Life Support #wattys2015

Chapter 3: Mary

Mary clenched two gold coins in her hand as she lied, watching as the boy’s face turned from depressed to hopeful. She held her breath, waiting to see if he’d go with her. She watched him from the corner of her eye. His skin looked darker than usual, as if he’d spent hours in the sun, and his hair looked like it’d been dyed black; there was no way he could achieve that color naturally.

He looked at her with shining chestnut eyes and asked, “Will you tell me how to get back home?” His voice dripped self-hatred. For a moment, she understood him. Her grip tightened on the coins until she could feel them biting into her skin.

Mary looked downward because she knew it would make the boy think she was being shy. She answered, “I can show you, if you follow me,” and extended a hand to help the boy stand. He ignored it and pushed himself up with a heavy sigh.

She let out a long breath and thought, Well, fine. I don’t need him to like me. I only need him to stay with me. She started walking, looking ahead. The boy would follow; he had nowhere else to go. She tucked the coins into her shallow pocket and started forward.

At least the trail was lovely. The ground beneath her feet glittered with bright gold, the land in front of her was filled with the sound of birdsong. The road had more branches than a tree. Some led to tall houses, some led to flowering emerald fields, and some led to sprawling silver cityscapes. The road they walked went right down the middle, like a scar bisecting a thousand different cultures.

The brightness of the world screamed at Mary, and her heart started to pound, although it was only a figment of her imagination. I’m dead, she reminded herself, I wanted to be here. She could still feel the slime that covered her throat as she downed the last pill in the bottle. She could still remember walking in that state to the river, crawling in though she couldn’t see. She let the current take her. She didn’t want her parents to think she hated them, after all. As if to taunt her, the path she and the boy walked intersected a sapphire river that flowed loudly, the roar similar to that of the river she’d died in.

The memory choked her, and she wanted to turn around and talk to the boy, but he clearly didn’t care about anything except returning home. If she asked him his name, he probably wouldn’t answer. Still, his presence made the choking go down. She wouldn’t let her tears fall in front of a stranger.

The road spilt off into a smaller trail, made of dirt and small rocks. The boy sucked in his breath and said, “I didn’t believe you.” The smaller road had been invaded by weeds that grew between the rocks, and the scent of oil hung in the air. Mary curled her nose without meaning to. She glanced at the boy and found his eyes locked on her.  

When he saw her looking at him, he glanced downward, as if ashamed. “Look, I know it’s not a mansion, but…” he trailed off, his voice little more than a murmur, “If you don’t want to come because it’s not pretty enough for you, then you don’t have to.” Mary knew he was only trying to get her to leave, but the comment got under her skin more effectively than a needle.

“Oh, give me a break. I don’t care about prettiness. If you had seen the place I lived—“ she stopped herself. He snorted, but didn’t comment, thankfully.

She had been so desperate to leave her life behind, but the memories kept creeping up, like a disease she couldn’t shake. How could she tell him of the industrial cube she’d called home, with parents who loved her, but not enough? How could she tell him that the only trees they had were small and potted, instead of these huge towering plants? How could she tell him that the only birdsong she’d heard were recordings?

If he knew the details of her life, he wouldn’t even humor her.

He breathed deeply, as if reveling in the stink of gas. “Why do you want to go home so badly?” She asked, the sudden silence weighing on her.