Week One | 2,416 words
One Of Us
Gradually I became aware of someone walking beside me. She had long grey hair that was lifted and dropped by the narrow fingers of the wind, and a calm, slightly wry, smile. She was wearing a white vest (and, I noted, no bra), and rolled up denim jeans. Her feet were bare. I was about to make an aghast comment at how cold, and how foolish, she must be, when her gaze stopped every word in my throat. I swallowed it all back, knowing immediately that this person did nothing without very specific intentions. Since she was looking at me with something like hate this seemed like an incredibly bad thing to be so aware of.
She smiled a little at my fear.
“What a healthy place the world would be if we all felt as you do just a little more often.” She said.
Her voice was long grass in luxurious summer breezes. I've never wanted to both run away from and run towards a person before. Her eyes gleamed, onyx rocks in deep pools.
“But the world is not a healthy place,” she continued, “and despite what you may believe, you do not have the cure.”
“You read my book.” I managed to say, startled, weirdly pleased.
She shrugged. “I don't really like books. I flicked through it. And I've been to some of your talks.”
“I'm...” Honoured? Terrified? Elated? Why was I feeling any of these things, and why was it so difficult to discern exactly which was which?