Forgetting Sylva

Drowning

The park, today, is peaceful and empty. Mostly because it's a school day, for the younger children who start earlier. Tom, Olivia, Marcus and Lance, being in year 12 this year, start school a week after most, thanks to the glorious institution that is Saint Bravier's college.

The swings move gently in the breeze, as if phantom hands hold the chains, invisible bodies on the seats; the ghost of me, last time, with Lance behind me.

But now I am in the sandpit, seated in Marcus's lap, because he sat and carefully pulled me down with him, and this is how we ended up. I am not exactly complaining. His hands link against my stomach, his chin resting against my shoulder, head bowed to reach. Every place he touches me is full of that strange sensation, that shock of a thrill that I love so much.

Olivia and Tom are already acting like five year olds, playing with the sand. Lance sits before me, watching with an amused half-smile on his face.

"So, why is it that we're here?" he asks, flicking his eyes to me before glancing back over at Olivia as she dumps a handful of sand in Tom's hair. Tom makes an outraged face and shakes his head like a dog, sand flying through the air in an arc. I smile.

"Three and four on the list," I remind him.

"Relating to the sandbox and castles," Marcus says, and I smile at the mimicry of Tom's words; Marc always had a good memory.

"Exactly. So, three is gone. We're in the sandbox. Now we have to make a castle." I look at the sand before me, narrowing my eyes. "One problem, though."

"What?" Marc asks. His voice, as always, is slightly panicked, his body tense beneath mine as if he thinks I am about to break in his grasp.

I roll my eyes. "I don't know how to make a sandcastle," I say gently, and he relaxes again and presses a small, relieved kiss to my shoulder. Lance's eyes are on me and Marc and the both of us, and I flush a little. I guess I never really understood the intimacy of the simple things he does, but now they seem stark in comparison to reality. I don't know why this makes me embarrassed, but it does.

I smile to cover it, and Lance looks at me, something strange and unsure in his eyes before they change back to their usual glow that speaks of smiles as much as his mouth does. "No problem. I am an expert at making sandcastles," he drawls. His voice is slow and smooth, like rich, dark chocolate.

I laugh and run my fingers through the sand. "Show me," I demand, and he grins lazily, tilting his head to the side. I catch a flash of darkness beside and beneath his eye before his hair covers it, and frown a little. But then he produces a bucket from a hole on the side of the sandpit, and I forget my unease.

"Gladly," he says. And then he shows me how to build a castle from sand. I fail miserably at it while his are perfect. When I pull the bucket away, half of the sand goes with it, tumbling down, and I put my hands at the sides to try and save it. Lance covers mine with his own, and we both laugh and grasp at the sand that trickles through our fingers, trying to save a castle like my dreams; like my life. A fragile pile of dust that is dwindling by the moment, blown away by a wind and a world that does not care.

I sigh heavily and look up at him, when my laughter has run dry. "I don't think we can save it," I say quietly. Lance's eyes are bright and alive, and close, so close. He smiles, his hair covering half of his face, as per usual. I want to push it back so I can see him properly, but my hands are beneath his. And then I notice that Marc is tense, his hands rigid against my stomach, oddly angry. But I can't seem to look away from Lance.

"Nothing's past saving," he murmurs. His voice is low and rough, and his thumb sweeps across the back of my hand. And then he leans back, his touch going with him. I take my hands from the sand and look down, flustered and oddly guilty, though I have done nothing wrong.