to call his big brother, even though they were of no relation to each other. No, that was wrong—they were two parts of the same soul, closer than brothers could ever be.

That day, she had torn him apart, slashed his soul.

He’d do the same to her. He’d seek out everyone who mattered to her and kill them, render her helpless and hopeless. Then, he’d find her, torture her and have her screaming and begging for mercy . . . . He’d kill her like she’d killed him, because on that day, something inside him died.

The wind rose up desperately, circling him, but he was already lost. He had made his decision, and he wouldn’t stray from it.

The clouds opened up and released a downpour of rain, pelting him with the cries of the heavens.

The cold rainwater soaked him to the core, but he didn’t mind getting wet. After all, a little rain had never hurt anybody. And he wasn’t cold. The tears dripping down his face were warm, and they were enough . . . .

As he listened to the howling wind, he closed his eyes, entwined his fingers with the fingers of his anger, and turned his back on the only place that he could have called home.

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Author’s Notes: This piece was inspired by my friend who came up to me and said, “I might lose my ‘big brother’.” He was holding his necklace and he seemed so forlorn that it stood out so vividly in my mind . . . I just had to write about him. It’s not biographical; I added my own flair to it ;)

Constructive criticism is always welcome. Period. Just keep it civil and diplomatic, please.