Romance In A Column

chapter eighteen,

    Awakening in the mouth of three dirt paths, Eryn Sallow sits atop of dewy grass. Oddly unrested, it wasn't sleep that – to the ground – chained her.

    She wonders if it's nighttime. Beyond the archway entrances, she only sees blackness with tones of gray that add depth.

    It isn't, however, a night sky she sees when glancing upwards. It is not the starless blanket, draped atop of New York once the sun tucks itself in. There are no fumes, risen from the streets, letting the moon bring them alight so they can pose as another weeping cloud. There is no moon and no tinge of navy blue; it appears to be a high rise ceiling coated in velvety black.

    Eryn pulls herself upright. The hem of her lace dress is stained, it is not mud, she reckons. Her palms, which were pushed into the ground in order to rise, remain untainted. She does not ask, though curiosity eats away at her throat – Eryn has a strange feeling this noir maze is no stranger to fleeting whispers.

    That thought chills her.

    To her right, an archway lined with roses draws her eye. The fragrance of the flower slithers in her direction, vaguely reminding Eryn of a cartoon animation. Inclined by its beauty, Eryn ceases to find oddness in the lack of thorns in their stems.

    Softly blown into her face, a wisp of the sweet scent drags her to the edge of a deep stupor. Stumbling back, jagged stems from the wall of bushes that encloses her, cut into Eryn's palms.

    Eryn stares at the twisted oaks to the left. It's roots peek through the moist soil like shallowly buried bone, it's branches coiled together – knotted – create an arc.

    Gray trees cage in the route, the earth of the path seems to have crippled into dirt – the grass that nibbles at her ankles stops at it's doorway. But it is the leafless branches which let the hollow sky observe her every step that causes her eyes to slide over to the remaining entrance.

    In the darkness, she cannot tell, but it's glimmer have her believe it's made out of gold. Beyond its frame, Eryn swears the whistle of the flowers tucked into the bush walls are giggles and the familiarity of dark chocolate washed away by wine dizzy her.

    In an exploratory touch, a hand cups her own. Tracing the length of her fingers, the warmth follows the lines to their tabs before departing her.

    Eryn's fingers hover inches away from the golden frame, itching to caress the inscriptions. Further than lines that curve at its ends, these carvings seem to tell tales.

    It is bare air that greets them, however. Looking back, the path had made her decision. Vines stretch and imprison her, the golden frame behind her melts into white flowers.

    Silk in her grip, Eryn bunches the length of her dress. In mockery of the roses' petals that adorn the winding road, the dress shifts through shades as leaves cast shadows upon it.

    The end leads nowhere, Eryn finds out shortly. Her steps dig deep into the ground, her back and forth pacing etch her footprints into the earth.

    But along the walls there's gaps between the tightly sawn vines. They shift with every cruise down the path; appearing smaller, distorted or farther along than she remembers them.

    It does not seem like the answer but, if possible, the sky had grown darker. Now, slim lines of gray barely outline her silhouette.

    Sliding her hands into a gap, Eryn closes her hand along the vines. Thorns bite into her skin and sink into her flesh once she begins to widen the tear.

    Cold sweat begins to gather in the back of her neck, her puffed breaths rise like steam into the air, but eventually she hears a noise beyond the wall.