Davin was nineteen, though that would seem a million years away from where he now sat in his lush and blooming garden. The garden that pricked the past at his tender side, and as he turned in his chair, it would poke at his neck too. He would mumble softly to himself, incoherent words, but the sounds and tones of, “who do you think you are?’, “just leave me be,” or “You rotten bastard I let you go years ago.” Words we have all used at some point in our lives when the imagery was just too real to look past. Yet there it was the hum as a highway, long and drawn out, every once in awhile to hit a pothole to jar the deeper cuts. This particular wound still holds its soreness with a swollen yellowish hue around its gaping mouth. Words flow from it in such a crass manner that Davin turns his head away letting his eyes roam over his garden, looking fervently for some relief from the ache that has just settled into his chest.

Then there among the Lavender stands Haru, his lovely brown eyed girl, she stands there in her blue dress, the same she wore that night they met. Lovely as the warming sun she is, she watches him as one might look at a Christmas tree, decorated and lit up awaiting the late night blessings of a pagan deity. Yet overall, she seems to lack the wondrous glow that was once so persistent in her countenance, and she just waves her head gently, no, it says as it had said before, so very long ago.

A sigh escapes this mans heavy body, shaking him with an exasperation that puts him back into his seat. He sits there limp, bleeding into the world around him, nothing more then another cloudy sky moving over head. A rock in the garden doing nothing but filling a small area for the lack of what to do there. His breath comes back to him and again he looks to the Lavender that fills a corner of his world, its there moving gently to the breeze that dances through, then quiet and still.

Slowly the wound would open and swallow him whole and he recalls that day at Haru’s dining table, “I could get a job, I know my family would help till we got on our feet,” a young and exuberant lad of nineteen with ideas of love and life. But no, Haru had plans and ideas of her own life, and gently her head would move and her lovely eyes would become as the depths of an open sea, so open and vast that one is easily lost within its clutches. What is a young man to do, full of love and passion and respect for his girl; the room was silent and so the decision was made. Though Davin couldn’t recall much of the wording afterwards, he did know well the feelings that began to grow from that moment, those tendrils that hooked deep into his flesh and would every now and again give him a harsh squeeze of remembrance. Then the menacing restlessness would gnaw at his gut, saying get out, go somewhere; escape…

Again he would turn in his chair, the film in his head would flicker and the solemn heart would wane, and the fragile cup would fill.


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