Artemis Drifting

She buried her face in the crook of her elbow. Eyelashes sticky with tears and gummy from mascara fluttered like the wings of a dying bird against her skin.

She did not close her eyes.

The back drop fell away, crashing to the ground thunderously. The vibration shot painfully up her shins and stayed behind her kneecaps like troublesome nettles.

It did not matter where she went, for moments after arriving, everything around her would leave her behind.

Seconds before she had been surrounded by trendy, cheaply made clothing that hung from sari-wrapped walls. Hermit crabs twitched nervously in painted shells, shying from the tender fingertips of inquisitive children.

The music overhead was an eccentric blend of East Asia and techno. Only the continuous, hard and insistent beat of the drum soothed her. It was the only thing that felt human in this place. Everything else was coated in a thin shell of plastic, hardened chemicals from fast industry lines. Insides were bits and pieces of children that never got to play with hermit crabs. Children that would grow up with legs bowed and spines hardened like an arthritic fist.

Grief tore at her, but could not possess her. It reached, but could not grip, the stickers that announced discounted prices muffled its screams.

Inside everything was a story, but they were all stories she could not tell. They were butterflies she could not catch. Some of them would stay with her long enough that she could memorize the rainbow sprawl of their wings. Others the half second flash of a fishtail during dusk. Either way, eventually, always, they left her.

So like the stray cat, she wandered in and out of scenery. She tried to hurry before the walls fell. She tried to run before the sound of their papery wings alerted her to the next departure. She was second look, second best, the chalky line from where anxious runners began.

Carefully, she stepped over the broken habitat of the crabs, waded waist deep through poorly translated buddhist wall scrolls and onto the next scene.

No one stapled her blurry visage to light-posts.

Her first name was After, her last name was Thought.

She’s got all the lights on. Illumination finds its way into the crevices of plush furniture and into the metal mouth of a half full coke can. It even burns through the thick comforter over her body, making her skin warm to a dusky-rose.

But it’s not enough.

Televisions from three rooms throw their voices past the doors they are behind, disorienting carefully planned sitcom humor to gibberish when they encounter each other. Cliques at a party, she thinks, everyone is talking about something important to them that the audience could care less about. Just talk louder. Someone’s voice will get hoarse first. She even welcomes the abrasive howling for territory that bounces across the lake and splinters into fretful keening on the rocky shores.

It should be enough.
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The hot concrete of the dock had made my jean shorts unbearably warm. Luckily, it was the time of the evening when chilly breezes rolled over flesh and pimpled it in its wake. My legs are not long enough, even with my toes pointed they do not skim the luke warm river below. 
 
I remember the days before I graduated high school. It was a ritual in my imprisonment that before graduation, one must do a series of cultist activities. Ah, I mean senior bonding. Someone’s mother had scurried into the Dollar Store and snagged cartloads of tea-lights. The ceremony consisted of each senior lighting one of the tea-lights wicks, take a good bend in the water and dip. The intention was likely to see the little fiery candle-soldiers braving the vast unknown to disappear in the dangerous waters of the Tennessee River. However, the ending result was half the boys murdered their tea-lights by lighting them and tossing them casually into the waters with no real grasp on buoyancy. The girls were much more careful and cautiously released their wax ships once they had achieved stability. The end result was that no tea-light got more then twenty feet before being turtled by an oncoming wave. Most found this hilarious, I was more horrified then amused. Mind you, morbidity is my thing - but the sight of allegory souls being drown one after one in quick succession is disturbing. 
 
I’m on the dock right now, and I continue to strain my legs. A scoot forward, and I am rewarded with the tip of my big toe caressing the surface. But my pleasure is dimmed, because I cannot shake the sight of those flames being extinguished in a wink. Inside of me, there are essential fires. They charge each emotion, desire, love. Would they fall pray to being blinked out if I were to plunge into those waters? Would I float away, heart ripped wide and head full of nothing? And more importantly, on shore, would there be anyone watching in mirth?