Stolen: The Confessions of Philip Ripton

The Reason

She came in June.

I was happy then, too old to be frightened by the lies, but too young to be jaded by the truth. I had never known the sweet agonies of love nor the subtle relief of loss. I hadn't a care in the world, for life was simple.

Lauren would dance on Sundays, whispering a song under her breath as she spun among the dew-kissed flowers. Her hair fell like embers drifting from a flame, and her pastel dresses seemed to glow against the drab browns and greens of the forest.

I knew from the start she would change the world, just as I knew I would be there to see it.

The girl never saw me in those early years, hidden away with the leaves. I wanted so badly to grasp her hand in my own, but I knew how it would end, so about the vines I remained, biding my time as she blossomed.

Her dresses grew longer with each moon, and her vibrant hair stretched to suit. Each Sunday morning for ten years, I watched as she danced. Each Sunday night, I spied her along the crags of the coast with her parents.

But suddenly, in August, she stopped.

The pastel dresses were consumed by darker, more solemn hues. The hair which once danced about Lauren's face like living flame now lay still as she simply walked. She spent her mornings alone in the cemetery, and at night, her father would join her in her grief.

The colors of the forest faded with the color of her cheeks, and I knew it was time.

I had eyed Lark for years, too. She had a beauty to match the bird from which she took her name, but she was daft as a spoon, and the whole world knew it.

In years past, she'd have suitors for miles barking at her window, but those days had waned. She would go nowhere in this new world, where women carried their own voices and own minds and own weight.

Lark Ripton was lost in time.

So I stole her.