Jar of Hearts

A smile remains permanently sewn onto Grace’s face as her thoughts whirl with fantasies of her near future. Despite her blue, post-sunset surroundings, she continues down an empty street where warm, cozy houses line up to meet her on the left and right. The only sounds to be heard are her lose high top Converse shoes as they create a continuous patter-patter upon the pavement, but Grace isn’t paying any attention to it. Her skin forgets the evening October chill while nimble fighters attempt to detangle her light brunette hair, though she knows all attempts to fix its structure is in vain. A howling, cruel wind whips the strands back and dries her eyes, forcing them to water uncomfortably.

As the seconds tick by, she hurriedly approaches a lit lamppost, whirring with electricity. The white noise is uncomfortable. She watches the ground with idle fascination as the light from the lamp creates a black, familiar shadow. It grows consistently as she passes the metal post until her silhouette is grotesque, like the monsters that chased her in childhood nightmares. But suddenly, the whirring sputters and the light follows suit, flickering on and off until a small, electrical-sounding snap cracks through the air. In that moment, the street darkens and her shadow disappears, melting into the street. The silence screams. Jolted out of her thoughts, her icy blue eyes avert up in slight alarm; they look brighter now that everything else is darker, and sharper due to her sudden panic.

Her footsteps lull to a stop. Eyebrows furrowed, she casts a curious frown over her shoulder to the deceased light post. The picture she sees is lonely; all the houses that had been previously glowing warmly welcome her no more. The newly formed shadows point her back in the direction to which she came and the different yard plants threaten her with their dark green claws. Clearly, she isn’t wanted. Grace realizes in that moment that she is alone at the end of dusk, on a creepy street without her cell phone and only a general assessment of her exact location. Goosebumps raise on her skin as the chilling wind claims her attention. Something inside her gut tells her she should go back, she must be in danger, she’s cold and surely her mother will be worried-

“Grace!” And the spell is broken; she releases a breath she hadn’t known she had been holding. Upon the heart-wrenchingly beautiful yet familiar voice, Grace whirls around, her previous smile returning in full vigor. Inwardly, she berates herself; what kind of person is she, getting scared over a lamppost, a dark street, and a small breeze? This isn’t Friday the 13th!

“Gees, Lawrence, it took you long enough,” Grace calls back. Her gaze focuses on taking in her new companion’s appearance. With his jet-black hair, dark brown eyes, and pale skin, she almost laughs at how well he compliments the eerie setting of the night, but his small humored grin contradicts the rest of it. Grace wonders how cold he must be with only a white wife beater on and a pair of baggy blue jeans, but she decides against it, figuring he wouldn’t bother to respond. She takes a couple steps forward to meet him half-way until he’s by her side but there they both stop. Lawrence’s grin transforms into a smirk as he says, “You ready?” His voice is determined and mischievous, but his eyes hint at something darker, as if already formed a plan. However, she already knows that this is just his personality; he’s never predictable and trying to decipher him would only lead to a head ache. Although something nags her conscious, she pushes the apprehensive feeling away, telling herself that she is safe.

With a returning cheeky smile, she replies, “Of course! I brought the bobby pins.” At this, he laughs slightly and shakes his head, gesturing over his shoulder. “Then let’s go, since you’re so well prepared.”

Glancing in the direction indicated, Grace absorbs the abandoned house behind them. Although a ‘for sale’ sign is firmly posted into the front of the yard, she could never guess what kind of people would actually play host to the old-fashioned home. The white paint long ago began to chip off the dark wood below it in several different places, though with the large vines and bushes scaling the front of the house, it wasn’t a question as to why. The house had a lifted front porch, located on its side as if wanting to avert outsiders away. Overcastting the roof were several trees scattered around it, clogging the rain drains with pollen, leaves, and twigs. Perhaps the original owner had taken care of this, but it’s obvious no one has done so in awhile.