Quiet

By Amethyst Turner

Smooth as butter

Tough as brick

Bright as summer

Heavy as sin

Quiet descends and smothers

XXX

Jameson didn't think he'd ever seen a prettier picture in his life.

He gazed up at the sky from the bed of his pickup truck, cigarette bobbing up and down in his mouth. The stars splayed out over him like diamonds sewed on a velvet cloak. How much was the universe worth, he wondered, and how come no one could seem to get much for it?

Chuckling to himself, he pinched the cigarette between his fingers and blew out a ring of smoke. Ah, what a universe, so neat and shining, so well groomed and untarnished. Up close, he thought, it might not be so pretty.

The sound of an engine rumbling broke him out of his Alone Thoughts. That was what he called them -- and it made sense for Jameson. There were two types of things to think about: the things he thought when people were around, and the things he contemplated when he was by himself. Alone, he would consider each petal on a daisy separately, watch water ripple on the pond for hours, just wondering. Alone, clouds were alive and the sun knew his name.

But when there were people, everything turned mundane again. The sun didn't care and flowers were just weeds. He thought about football teams and what he needed from the store and rating girls out of ten as they walked by.

The engine sputtered to a stop. Jameson didn't look. He heard quiet, murmured conversation and then a door opening. It slammed shut and someone, a feminine voice, called, "Goodbye!"

Only then did he lean over the wall of the truck bed to see who it was. There in the dark, nearly empty lot was his fairly new neighbor, a pretty girl with long legs and a face just strange enough to be sexy. She used to live with the Hispanic chick next door who got shot at the drugstore. Jameson watched the grayish silhouette of her heave something onto her shoulder, lifting a bag with a grunt.

Jameson watched her struggle to the door, thin hips swaying as she walked. Jameson thought about offering to help her, but by then, she'd reached the door and disappeared. He laid back down and tried to forget about her, but he couldn't stop seeing the way her breasts bobbed up and down as she walked. He closed his eyes and tried to be alone again.

XXX

Charlotte didn't like talking to people very much, especially people her own age. How dull, how monotonous, how predictable, could a group of people be?

She listened to the conversation, but she didn't want to say anything.

"He did what?"

"I know! He's such an idiot."

"God, what a dick."

"I know, right? And like, he said it right to me. Can you believe that?"

"Oh my god."

Charlotte moved her pencil lightly across the lines of her journal, hoping that if she wrote lightly enough, they wouldn't hear the scratches of pencil on paper and grow suspicious. Oh my god, she penciled in, drawing a speech bubble around it. Maybe a cartoon would be fun. She connected the point of the speech bubble to a pair of thin lips covered with smudged magenta lipstick (well, gray in pencil but pink in real life) on a face only attractive because of the youth in her eyes.

She felt Sasha's arm slide over her shoulder, peeking at the journal. "Charlie," she scolded.

Sasha didn't like it when Charlotte recorded conversations instead of joining them. She didn't like that Charlie hated makeup and tight pants and shirts that showed her cleavage. She didn't like how when Charlie did add to the conversation, it was only to say something scathing and sarcastic that left a membrane of silence over the room for a good minute afterward.

Charlie didn't mind her best friend's disapproval. Really, it felt more like love than reproach. Charlotte knew Sasha only wanted for her to be happy, to fit in.

She slid her arm around Sasha's waist and closed the journal. "Sorry," she said. "One of these days, you're going to stop inviting me over."

"Of course not. You're my favorite."

Charlotte smiled and leaned on her friend, no doubt in her mind that this was true.

XXX

The lights flickered on, searing Owl's eyes after the pristine darkness of the night outside. She set down her bag with relief, glad to be home and warm again.

An extra spark of joy burst in her chest when she remembered the frail, clinging figure on her hip, skin cold to the touch. She could feel each of Amethyst's ribs beneath her fingertips, gentle ripples in the sloping landscape of her decimated body.

"Welcome home," she whispered in the girl's ear. Amethyst wasn't listening. She'd fallen asleep in Owl's arms, her face sweet and free as she dreamed. Owl carried her to the couch and laid her down, careful not to jostle her fragile limbs: broken toes and bruised wrists, burned arms and scabby knees. She unwrapped the blanket from around her and beheld the girl's sad, naked body.

By now, the cake she'd made to welcome her was crumbly and the icing had gone stale. She decided they would still cut it up tomorrow and celebrate, even under the circumstances.

Tomorrow. Oh, tomorrow, when everything would be okay again.

Today had been truly awful, especially for Amethyst. Owl couldn't get the image out of her mind: Richard stumbling toward her, eyes wide with fear, holding the girl close to his chest. "Take her," he'd begged. "She can't stay here." She remembered Amethyst opening her eyes to blink at her, smiling softly, and then nestling into her lap for the short drive to the condos a few streets down.

When she asked Richard what had happened, where all the grotesque scars and the scent of coppery blood had come from, he only shook his head and muttered something about how she couldn't stay. Can't stay, can't stay, he was saying to himself. He wouldn't look at either of them.

Arriving at her home, Richard had turned off the engine for a moment and leaned over to kiss his daughter. He wrinkled his nose at the sharply sour scent of her. "I showered her off at home," he'd said, "but I was rushing. I wanted to get her out."

"It's okay," Owl had said. "I'll do it when we get inside."

But now, she couldn't bring herself to disturb the girl's rest. She ran her finger over Amethyst's soft, ashen cheek.

What a beautiful girl, she thought to herself. What a lovely new family she had to look forward to.

XXX

The stark, peachy-orange walls didn't make Kris angry this time, but they did make him sad.

There were posters, but they were few and far between, glossy but frayed at the edges like unloved children. There was one detailing each letter of the alphabet, uppercase and lowercase, cursive and print. Another showed a little boy's face being swung through a hurricane of feelings: sad, happy, nervous, surprised. Some had animals and others, characters from books. Kris shook his head and began to rip them down.

It seemed a little gory to him, actually, collecting the remnants of a dead woman's facade. He thought he could feel her watching him from the doorway, perhaps not disapproving, only curious. Kris chuckled to himself and hooked his finger through a loop of tape, tearing it from the wall,

He hated this color with a passion. It was the hue of boredom, a shade that signified, for every child, a unique form of misery in which the expression of misery became unacceptable. Kris remembered these days too well, the long hours spent trying to do what he was told, only to be reprimanded for doing it wrong.

LIFE IS GOOD! exclaimed one poster, the little animals from Winnie The Pooh dancing jubilantly beneath the building block letters. Kris let that one stay, shaking his head at the sickness in his own irony. He thought the old teacher would appreciate that. He winked at the doorway, just in case the soul of Melissa Briggs really was watching.

XXX

After Miss Briggs went away, there was a long string of days where the Kindergarteners and the preschoolers colluded together into one big mish-mash of children that made her feel like a little seed in the cotton patchwork of a dandelion, clinging on to the stalk for dear life as they swayed in the wind. It made her sick, that many people.

"Miss Briggs isn't here today," Mrs. Asher had explained to them on Monday. Brinley watched closely. She could see tears forming in the Kindergarten teacher's eyes, her lip shaking. She knew what to do.

Brinley raised her hand. When Mrs. Asher called on her, she said, "Will Miss Briggs come back tomorrow?"

"No," said Mrs. Asher.

Before she could say more, Brinley demanded, "When is she coming back? I miss her." Her classmates groaned and shouted in agreement. No one liked being here in the chilly Kindergarten classroom, trapped in a world of kids so much bigger than them that their fingers go crushed into the carpet each time one of them stood up. They wanted their old school life back.

But Brinley, right now, wanted to see the tears in Mrs. Asher's eyes fall to the ground.

"Honey," said the teacher, the word shuddering in her ragged breaths. "I was just about to say, Miss Briggs isn't going to be back." She set her lip in a firm line, resolutely uncrying.

Brinley kept her eyes locked on Mrs. Asher's. "Why?" she asked. "Doesn't she like teaching us?"

"Of course she likes teaching you -- likes, liked. Likes teaching you. Liked . . ."

Brin grinned to herself, feeling a heavy burst of adrenaline in her veins. Tears slipped down Mrs. Asher's face like drops of rain on a window pane and Brinley wanted to laugh from the novelty of the sight. She didn't. She kept her mouth quiet and laughed on the inside. 

XXX

Feel it as the wind strokes my skin
I am moved by the chill
Hear the winter bird sing

-Winter Bird by Aurora