Page 52 of Paint the Town, Dove
“Are you okay?” I asked, having a feeling not many people had ever thought to.
A tear fell from the corner of her eye. “I don’t know.”
It was weird seeing someone else on the brink of sadness. I normally just looked in the mirror.
“I guess,” she slouched, “I’m just tired of feeling like an outcast.”
“Outcast?” I stood up, fists clenched. “You’re not a fucking outcast!”
My hands flew to my mouth.
Emory stared at me.
“I’m sorry,” I blurted, “I – I’ve never said that word before.”
She giggled, patting the rock next to her. “Fuck.”
“Oh my God,” I plugged my ears. “Sinead and Flack say it all the time, I just –” I paused. “I don’t want to be like them.”
“From what you told me, Scarlett Blake,” she scooted closer, “You’re never going to be like them.”
“How do you know?”
“I’d like to think I know you.”
“But we just met, like, four hours ago.”
She smiled, lifting up my sleeve. My scars, white as bone, were flayed across my forearms like tape.
“I think you know me, too,” she whispered, placing her hand over mine.
And I stared, assessing this… this, rainbow.
The reds of her cheeks.
The green flecks in her eyes.
The yellow aura radiating aroundher like a halo.
Blue nail polish, chipped.
And orange caution tape, wrapped around her like lace, a plane I was scared to board because I knew – deep in my heart – that I would care about this girl.
That she saw me.
Our struggles were different, our lives more so.
But we were no longer alone.
We could be each other’s sunflowers.
Me, Emory and Ryden.
The golden coins at the bottom of the ocean…
Destined to rise.
***
