Little Redhead (#OnceUponNow)

new moon

"It's a beautiful thing to no longer be afraid."

- Charlotte's Journal

September 21, 2016

~*~

The police arrested Zev just two miles from my grandma's house. He didn't make it far – only to the edge of Central Park – before two cops spotted him. I was told that Zev Fenris will be put on trial for attempted burglary and illegal possession of a firearm. For now, he's being held in the district correctional facility before trial. The policeman who visits my grandma's home to relay all this information tells us that we won't need to worry about Zev returning.

Both my grandma and I are too shaken up from the incident to sleep alone. She stays at the apartment with my Mom, and we both share my bedroom. "Only for a little while," my grandma tells me as she sets up the air mattress, warm eyes crinkling at the corners. "Until they get my ceiling fixed.

I know it's about more than the broken ceiling, but I'm too grateful to have someone to sleep beside that I don't say this out loud.

My Mom insists I not feel guilty, but I still do. If I never allowed Zev to walk home with me from Central Park that last week of August, or if I never told him my grandma's address to come hang out with me that night weeks ago, this never would have happened. I fell too hard for someone I barely knew, and it nearly got me killed.

Of course, I'll never know if Zev was trying to scare me off or hurt me when he pulled the trigger. I decide I'm better off not knowing.

In the days that follow Zev's arrest, I have time to think about everything that happened between Zev and I. I have time to realize there were a hundred tiny hints that should have warned me away from him, like when he practically ignored me in the school hallways, refused to listen when I told him no, or how he kept trying to get me to dye my hair black. If he didn't steal the chips and dye from the convenience store, I probably would have gone through with it.

The thought of which, now, makes my heart ache. Getting rid of this crimson hair would have also gotten rid of the connection with my Dad. He loved the sunset color of my hair when he was alive. I can scarcely imagine covering up the wild color of melted cherries he adored so much, with the ink-black chemicals that a strange boy seemed to love.

Two days after Zev is arrested, Mom takes the night off of work and makes an early dinner of baked macaroni. We sit in the living room which doubles as a dining room, crowded around the evening news with steaming bowls of pasta in our laps. It's still late afternoon, but the air is warm with the fading summer heat and so the windows are propped open.

I don't realize it until I catch Mom staring at me. She's watching me carefully from the worn armchair in the corner, eyes serious over the macaroni. It's only then that I realize the glow of the sunset is streaming through the opened windows.

I realize it, and Mom realizes it, too. I've forgotten to draw the shades to block out the sunset, or to disappear into the darkness of my room to hide from it. I haven't even thought to shield myself from the colors of the sunset – colors which I have hid from for years.

The blood reds, hot oranges, and sweltering yellows wash over the living room's floorboards. This is the first time I've seen the sunset in years, and I don't feel afraid as I stare out the window as the colors of my own hair bleed across the skyline and shimmer against the skyscraper's rooftops.

With the reddish sunlight brightening my face, I smile.

I am not afraid.