Lost in the Wind

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic

Just a short short story I've written~

Submitted: October 31, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: October 31, 2017



 The moon shines above him, showing no sympathy what so ever. But maybe sometimes, giving off light is all one can do.


The boy, with his coal-black hair plastered on his forehead, stares into the darkness of the polluted lake. His hand placed lightly on the railing of the bridge, barely holding it. Maybe he isn’t afraid of water. Or maybe he is so overcome with grief that he simply doesn’t have enough heart to care anymore.


and the rest of his upper-body sway with the strong blasts of wind. Whispers from the night.


But he doesn’t move. His feet stay on the ground, like a dying tree in the wind, roots grasping the soil weakly as nature takes away all that is left. The leaves, the branches, life.


HIs white shirt clings to his body like a baby to its mother, his pale skin makes barely any contrast against the shirt. He’s a fading in the dark, and the flame might burn out any moment.


“Damon! Damon!” A faint sound floats with difficulty through the roaring of the wind, and finally into his ears. Something flashes in his eyes.


They are blue.


outshine even the most beautiful diamond.


That flicker of hope brings back the shadow of those eyes. But it dies down too quickly. And all that’s left are two round circles, too dark and too sad for hope.


His feet suddenly shuffle in the direction of the voice. Or maybe it’s simply the wind winning the fight.


A shadow flashes in the midst of all the fog. What a nice weather, he thinks. His heart pounds as he realizes that he is thinking. And above all, thinking sarcastically.


The shadow moves again, this time, it looks bigger. “Damon.” That voice. Again.


The boy lets go of the railing and takes a shaky step forward, his mouth shaping incomprehensible words, repeating them over and over again. Holding on to them harder than he did the railings. Much, much harder.


A soft white light appears gradually, sculpting out a tear-streaked face of a weeping girl. Her light pink lips part as the name leaves her mouth for the fourth time. “Damon.”


The black haired boy takes a step back, like an alarmed prey. His eyes are no longer lifeless. His whole body shivers like a lonely strand of grass in a thunderstorm. “Martha.”


The two figures, equally depressing, stand there facing each other. The wind seems to have slowed, and the water no longer roared. It is as if the whole universe is holding its breath. The tension between the two human so thin and stretched so tight that even the universe fears for what would happen if it snaps.




A ringing sound echo in the boy’s ear. This is what silence sounds like, he realizes.


“Why did you run away?” The girl demands, his black hair blending in with the night effortlessly. Damon remembers running his fingers through it, unknotting strands of hair as he went.


A single tear rolls down her face, so pale in the night that it almost seems to shine. “Answer me. Damon.”


He can’t help but stare at her lightly colored hands, ever so elegant, against her cloak. They are shivering. Whether it is from the cold or from how worked-up she is, he does not know.


Though he hopes it’s from the cold. Because he can’t bear to have someone care so deeply about him.


A heart has already been broken by him. There shouldn’t be a second one.


That thought urges him to get the right words out. “Because I wanted to get away from you.”


He watches in fascination as the words sink in, like a storm ravaging her entire body, from the outer shell to the inner core. It’s like an earthquake, breaking and destroying everything in its way.


She must feel terrible.


But he is the man watching the earthquake. Better yet, the man who created the earthquake. He feels a thousand times worse.


He freezes as it occurs to him how utterly silent it is. He settles his gaze on Martha, who is also, quite terrifyingly, staring at him. Her green eyes stable, and her mouth in a firm line.


She looks outraged


“Stop doing this to yourself.” She whispers, her lips barely moving. “I know what you’re trying to do.”


He knows she does. And he hates that she does.


“You’re trying to punish yourself.” She presses on, closing the distance between them with a swift step forward. He stands there, too stunned to move. If he had though, he isn’t sure whether he would’ve moved toward or backward from her.


“You don’t know me. You don’t know.” He snaps, using one of his practiced annoying tones.


softens, as if coaxing an infant into giving up its broken toy. “Whatever reason you have, or you think you have, to distance yourself from anyone you might love. You can tell me.”


But telling someone means trusting that person. And trust usually leads to love. Damon simply cannot afford love.


He notices from his peripheral view that the sun had risen in the East, half of it still hidden from view. “You should leave.”


She crosses her arms stubbornly. “Not unless you come with me. I know you want to.”


He blinks once. “Very well.”


second, like she isn’t actually expecting him to give in so easily. She hesitates for a second.


Damon spins around and starts walking, laughing as he kicks a pebble into the river. “The morning air is cold. And you with your glass body might get sick. I’m afraid my life might be taken if Lydia finds out.”


After a second, Martha races toward him, still with a daze in her eyes. “You can’t be serious. No one in their right mind would even think of putting a finger on you.”


Damon cocks his brow thoughtfully, and his lets out a sigh as a decision is made in his mind. “Race you to the house?” He proposes.

laugher rings in the air like a wind-chime in the breeze. So soft, so sweet. The heavy padding can be heard as her shoes make contact with the ground, slowly gaining speed. She grins like a flower blooming in Winter. “Ok, loser!”


His smile slowly melts away as her body shoots past him, her legs moving so quickly they almost seem like a blur. She expects him to be chasing after her, after all.


Slowly, as if doing so pains him physically, he turns toward the bridge again. “Sorry.” He whispers under his breath. The word tumbles out of his mouth quietly, and the wind, doing its job, carries it far, far away.
















© Copyright 2019 JoanneCL. All rights reserved.

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