Distorted Light (standard:drama, 1609 words)
Author: Lusa	Added: Oct 22 2001	Views/Reads: 3403/2353	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A girl meets up with a boy from her past and finds what has changed . . . and what hasn't.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

step further." Mick looked up, away, into the blurred line of the 
horizon. "I was a ‘disruptive' kid in the penitentiary, they decided. I 
did something the first month, can't remember what, but they'd just 
keep saying to me ‘you'll regret that later'. And so it just kept 
going, I'd get shifted to worse and worse places, because I earned a 
rep. What's that saying? Takes one act to earn a reputation and a 
lifetime to live it down? Somethin' like that." 

Darkness had fallen fast; I couldn't make out his face anymore. But I
could see it; in my mind's eye, I could see it. Haggard and stark, 
pallid, the eyes constantly straying, looking for something or avoiding 
something, I couldn't tell you which. The eyes of a haunted man. Man? 
Was he even twenty-two yet? Where had the fourteen-year-old gone? He 
had leaked slowly away, leaving in his place a hollow shell, filled 
with nothing but memories. Distorted memories. 

"I was so happy to get out, even if it meant back on the streets. Nah, I
wasn't happy. I don't remember feeling much of anything, except maybe 
hungry. Mad, maybe. I couldn't even remember what it was that got me 
thrown in. Still can't, as a matter of fact. Doesn't matter. I got into 
so much crap then, I don't even want to tell you about it. It's like . 
. . if I say it, it means it really happened. If I just keep thinkin' 
like, hey, I think I started sniffing glue and that, I can never be 
sure. I'm still pretty messed up. Even I don't believe everything I 
remember anymore." 

Raking a hand through his hair so that it stood on end, he swallowed and
craned his neck, peering around the forsaken park. "This place still 
looks the same." He laughed shortly, a bleak, caustic laugh. "But hell, 
for all I know, this wasn't even built when I lived here." The 
embittered facade fell away, leaving only a lifeless skeleton to deal 
with the world. "Elsa?" His eyes drifted right by my face, lip 
twisting. "Don't cry, Elsa. Don't." 

I don't know if I was. But his words reminded me of a time when I was
eleven; Mick would have been twelve, maybe just turned thirteen. We had 
been exploring a junk pile and I had stepped on a nail-encrusted board; 
the nail hadn't gone into my foot, but grated a good-sized hunk of 
flesh off the side. My mother had cleaned it, bandaged it, and sent me 
back outside with a pat on the backside. Still sniffling with injury, 
for no one had seemed to realize the true pain of my wound, I had 
rejoined Mick, sitting carelessly on the grass. Watching thoughtfully 
as the last few tears dripped down my cheeks, the only warning he gave 
me was a brief devilish grin before leaning over and sliding his tongue 
up my cheek to catch a single salty teardrop. He had held it on his 
tongue a minute before speaking. "I've never been to the ocean," he'd 
said as if that explained everything. 

I wondered if he had been to the ocean yet; wondered, if I was indeed
crying, why he didn't lick the tears away. 

"Seven years since I last saw you. Seven years. God. You still talk to
God, Els? You used to, I remember. I tried once, but I didn't know if 
He was listening, so I stopped. Are you listening to me? Are you still 
there?" 

Shadows stirred as he leaned forward, panic squeezing his voice. "Say
something, Els. Talk to me. I need to hear something. Anything. I've 
been listening to myself for so long . . . God, please, say something . 
. ." 

I tried to clear my throat, but it hurt; there was a lump there, a cry I
refused to release, the pain and frustration condensed into a barrier, 
an impediment. I pressed my lips together tightly, but still they 
quivered. I reached to wipe my forehead; it felt hot. To brush my hair 
away; it tickled. But instead my hand flailed, groping blindly in the 
void in front of me until it caught his hand. I laced my fingers 
through his cold ones, twining our thumbs, feeling his pulse throbbing 
the same staccato as mine. What was there to say to this talking 
shadow? It was but an apparition, a shade of a boy from the past, a boy 
I had once known. 

No, it was flesh and blood. It was joy and sorrow, agony and healing, a
tide of emotions and memories locked in a broken, tormented body. It 
was Mick. And there was but one thing to say. 

"I love you--" the croak came from me, strangely pitched, thin with
fresh pain so intermingled with an ache, a longing, that I couldn't 
separate the two. "Mick. Mick Oliver." 

Mick pressed the palm of my hand to his mouth, and I felt something wet
fleck onto my hand. It must have been raining. He inhaled raggedly, and 
suddenly his grip was taut, unyielding, fingernails digging into my 
skin. 

"Later, when I'm alone and thinkin' about everything again, I'm gonna
remember you said that." His grip went limp, my hand was released. "And 
it's gonna kill me."


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