It was exactly seven- twenty-three in the afternoon, and I was fourteen years old.
I was fourteen years old, and it was raining.
It was raining, and I was alone.
Water poured down recklessly and splashed over the town. It ran its fingers over my bare ankles and dug into my spine.
I tugged strands of dampened hair away from my eyes.
It was time to get going.
It had been time to get going for too long now.
The dirt road beneath my soles had turned to mud, unexpected puddles sending grimy water clinging to my legs.
Past the rotting trees. Past the rut separating the burial grounds from the rest of the town.
I never liked that place. Gloomy. The stones and wood protruding from the ground seemed sinister. A figure was slumped over by a fresh marking, dripping incessantly.
I paused for a moment to look- the solitary shape, hair tangled, robe wet and stained. Smoke curled off their shoulders, billowed from their mouth, dissipated above their head.
An old type of magic. Showy.
Past the figure. Past the small hills decorated with burrows and weeds.
I didn't remember anyone dying. But I knew the marker was fresh, still lumpy and bright.
Past the abandoned shack. Past the occupied shack.
On the bridge, careful over the breaking planks.
The river underneath is preposterously still.
Hop over the missing section. Tiptoe over that one.
Safe.
The last few are solid-
The last-
Supposed-
The last few were not solid.
I am positive that I have never been to a desert. Yet I am also positive I remember one.
There are times like these when I am sure I can recall the taste of sand. The feeling of unbearable sun gripping my spine, and the sensation of skin peeling off my back.
There are times like these when I know I have seen an impossibly bright sun. Skies clearer than glass.
There are times like these when I can almost hear the skittering of tiny feet across the ground, see the scales of small lizards glinting in the light.
There are times like these when I remind myself I have never been to a desert. That I have only ever lived in villages of clouds and fog and rain.
But.
There are times like these in which I am sure I remember a desert.
Oh, how there are times like these.
I have never woken up more unpleasantly than to the grip of cold fingers on my chest.
