AN: Hey y'all! Please read and review, ponder and stew, tell me what's wrong and what I should do...
differently. LOL. Okay, I know that was lame. Yes, dear reader, I AM aware of the lameness just ensued. Long day. Anywhoozle and onward!

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I AM THE VOID,

I AM THE BLACK HOLE

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PREFACE

Humans are emotionally constructed beings. Most people are incapable of thinking logically in emotional situations. For it is in the wild disarray and dramatic disturbances of mortality, that fatality is awoken. Fatality steals away loved ones to the uncharted hereafter and leaves behind a void of desperation and depression. I feel such a void.

She promised me they would be ok. And although I pride myself on my logic, I had begun to trust in her words of hope, despite all that had happened. She made me believe that it wasn’t my fault, and that they would get better. I began to believe that I could heal if they did. They died three days later.

People leave; this I have always understood, even from a very young age. But them? I never expected them to leave so suddenly, so dramatically. The logical façade and foundation that walled up my emotions like a concrete sidewalk crumbled. It all crumbled when they left us. It triggered an entire emotional breakdown. Inside my conscience, I was left to wallow in dark emptiness; a black hole of self-loathing and guilt. The void consumes me and I don’t fight back because I am the source to blame. I am the black hole. I am the void.

CHAPTER 1

Puddles

Sage McKay

“You are such a moron! I told you that the tomato plants go there and the marigolds go over there. Is that so difficult? Honestly, I don’t know why…”

She always yells. She’s a power-hungry maniac and her name is Ivy. Her father owns several greenhouses and landscaping businesses, including the one I work at. This fact has not failed to escape her over-inflated head.

“I guess you always screw up because you are a screw up.”

She often degrades me in front of the others, but especially in front of him. I suppose she must make an example of someone. Why not me, right? I keep my eyes downcast. I hang my head. She knows I won’t talk back. I glance up from under my naked eyelashes. She smirks at me and turns her over-done, pearly whites onto him. Everyone can see that all she wants is attention from him, in any form. I can’t believe I suffer under her shallow and demeaning nature everyday just because she wants to impress some stupid boy.

I peek up from my busy work to see if she is satisfied with squandering my self-esteem and has moved on to another victim yet. She hasn’t. I am alarmed at the murderess glaring back at me. And then I realize the source of her anger and my confusion. He is helping me sort through the mess I have made of the tomato plants and marigolds. I blush as bright as the red geraniums in Greenhouse Three.

I often forget that others can hear her demean me. I usually block out her nasal tones after I get the gist of what she wants me to do and automatically assume that others do the same. I am humiliated by the fact that he is taking pity on me because of her. I don’t need pity, least of all his. People think that I am weak. I don't usually bother to correct them.

I concentrate on rearranging my half of the plants. As soon as I am finished I mumble a “Thanks,” and book it for the door of the greenhouse without making eye contact with anyone, especially him. I can feel her snicker on my retreating back more than I can hear it. With a watering can in hand, I escape to the greenhouse furthest from Ivy.

I reach my sanctuary, Greenhouse 11. The mud gets progressively worse the further from Greenhouse 1 that I go. The deep, squishy mud harbors me from Ivy. And so, I worship the mud. I am a mud worshiper.

I stall while filling up my watering can. I need an excuse for air; for space; for white sound to enrapture my mind and nestle it into a numbing embrace. All I want is to feel numb. Yet, somehow I am constantly thinking of them. And it hurts. It hurts bad. My throat constricts, and my tears drip, drop, and splatter into the watering can along with the hose. I can hear someone squishing through the mud on the way to my greenhouse. I wipe my eyes furiously just as he peeks around the corner to find me squatting on the ground.

The hose has been overflowing my watering can for some time now. He stoops down to turn off the faucet and fiddles with his truck keys to give me a chance to wipe my runny nose. I finally look up and he smiles warmly,

“Hey, I’m Alejandro. And you’re Sage, right?”

Nod.

“I was wondering if you would be so kind as to help me unload some flats up at the top greenhouses.”

I shrug my shoulders and slosh through the mud to the truck. I know that he is just graciously offering me an escape for a half hour from Ivy. He smiles in approval as I consciously pattern my step through the puddles instead of around them. He fires up the old work truck, and we chug up the dirt road to the greenhouses above.

We ride in silence. It’s a nice silence. It usually bothers me when people try to make small talk. I appreciate a good, mutual silence. It’s respectful. This fact evades many. It is relieving to meet someone who understands that sometimes thoughts desire to be in solitary confinement. Sometimes, it’s just better that they are not unleashed on the ignorant or the innocent.

I glare at my scar in the side view mirror; the scar that has forever changed how I perceive the world. I let out a deep sigh in recognition of it and lean my head against the cool window, avoiding looking at the monster in the side-view mirror. Instead, I watch the golden crops of corn drift past us, and the darkness within me jeers that the corn is whole and I am not.

Alejandro softly sings to himself in Spanish, oblivious to the fact that I am a stranger sitting next to him. I am pleasantly surprised, and the hint of a smile begins to form around the corners of my mouth. I touch them to make sure that they actually exist. That hasn’t happened in a long time. It feels unnatural. He courteously disguises that he noticed by adjusting his rearview mirror, but I catch him smirking in success.

He shifts the truck down to neutral and parks it by the greenhouse. I step out of the truck and right into an ankle deep puddle. I sigh in relief. Cold is good. Cold means numb.

AN: Well, I hope you enjoyed this first chapter. Please let me know what you think/what I can do better. Thanks!