Author Games Compilation [Cycle 2]

Task 2 [SEPT]

AUTHOR GAMES: FROM THE GRAVE - TASK TWO

When she found him it'd been an accident. It was a slip of chance, an anticipated meeting drawn early. His back was an absolutely terrifying sight - and she did know him by back alone, even after all this time.

The supermarket was a bright little thing September'd saw when passing down the street, pulled by familiarity and memories dug free of their graves. It looked just the same on the outside, and she was ready for the flush of nostalgia to strike her in entering, but to her surprise, every shelf and every area had been shuffled around like a deck of cards, left up to her to track down. And, well, what else was there for her to do, really, other than wander? The produce was at the front of the store, now, and the bread aisle to the far right, and at the very, very back was a new wall dedicated solely to things like cold cuts and Lunchables and shredded cheese. Christ, how long had it been since she'd had a good nacho Lunchable?

In search of the plastic trays, she'd taken one step free of a cereal lane. But then stopped, for her gaze'd gone up, saw the brown layer crossing over a pair of broad shoulders, saw the slightly curled nape of brunet at the base of a man's neck. She knew the curl well, having fiddled with it many a time and hoped for the simplest pleasure of being able to do so again. It was those small things you missed. Like the subtle curve of their jaw or the bristles of a beard curling around their mouth or how they cracked their pinky finger whenever they reached out to grab something from a shelf. I always hated when he cracked his knuckles.

Everett had all of these things when September looked at him for the first time in eight years. And once this realization hit, she could do nothing but stare. There was a tingle at the back of her eyes, but nothing wet built up like it should've. She wanted the release of that tingle, to let everything out, but there was nothing there to let out. So, instead, she found herself stumbling forward over the tile, mouth contorting into nothing coherent; did she want to whisper or wail? What is it? What is it, Emmie?

Out with it, Emmie.

"I-" breathed out along his neck from a distance of five feet. The cold of it was dispelled by the cold radiating from the open wall.

"Where-" pushed up against a bare wrist, sprouting gooseflesh quickly rubbed away by warm and living hands. Warm and living hands.

"Ever." Ethereal hand on mortal flesh. A sting of cold, a shiver from a man's lips. He flinched violently before settling back into as normal a position as quickly as he could. But his head was bowed, now - he grabbed a pack of ham and moved on, leaving September to sway, too numb and astounded in order to process anything other than the color of brown on a back and scalp.

How else was the dead supposed to react to the living?

When he was out of her sight, she found that she could think again, could blink away all that she'd just seen, or thought she'd seen. Everything irrelevant came to mind, things she spoke aloud without fear of being heard.

"I wonder if he's still got that good tie I bought him."

"Does he still have that old grey hatchback sitting in the lot?"

"My maps better still be in the glove department. I'm a blessing to travel."

These questions and statements spurred her to leave the compact store and enter the compact parking lot. Everett always parked somewhere in the middle, so she went there first. Sure enough, there lay the grey hatchback, identifiable as theirs purely by the small dent and scratch just above the front tire. Some mishap with a little kid who was very fond of big rocks. She couldn't remember exactly why he'd thrown it.