Felt rather uninspired, so I went online in search of a writing prompt. Found one that said to look at a picture album, find the fourteenth picture, and write about it for ten minutes. Well, I didn't have an album, so I searched 'picture' on google images and found a picture. And then I wrote for twenty minutes, yeah, I know, I'm a rebel. Anyway, I'm actually really impressed by how this turned out; it's out of the ordinary for me.
It seems like there should be sadness, an empty kind of hollowness that accompanies this darkness. The rain drizzles slowly from the sky, droplets clinging to her hair. Each bead of water sparkles like a diamond. The sky is a dismal grey, the colorless hue that seems to be an omen for misfortune. A few feet behind the pair, a streetlamp flickers on and off.
He gallantly removes his jacket and tenderly wraps it around her shoulders. She accepts the warmth with a grateful smile and his eyes light at the sight. His coat smells like smoke and damp pine needles. The cobblestones under their feet are slick, and he has to warp an arm around her waist to keep her from falling. Even after the danger's passed, he keeps it there. He'd rationalize that the reason for that was just in case she was to slip again, but they both know it's because this kind of weather chills from the inside out and if one doesn't grip someone else, they might end up lost in the night.
She shivers, though not cold. No other person can be seen on the street, the two are alone. She needs him closer, the darkness is pressing in and she doesn't know how to purge it from her blood. He wants to take her hand, but he's not sure how to. They both mouth a thousand words they wish they could say, but the air stays silence save for the occasional splatter as a droplet of water drips off a roof.
He wants to hold her tightly, to wrap her up in pretty words and a warm blanket and just cradle her until the impulse to beg of her "don't leave me" subsides with the certainty that she never will.
The fog is almost as thick as the tension, electrically charged and creating a blindness that's impossible to circumvent. The two keep pressing forward, towards a future that neither can see nor even imagine in this gloomy dimness, even though this path has been traveled many times by their well-worn shoes.
She inhales, and the fog rushes into her body. It's all cold and opaque and frightening because she now feels like her mouth is full of cotton and she can't yell for help. She's not sure why she'd need to yell for help, or who would even hear her, but now she knows she can't and it's terrifying.
The clouds whisper "don't leave me" and he wants to run away. The air is so thick that he thinks that he can't breathe and he wonders if she's having the same thoughts. He wonders if she wants to shrug off the world and run, run, run right now. He thinks she does not, after all, she's cold logic and this impulse to leave is highly illogical given the danger of the slippery cobblestones they tread on. He keeps his steady pace.
Branches from trees reach like arms over iron fences. The limbs are bare, devoid from leaves that show life and vitality. She worries that the fences won't stop the trees from pressing closer, that the dark, spindly arms are stretching and straining and will catch her shirt and snag on her hair and keep her here forever. "Don't leave me," she breathes to her partner, but he doesn't hear.
She clings closer to him, moving her body until every inch of it touches his. He's the blanket she cuddled with as a child, the oxygen tank she will need when the air is too thin for her to collect a breath once her body is withered and her mind is weary. He's pulling her back, grounding her to the earth so that she does not float off into the clouds and become lost forever. She slips her hand into his. He squeezes it and looks down at her with a smile.
Above the pair, the clouds move slowly, lazily making their way across the sky. A far off chunk, a corner almost lost in the trees, shows a small bit of blue peeking through.
The sun is soon to follow.
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