Graceless Lady, You Know Who I Am.
Youth - Daughter
***
Friday, September 17th, 2:00 AM
I take a long drag from my Camel as I look out at the cloudy London night. I sit out on my back balcony facing the dimly lit street. I glance back into my apartment. Everything is almost moved in except for a few boxes of things I previously mailed. I sigh, and turn back to the canvas facing me. There is a single image staring back at me. A piercing pair of deep brown eyes. His eyes have been the only inspiration that’s come to me so far. Frustrated, I set down my paints and stand, leaning on the railing. I take another drag as I check the time on my phone. 2:00 AM. Jet lag is a b*tch. I can faintly hear the thumping of a nightclub down the street and the occasional boisterous laugh, but other than that, nothing but the gentle breeze rustles the night. I let my sheer black wrap slide down my sharp shoulders, exposing more of my lace underwear clad body. I like the tingle of the cold air. I begin to snub out what’s left of my cigarette, when the general calm of the night is brutally shattered. A black, bouncing SUV comes tearing down the street, and screeching to a halt right in front of my apartment building. I hear angry shouts and two bodies roughly jump out of the car. They whip around to the backseat, reach in, and start to drag something out. A high-pitched scream escapes as they violently throw a girl into the curb. A cold fear slithers down my spine. The girl lies crumpled just in the periphery of one of the streetlights. From what I can see she has dark brunette hair mussed and matted, warm brown skin, and is lying in a pool of dark red liquid. I stiffen at the sight of the blood, my knuckles turning white as my grip on the railing tightens. For a moment it is not the foreign stranger lying in a pool of blood, but my parents. I blink away the memory and refocus my vision on the girl. Her body quivers in fetal position as she whimpers, clutching at the pavement.
“Oi!” One of the larger figures emerges into the light and gives her a hard kick to the head.
I wince. The figure now standing over her, bathed in the yellow glow becomes distinguishable. He is very tall and lean, yet muscular. He wears baggy sweatpants, a grimy wife beater, and a gold chain around his neck. Tattoos cover his arms and sides of his neck. My stomach lurches at the sight of him. He is clearly bad news.
“OI! B*tch! I’m bloody talkin’ to you!” He shouts, giving her another forceful kick to the ribs.
She releases a wail of agony, and struggles to get her plea out, “Psymon…Psymon, please!”
“Don’t you Psymon me, you filthy wh*re!” He roars, and I notice he is slurring his words. “You…you listen to me b*tch, I don’t give a f*ck who rides you or how, your bloody job is to let them! Then they pay you, you pay me, and I decide to let you live another day, yeah? You EVER pull sh*t like that again and I SWEAR I will kill you! Do you understand me?”
She lies whimpering and doesn’t reply.
He reaches down, grabs a handful of her hair, and yanks her so she’s two inches from his gruesome face. “DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?” He bellows in hear ear.
“Yes! Yes! I promise, it’ll never happen again!” She screams through a burdened sob.
He throws her back to the pavement and starts to laugh. The laugh that escapes his throat is far from human, but a maniacal howl. He throws his head back and smiles fully while his sociopathic cackling continues. I see that his painfully unattractive smile is littered with a couple of gold teeth, one on top, and one opposite the first one on the bottom. I cringe, he makes my skin crawl.
After his laughter dies away, he leans down and plants a sloppy kiss on the side of her head. “Bye lovie, see you at the club tomorrow.” He says giving her a sadistic smile.
And with that he turns, hops back into his monstrous car, and drives away, loud rap music emanating from the speakers. Once I can no longer see the framework of the beastly car or hear the vulgar music, I rush inside, slide some slippers on, and pound down the flights of stairs until I reach the front entrance. I run outside and look around; I instantly spot her crumpled body lying under the streetlight. I kneel down next to her, and lightly place my palm on her forehead. My hand comes away coated in warm blood.
“Hey, hey. I’m going to get you up, okay? This might hurt a little, just stay with me.” I gently console her.
I loop my arms gingerly around her waist and hoist her up as softly as I can. She lets a labored moan escape her lips. I lift her up so that most of her weight is shifted onto me. I sling the upper part of her body over my shoulder. The girl can’t weigh more than 110 pounds, but my strength not being that of a heavy weight champion, I almost fall over when I stretch her across my shoulder. I trudge up the stairs with heavy footfalls. By the time we reach my apartment, I am panting with a sheen of sweat covering my skin. I nudge the door open with my free shoulder and hustle her into the apartment. I quickly grab a towel from the bathroom ajar to my bedroom, spread it over my bed, and set her down as tenderly as possible. My shoulder and back aches from the struggle, but I don’t slow down for a second. I go into the bathroom once again and retrieve my first aid kit and wet washcloth. I return, pull up a nearby chair, kneel on it, and get to work. I slowly work the washcloth around her face until it is fairly clean. The first thing I see after the grime and dried blood is cleared away, is a four-inch long gash stretching across her forehead. It is about an inch deep and is still bubbling with blood. I grab some gauze and carefully wrap it around her head to staunch the bleeding. Once her forehead is momentarily taken care of. I begin to strip her of what little clothes she is wearing: a silver glitter halter-top and black shiny shorts that barely cover her butt. Once she is in just her underwear, I begin to search for more damage. My search does not last long, for what I see takes the breath right out of me. A deep abrasion beneath her ribs is flowing blood. My mind races, she needs medical attention and fast. I dig through the first aid kit until I find what I’m looking for: a small bottle of Peroxide.
I grimace. “I’m really sorry about this.” I choke out.
I pour a slosh of the Peroxide on the stab-wound. She awakes with a blood-curdling scream. I takes me a minute to calm her down.
“Look, these wounds are going to need stitches, so I’m going to get you to the nearest hospital, okay?” I tell her slowly so she can comprehend.
She looks at me with wild, adrenaline coursed eyes. “No! No, no you can’t take me to a hospital! He’ll kill me! He’ll kill me! It’s, it’s part of our agreement!” She shrieks.
I frown. I can still see his foot crushing her face into the pavement. I won’t leave her to a worse fate by his hands.
“Okay, okay. I’m going to do the best I can, but it’s going to hurt.” I look her in the eyes. She meets my gaze and nods slowly, biting back a groan. “It’s going to be okay.” I give her a small smile of reassurance.
I dart out of the room to gather more supplies. It takes me a few minutes to dig through one of the unpacked boxes and find my mother’s old sewing kit. I also grab a wooden spoon from the kitchen and my lighter from the balcony. I re-enter the bedroom and immediately jump into action.
I hand her the wooden spoon. You’re going to want to bite on this.” I say giving her an apologetic look.
Her eyes widen as she slowly places the spoon in-between her teeth. I zip open my mother’s sewing kit and pull out a needle, black thread, and scissors. I flick my lighter on and start to heat up the needle. I feed the thread through the eye and clean off her side with some alcohol wipes. She cringes. I hover just above her ribs with the needle.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Grace.” She mumbles over the spoon.
“Well Grace, I’m going to need you to do something for me.”
“What?” She looks at me with fear.
“Be brave.”
Her screams still echo in my mind, long after she passes out.
***
Friday, September 17th, 2:00 AM
I take a long drag from my Camel as I look out at the cloudy London night. I sit out on my back balcony facing the dimly lit street. I glance back into my apartment. Everything is almost moved in except for a few boxes of things I previously mailed. I sigh, and turn back to the canvas facing me. There is a single image staring back at me. A piercing pair of deep brown eyes. His eyes have been the only inspiration that’s come to me so far. Frustrated, I set down my paints and stand, leaning on the railing. I take another drag as I check the time on my phone. 2:00 AM. Jet lag is a b*tch. I can faintly hear the thumping of a nightclub down the street and the occasional boisterous laugh, but other than that, nothing but the gentle breeze rustles the night. I let my sheer black wrap slide down my sharp shoulders, exposing more of my lace underwear clad body. I like the tingle of the cold air. I begin to snub out what’s left of my cigarette, when the general calm of the night is brutally shattered. A black, bouncing SUV comes tearing down the street, and screeching to a halt right in front of my apartment building. I hear angry shouts and two bodies roughly jump out of the car. They whip around to the backseat, reach in, and start to drag something out. A high-pitched scream escapes as they violently throw a girl into the curb. A cold fear slithers down my spine. The girl lies crumpled just in the periphery of one of the streetlights. From what I can see she has dark brunette hair mussed and matted, warm brown skin, and is lying in a pool of dark red liquid. I stiffen at the sight of the blood, my knuckles turning white as my grip on the railing tightens. For a moment it is not the foreign stranger lying in a pool of blood, but my parents. I blink away the memory and refocus my vision on the girl. Her body quivers in fetal position as she whimpers, clutching at the pavement.
“Oi!” One of the larger figures emerges into the light and gives her a hard kick to the head.
I wince. The figure now standing over her, bathed in the yellow glow becomes distinguishable. He is very tall and lean, yet muscular. He wears baggy sweatpants, a grimy wife beater, and a gold chain around his neck. Tattoos cover his arms and sides of his neck. My stomach lurches at the sight of him. He is clearly bad news.
“OI! B*tch! I’m bloody talkin’ to you!” He shouts, giving her another forceful kick to the ribs.
She releases a wail of agony, and struggles to get her plea out, “Psymon…Psymon, please!”
“Don’t you Psymon me, you filthy wh*re!” He roars, and I notice he is slurring his words. “You…you listen to me b*tch, I don’t give a f*ck who rides you or how, your bloody job is to let them! Then they pay you, you pay me, and I decide to let you live another day, yeah? You EVER pull sh*t like that again and I SWEAR I will kill you! Do you understand me?”
She lies whimpering and doesn’t reply.
He reaches down, grabs a handful of her hair, and yanks her so she’s two inches from his gruesome face. “DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?” He bellows in hear ear.
“Yes! Yes! I promise, it’ll never happen again!” She screams through a burdened sob.
He throws her back to the pavement and starts to laugh. The laugh that escapes his throat is far from human, but a maniacal howl. He throws his head back and smiles fully while his sociopathic cackling continues. I see that his painfully unattractive smile is littered with a couple of gold teeth, one on top, and one opposite the first one on the bottom. I cringe, he makes my skin crawl.
After his laughter dies away, he leans down and plants a sloppy kiss on the side of her head. “Bye lovie, see you at the club tomorrow.” He says giving her a sadistic smile.
And with that he turns, hops back into his monstrous car, and drives away, loud rap music emanating from the speakers. Once I can no longer see the framework of the beastly car or hear the vulgar music, I rush inside, slide some slippers on, and pound down the flights of stairs until I reach the front entrance. I run outside and look around; I instantly spot her crumpled body lying under the streetlight. I kneel down next to her, and lightly place my palm on her forehead. My hand comes away coated in warm blood.
“Hey, hey. I’m going to get you up, okay? This might hurt a little, just stay with me.” I gently console her.
I loop my arms gingerly around her waist and hoist her up as softly as I can. She lets a labored moan escape her lips. I lift her up so that most of her weight is shifted onto me. I sling the upper part of her body over my shoulder. The girl can’t weigh more than 110 pounds, but my strength not being that of a heavy weight champion, I almost fall over when I stretch her across my shoulder. I trudge up the stairs with heavy footfalls. By the time we reach my apartment, I am panting with a sheen of sweat covering my skin. I nudge the door open with my free shoulder and hustle her into the apartment. I quickly grab a towel from the bathroom ajar to my bedroom, spread it over my bed, and set her down as tenderly as possible. My shoulder and back aches from the struggle, but I don’t slow down for a second. I go into the bathroom once again and retrieve my first aid kit and wet washcloth. I return, pull up a nearby chair, kneel on it, and get to work. I slowly work the washcloth around her face until it is fairly clean. The first thing I see after the grime and dried blood is cleared away, is a four-inch long gash stretching across her forehead. It is about an inch deep and is still bubbling with blood. I grab some gauze and carefully wrap it around her head to staunch the bleeding. Once her forehead is momentarily taken care of. I begin to strip her of what little clothes she is wearing: a silver glitter halter-top and black shiny shorts that barely cover her butt. Once she is in just her underwear, I begin to search for more damage. My search does not last long, for what I see takes the breath right out of me. A deep abrasion beneath her ribs is flowing blood. My mind races, she needs medical attention and fast. I dig through the first aid kit until I find what I’m looking for: a small bottle of Peroxide.
I grimace. “I’m really sorry about this.” I choke out.
I pour a slosh of the Peroxide on the stab-wound. She awakes with a blood-curdling scream. I takes me a minute to calm her down.
“Look, these wounds are going to need stitches, so I’m going to get you to the nearest hospital, okay?” I tell her slowly so she can comprehend.
She looks at me with wild, adrenaline coursed eyes. “No! No, no you can’t take me to a hospital! He’ll kill me! He’ll kill me! It’s, it’s part of our agreement!” She shrieks.
I frown. I can still see his foot crushing her face into the pavement. I won’t leave her to a worse fate by his hands.
“Okay, okay. I’m going to do the best I can, but it’s going to hurt.” I look her in the eyes. She meets my gaze and nods slowly, biting back a groan. “It’s going to be okay.” I give her a small smile of reassurance.
I dart out of the room to gather more supplies. It takes me a few minutes to dig through one of the unpacked boxes and find my mother’s old sewing kit. I also grab a wooden spoon from the kitchen and my lighter from the balcony. I re-enter the bedroom and immediately jump into action.
I hand her the wooden spoon. You’re going to want to bite on this.” I say giving her an apologetic look.
Her eyes widen as she slowly places the spoon in-between her teeth. I zip open my mother’s sewing kit and pull out a needle, black thread, and scissors. I flick my lighter on and start to heat up the needle. I feed the thread through the eye and clean off her side with some alcohol wipes. She cringes. I hover just above her ribs with the needle.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Grace.” She mumbles over the spoon.
“Well Grace, I’m going to need you to do something for me.”
“What?” She looks at me with fear.
“Be brave.”
Her screams still echo in my mind, long after she passes out.
Two comments 26 likes
Full Name: Magdalena Jay Finn
Age: 18
Hometown: New York City, New York
Lives: London, England
Character Study Link: http://www.polyvore.com/magdalena_finn_character_study/collection?id=2003171
Likes:
Tea
Sleeping
Rain
Painting
Drawing
Playing Guitar
Books
Cigarettes
Kissing
Dislikes:
Drugs
Clubs
Pop music
Texting
Heights
Personality: Witty, Quiet, Intelligent, Charming, Free-Spirited, Caring,
Bio:
Magdalena "Lena" Finn, was born to Annalyn and Forester Finn on December 3rd. Forester Finn was a London native while Annalyn was a Californian hippie. The odd pairing first met when both started freshman year at Oxford, and after six years of dating, finally tied the knot. Her parents were the most loving pair a child could ask for. Her mother, an artist, taught her how to paint and helped Lena cultivate her love for art. Her father was a musician with a few moderately well known albums, from him she learned to play guitar. Her parents having these occupations made for a middle class way of life, but that never proved a problem to the Finns. Their household was one so full of love and compassion, others were naturally drawn to them. Lena grew up observing the intense love her parents shared for one another. It was absolutely definite to her that they were soul-mates. Lena breezed through high school, for academics came easily to her. Through out her high school career, her artistic talents truly flourished to a point where nationwide recognition was flowing her way. She received many art scholarships to prestigious colleges, but eventually chose Middlebury. Life was in a good swing for Lena. Until 5 days after graduation, when she came home to their studio apartment to find both her parents dead; murdered in a domestic double homicide. Her family having completely been ripped away from her, Lena decided to use her decent inheritance and take a gap-year back to her father's home city: London.
Introduction Story
Wednesday, September 15th, 5:00 PM
I lean my head against the cool airplane window as we begin our descent. I close my eyes. The pool of crimson blood haloing my parents creeps back into my mind. I snap my eyes open and try to stop my hands from shaking.
"Lena you came here to clear your mind, get some answers, and start fresh." I remind myself.
Tears prick at the corners of my eyes. I shake my head to rid the memories of that night. Twenty-three total stab wounds blossoming on my parents attire. My father's body strewn protectively over my mother. I stare at the pavement runway coming to meet the wheels. People around me begin to shift and readjust as the plane slows into the hangar and rolls to a stop. Panic tightens in my throat. Passengers rise, ready to retrieve their belongings and depart from the plane. I push myself out of the seat with quaking arms. I can do this. I force myself to take deep breaths as I pull my carry-on out of the overhead compartment. I shuffle along with the passenger assembly line flowing off the plane. As soon as my feet slap onto the linoleum tiles of gate B12, I release a breath I didn't know I was holding. I have made it. There is no going back now. I weave my way through the foreign airport, hitching my carry-on onto my shoulder, coming to a stop only when I reach the baggage claim.The people surrounding the carousels are a flurry of action. There is a large group of British Armed Forces men in uniform surround one of the claims. I scour my flight's rotating baggage claim for my two large checked bags. I see the navy canvas of the first one, and heave it off of the metal platform. I find my second one when I hear a mangled cry erupt from the plethora of people. I turn at the sound of the scream to see a handsome man about my age, sobbing on his knees. He rocks back and forth clutching the union jack, tears spilling over the flag. A small group of soldiers stand around him in awkward silence, occasionally patting his shoulder. I am filled with a searing ache that tightens around my chest. He has lost someone. I feel like wrapping my arms around him, telling him its okay, that it will get better; when I don't even know these things myself. He is a complete stranger, but I have the overwhelming feeling that loss connects us. Before I can think it through, my feet are carrying me towards him. And then I'm in front of him, out of place among the uniformed men. I feel as if I am in a haze, looking down upon myself. I vaguely can hear the faint voice inside my head shrieking,
"What the hell are you doing?!"
But I ignore the voice as I gently place my hand around his bicep and guide him to his feet. He opens his eyes and catches his breath mid sob when he looks at me.
"Come on." I say guiding him outside, giving the soldiers a dirty glare as we pass. They should have comforted him.
I struggle with heaving my three bags and the stranger through the automatic door, but once the cool September breeze glides over my face, I relax us onto a bench. A beat of silence passes as he rubs the tears from his eyes. I study his face as he calms himself. He has deep brown eyes, a prominent bone structure, and ruffled brunette hair. He has mostly calmed down now, except for his breathing, which is coming out in ragged gulps.
"I lost someone too." I say quietly looking at him.
His eyes meet mine. We stare at each other unblinking until he says, "Who did you lose?" with a beautiful British accent.
"Well actually I lost two people. My parents." I reply heavily.
"When?" He asks, furrowing his brow.
"About two months ago."
"How?" He almost whispers
I gulp. "Murdered."
We sit in silence once more while my words resonate with him.
"I'm so sorry." He glances at me with remorseful eyes.
"Me too." I sigh.
"I doesn't feel real yet. Death I mean. I feel like he's not gone. I feel like I'll turn a corner and see his face. And..." He trails off.
"Who did you lose?" I ask gently.
"My older brother. He was the only family I had left. The only one who cared anyway."
"I'm sorry."
"Me too." He replies. "He was set to come home, when he was assigned one last mission. His chopper malfunctioned and went down. No survivors."
I shake my head. "Jesus."
"It's a fu*ked up world. And so fragile."
Tears are in my eyes. I try to blink them away but fail, and one slips out and rolls down my cheek.
"Do you miss them?" He inquires.
I have to laugh. "Of course I do! They were my parents!"
He frowns slightly. "Oh of course. Yeah. Sorry. It's just...my parents didn't really care about my brother and I."
It's my turn to frown now.
"My mum left us when I was six and Ian, my brother, was eight. And my dad beat us sh*tless almost everyday after that." He says in response to my frown.
I place my hand on his. "I am truly sorry." I say meeting his eyes.
I reach into my bag and pull out a pack of Camels. "Cigarette?" I say sliding one out in offering.
He takes it from my fingers, lightly grazing the skin on my hand. The faintest tingle runs through me.
"You don't even know his name." I scold myself.
I lean over an light his cigarette, then my own with my trusty Zippo.
"May I?" He says gesturing towards the lighter.
I nod, sliding it into his hands as I exhale smoke. The lighter is black with a white engraved crescent moon. On the moon there is a smiling face, and underneath it the words: Errantem Lunam. He traces over the engraving with his thumb, turning it over in his hands.
"This is beautiful. Who did it?" He asks after examining it for a while.
"I did." I say blushing a little.
"That's amazing. What does 'Errantem Lunam' mean?"
"It's Latin for 'The Wandering Moon'. I did it because I've always loved the moon. I mean, no matter where you are in the world, whether it's France or Florida, the moon is always the same. 200 years from now even, humans will still look at the same moon. And I think in a beautifully simplistic way, it kind of connects us all, you know?"
He nods, but doesn't say anything. He takes a long drag from his cigarette then says, "You have a beautiful mind."
I laugh and shake my head. "You don't even know my name!"
He gives me a lopsided grin and sets my heart to flittering in my chest.
"Can I know your name?" He asks still grinning.
"Magdalena. Magdalena Finn." I say shyly.
"Well Miss Finn, that too is a beautiful name."
"What about you, mystery man?"
"August Haynes." He says sticking out his hand.
I shake it and laugh. He glances at his watch.
"Oh my. It is nearing six o' clock and I believe I have a date with depression tonight." He says with a sad smile.
"Yes, I must be going too, I have to go to my new apartment." I say, standing and snubbing my cigarette out.
"American. I almost forgot." He says, standing too.
"See you around, August." I say gathering my bags.
But just as I turn to go, he grabs my arm. He pulls me into his chest, holding me close.
"Thank you, Magdalena." He whispers into my hair.
The last thing I see before he lopes away, Union Jack in hand, is the glint of tears swimming in his deep brown eyes.
Age: 18
Hometown: New York City, New York
Lives: London, England
Character Study Link: http://www.polyvore.com/magdalena_finn_character_study/collection?id=2003171
Likes:
Tea
Sleeping
Rain
Painting
Drawing
Playing Guitar
Books
Cigarettes
Kissing
Dislikes:
Drugs
Clubs
Pop music
Texting
Heights
Personality: Witty, Quiet, Intelligent, Charming, Free-Spirited, Caring,
Bio:
Magdalena "Lena" Finn, was born to Annalyn and Forester Finn on December 3rd. Forester Finn was a London native while Annalyn was a Californian hippie. The odd pairing first met when both started freshman year at Oxford, and after six years of dating, finally tied the knot. Her parents were the most loving pair a child could ask for. Her mother, an artist, taught her how to paint and helped Lena cultivate her love for art. Her father was a musician with a few moderately well known albums, from him she learned to play guitar. Her parents having these occupations made for a middle class way of life, but that never proved a problem to the Finns. Their household was one so full of love and compassion, others were naturally drawn to them. Lena grew up observing the intense love her parents shared for one another. It was absolutely definite to her that they were soul-mates. Lena breezed through high school, for academics came easily to her. Through out her high school career, her artistic talents truly flourished to a point where nationwide recognition was flowing her way. She received many art scholarships to prestigious colleges, but eventually chose Middlebury. Life was in a good swing for Lena. Until 5 days after graduation, when she came home to their studio apartment to find both her parents dead; murdered in a domestic double homicide. Her family having completely been ripped away from her, Lena decided to use her decent inheritance and take a gap-year back to her father's home city: London.
Introduction Story
Wednesday, September 15th, 5:00 PM
I lean my head against the cool airplane window as we begin our descent. I close my eyes. The pool of crimson blood haloing my parents creeps back into my mind. I snap my eyes open and try to stop my hands from shaking.
"Lena you came here to clear your mind, get some answers, and start fresh." I remind myself.
Tears prick at the corners of my eyes. I shake my head to rid the memories of that night. Twenty-three total stab wounds blossoming on my parents attire. My father's body strewn protectively over my mother. I stare at the pavement runway coming to meet the wheels. People around me begin to shift and readjust as the plane slows into the hangar and rolls to a stop. Panic tightens in my throat. Passengers rise, ready to retrieve their belongings and depart from the plane. I push myself out of the seat with quaking arms. I can do this. I force myself to take deep breaths as I pull my carry-on out of the overhead compartment. I shuffle along with the passenger assembly line flowing off the plane. As soon as my feet slap onto the linoleum tiles of gate B12, I release a breath I didn't know I was holding. I have made it. There is no going back now. I weave my way through the foreign airport, hitching my carry-on onto my shoulder, coming to a stop only when I reach the baggage claim.The people surrounding the carousels are a flurry of action. There is a large group of British Armed Forces men in uniform surround one of the claims. I scour my flight's rotating baggage claim for my two large checked bags. I see the navy canvas of the first one, and heave it off of the metal platform. I find my second one when I hear a mangled cry erupt from the plethora of people. I turn at the sound of the scream to see a handsome man about my age, sobbing on his knees. He rocks back and forth clutching the union jack, tears spilling over the flag. A small group of soldiers stand around him in awkward silence, occasionally patting his shoulder. I am filled with a searing ache that tightens around my chest. He has lost someone. I feel like wrapping my arms around him, telling him its okay, that it will get better; when I don't even know these things myself. He is a complete stranger, but I have the overwhelming feeling that loss connects us. Before I can think it through, my feet are carrying me towards him. And then I'm in front of him, out of place among the uniformed men. I feel as if I am in a haze, looking down upon myself. I vaguely can hear the faint voice inside my head shrieking,
"What the hell are you doing?!"
But I ignore the voice as I gently place my hand around his bicep and guide him to his feet. He opens his eyes and catches his breath mid sob when he looks at me.
"Come on." I say guiding him outside, giving the soldiers a dirty glare as we pass. They should have comforted him.
I struggle with heaving my three bags and the stranger through the automatic door, but once the cool September breeze glides over my face, I relax us onto a bench. A beat of silence passes as he rubs the tears from his eyes. I study his face as he calms himself. He has deep brown eyes, a prominent bone structure, and ruffled brunette hair. He has mostly calmed down now, except for his breathing, which is coming out in ragged gulps.
"I lost someone too." I say quietly looking at him.
His eyes meet mine. We stare at each other unblinking until he says, "Who did you lose?" with a beautiful British accent.
"Well actually I lost two people. My parents." I reply heavily.
"When?" He asks, furrowing his brow.
"About two months ago."
"How?" He almost whispers
I gulp. "Murdered."
We sit in silence once more while my words resonate with him.
"I'm so sorry." He glances at me with remorseful eyes.
"Me too." I sigh.
"I doesn't feel real yet. Death I mean. I feel like he's not gone. I feel like I'll turn a corner and see his face. And..." He trails off.
"Who did you lose?" I ask gently.
"My older brother. He was the only family I had left. The only one who cared anyway."
"I'm sorry."
"Me too." He replies. "He was set to come home, when he was assigned one last mission. His chopper malfunctioned and went down. No survivors."
I shake my head. "Jesus."
"It's a fu*ked up world. And so fragile."
Tears are in my eyes. I try to blink them away but fail, and one slips out and rolls down my cheek.
"Do you miss them?" He inquires.
I have to laugh. "Of course I do! They were my parents!"
He frowns slightly. "Oh of course. Yeah. Sorry. It's just...my parents didn't really care about my brother and I."
It's my turn to frown now.
"My mum left us when I was six and Ian, my brother, was eight. And my dad beat us sh*tless almost everyday after that." He says in response to my frown.
I place my hand on his. "I am truly sorry." I say meeting his eyes.
I reach into my bag and pull out a pack of Camels. "Cigarette?" I say sliding one out in offering.
He takes it from my fingers, lightly grazing the skin on my hand. The faintest tingle runs through me.
"You don't even know his name." I scold myself.
I lean over an light his cigarette, then my own with my trusty Zippo.
"May I?" He says gesturing towards the lighter.
I nod, sliding it into his hands as I exhale smoke. The lighter is black with a white engraved crescent moon. On the moon there is a smiling face, and underneath it the words: Errantem Lunam. He traces over the engraving with his thumb, turning it over in his hands.
"This is beautiful. Who did it?" He asks after examining it for a while.
"I did." I say blushing a little.
"That's amazing. What does 'Errantem Lunam' mean?"
"It's Latin for 'The Wandering Moon'. I did it because I've always loved the moon. I mean, no matter where you are in the world, whether it's France or Florida, the moon is always the same. 200 years from now even, humans will still look at the same moon. And I think in a beautifully simplistic way, it kind of connects us all, you know?"
He nods, but doesn't say anything. He takes a long drag from his cigarette then says, "You have a beautiful mind."
I laugh and shake my head. "You don't even know my name!"
He gives me a lopsided grin and sets my heart to flittering in my chest.
"Can I know your name?" He asks still grinning.
"Magdalena. Magdalena Finn." I say shyly.
"Well Miss Finn, that too is a beautiful name."
"What about you, mystery man?"
"August Haynes." He says sticking out his hand.
I shake it and laugh. He glances at his watch.
"Oh my. It is nearing six o' clock and I believe I have a date with depression tonight." He says with a sad smile.
"Yes, I must be going too, I have to go to my new apartment." I say, standing and snubbing my cigarette out.
"American. I almost forgot." He says, standing too.
"See you around, August." I say gathering my bags.
But just as I turn to go, he grabs my arm. He pulls me into his chest, holding me close.
"Thank you, Magdalena." He whispers into my hair.
The last thing I see before he lopes away, Union Jack in hand, is the glint of tears swimming in his deep brown eyes.
Two comments 40 likes
This is the icon for a PRP my friend and I are doing!
Link: http://www.polyvore.com/inbetweeners_private_roleplay/collection?id=2004180
Link: http://www.polyvore.com/inbetweeners_private_roleplay/collection?id=2004180
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Lauren Mckee
Actress, fashion lover, writer, knitter, artist.
From United States
Joined three years ago
Follow15.
Ombre hair.
Green/Blue eyes.
Five feet tall.
Ombre hair.
Green/Blue eyes.
Five feet tall.
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