The Hideout We Loved

The Hideout We Loved Part 1 - Mackenzie

We look out the window as planes touch down in front of us, staring at the blank, cloudless sky, tinted orange at the horizon with the ever lingering layer of smog. Small transport cars shuffle and dance on the pavement, moving luggage and guiding planes across the large airstrip. Even through the thick, blue tinted glass, we can hear the screeching sounds of landing gears hitting the ground, periodically ringing like an echo in my ear.

We stand up, like an ant standing up in a colony of ants, one speck amongst countless others in the terminal, who scurry about, leaving a blur of multiple colors in their wake. Where we stand, the terminal is almost empty. I stare at my watch, watching the second-hand tick slowly, making me feel as if I can hear the movement in such loud white noise. The airport itself hasn't aged well. The modern design, while crisp and clean a decade ago, is showing hints of aging. Paint chips away from the murals on the wall, making them look more like graffiti than art. A layer of thin, translucent green covers the bottom half of the concrete on the window sides just outside where moss and mold have grown, tinted gray from their struggles with the dry Atlanta air.

"Two hours early". I whisper to myself. We take our seats at the loading bay. The loading bay has several rows of blue, polyester like seats, held up by one long steel beam running across the back of the entire row. A woman stands at the entrance to the check-in counter with a tired look in her eyes and a certain drowsiness on how she leans forwards. Beside her, a small LED display showed 'flight Delta 13339 boarding' and 'in 1 hour 45 mins'. I look beside me, at the small little girl in a completely white dress, decorated only with an oak brown bow running across her collar and a line of frills running down the length of the dress on the side. Her hair is messy for her formality.

"I'm bored." She complains in a high pitched voice. She swings her legs underneath the seat, making her dress dance. "How much longer?"

"Not long." I hold out my hand to pat her on the head, but I stop just a few centimeters from her hair. I sigh as I withdraw my hand and place it on my lap. "Not long."

I turn my head away again, looking off into the distance, trying to focus on anything other than her. Her dark brown hair is still in the corner of my eye, as well as a glimmer from her eyes. Her hazel brown eyes shimmer against the multiple glass lights that dangle from the ceiling of the terminal. Her irises transition from brown to a light green-yellow in the sunlight; the perfect masquerade. The eyes, so lovely, lively, lie about the life to them. She raises her hand to poke me; I move out of the way instinctively.

"How much longer? It's boring here." She asks persistently. Her finger hangs in the air, of small hands and gentle, soft delicate skin. I look down, unsure how to respond to her question. The feeling of guilt haunts over me, casting a shadow over my annoyance and other emotions that are too petrified to leave the safety of my subdued subconscious.

"Don't poke people," I reply in a quiet voice. Even in my own voice, I can tell when I'm tired. The words that come out of my mouth are lifeless, empty. "It's not polite."

"Fine." she replies in a happy tone, still smiling. "At least give me your hand."

I look over at her, holding out my hand hesitantly. She holds her hand out underneath mine. My eyes refuse to look away from the tips of my fingers, staring at the fingertips, that have gone slightly gray from my lack of sleep. My eyes begin to fill with tears, my heart clenches in my chest as I get an uneasy feeling in my gut that moves up like a pain in my through. And I begin to cry, gently, quietly, as my fingers pass through her hand.

"Why are you crying?" she asks, tilting her head sideways. Her voice is softer, sweet, naïve... alive.

"I miss you so much, Mackenzie"

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@FawnVela I mentioned a long story at the end of the novel I sent you. Perhaps this is something you can read that's closer to reality. I'll let you decide what was real, what wasn't, and maybe one day, I'll tell you the story. I promise that once you solve the mystery, I really become "interesting".