Insipid
INSIPID
Copyright © 2014 Christine Brae
Cover Design by Lindsay Sparkes
Editing by Erin Roth
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Interior design by Angela McLaurin, Fictional Formats
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The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owner.
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**This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.**
I will never forget this time, that place
Your touch, your face.
The way my heart felt so brand new
You lit up my life in so many ways.
I will always remember
You.
TODAY MARKS THE
third anniversary of the day I died. The setting sun skates across the water surrounded by the orange sky streaked with alternating layers of blue and white and yellow. The water is still and calm with only tiny rolls of waves washing upon the shore. If I looked far enough, I can see her standing at the end of the universe. I can feel her presence close by. I can hear her sweet singing voice next to me. How many times have I imagined what it would be like if I saw her again? Soon, now. Soon.
I walk sideways along the shore where the water meets the sand, farther and farther from any sign of life. Away from judgment, from condemnation. From things that remind me of the mess I’ve made. My hands are full, my steps are heavy. But my heart… it’s open. It’s free. I’ve done what I could to apologize for all the hurt I’ve caused them. I’ve said the words to tell him just how much I love him. Without me, I know they will all be forced to move on.
I stop in the middle of nowhere, ready to finish what I came here to do. In my left hand is one single flower. A calla lily. Simple and understated, but meaningful. In my right hand is a little box with breathing holes and a chirping sound emanating from it.
Let me sit down for a while
, I say to myself. Collect my thoughts. Remember why I’m here.
I sit for what feels like hours, but in the scheme of things, I know that it’s only for a minute. Slowly, I open the box with the bird in it. The swallow, so tiny, but whose wings are strong and powerful, cowers along the edge of the box, shaking and afraid. I take a deep breath and touch its head with my little finger. Is that what a feather feels like? I’m shaking. I’m sick. I don’t think I can do it. How can something so small scare me so much? How can something as docile, as insignificant as a bird, cause me to change my path every time I come across it? Another deep breath as I lift it gently, my fingers lightly enclosing it before I place it on the palm of my hand. Its scraggy little feet feel like pin pricks on my skin.
There. That wasn’t so bad now, was it?
I laugh out loud as I raise my arm up in the air, tossing the bird up high, watching it fly far away from me.
Ha! Take that!
The tide creeps up. The tiny box washes away as I stand up to complete my journey.
The water is dark. My feet feel cold. With the flower clasped in my hand, I move forward. Slowly, surely. I step upon the sand until I can no longer see my feet.
I flinch and jump up in surprise. Something rubs against my legs. Seaweed wraps around my toes. I close my eyes and keep moving. My last fear. Fear of the bottomless unknown that is part of every life. This will be over soon.
Beyond my comfort zone and into the ocean I go. Deeper and deeper until the tide pushes me forward and my feet can no longer anchor themselves on the sand.
I close my eyes and pray. I pray for forgiveness, but most of all I pray for those who will be left behind.
As the tide carries me further away, I delight in the numbness that the cold brings to my skin. The muffled sound of the water in my ear. The overwhelming, heartfelt feeling of closure.
Floating, floating, floating away filled with so much peace.
“Not knowing how to think
I scream aloud, begin to sink
My legs and arms are broken down
With envy for the solid ground
I’m reaching for the life within me
How can one man stop his ending
I thought of just your face
Relaxed, and floated into space”
“Into the Ocean” by Blue October
WHAT DO THE
seasons mean to you? To some people, they are a part of every waking day, times of the year that are taken for granted. To others, like myself, they make up the chapters of one’s story. I’ve always been one to mark my memories by the passing of the seasons. Somehow, the look of the clouds, the skies, the temperatures, the way the rains fall, the colors of the grass—in my head, I’ve managed to align them with the major events in my life.