He ran his fingers through his dark brown hair a million times, pacing back and forth in anger, before giving into the urge to kill something. His legs carried him swiftly to the outermost edge of the family farm, to the shed where bows, arrows, and even spears were kept. He exploded into the tiny room in a flurry of madness, grabbed the small pile of spears, and slammed the door in a manner that could have meant the end of the dilapidated shed. Worn and callused fingers wrapped around the first spear as Jackson, the eldest son and therefore new owner of the farm, threw it towards the nearest victim: a watermelon.
One after another zipped through the air, each time with less motivation, until the final spears slipped through Jackson’s fingers and he slid to the ground. Tears streamed down his face, the salt burning his skin under the late afternoon sun. The death of his parents had been no surprise, what with all the diseases they’d been diagnosed with just less than six months ago. However, thirty years of being roped in to helping around the farm had paid a toll on his once fiery spirit. And they expected him to keep managing the estate? Why?
His green eyes focused again, and he stared at the course and crackly skin of his hands, finally deciding that his heart must look just like them: worn and callous, from building up walls to keep everyone out.
“Everything but her,” he whispered to himself. He could almost smell her in the wind: Lilacs and vanilla. Always so calm, so pristine. Porcelain skin and red hair that cascaded around her shoulders in waves of fire. Dark blue eyes that seemed to see the character of your very soul. Yes, Jackson was capable of blocking everyone out but her–Heather. But where was she now? Where was she when he needed her most?
Then he saw it–A fire skimming the tops of the crops. Was it her?
© Copyright 2016 sirenscalling. All rights reserved.
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