Sailing the breeze

[Laruku Tears]

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It was easy to understand why pity and concern were unwanted most of the time. People liked to deny that anything had ever been wrong to begin with; they liked to think that they were fine, that they were taking care of themselves, and that they didn't need any help. But long lives were like long stories; tragedies were inevitable for anything that lasted longer than a few chapters, a few months. Eventually, something bad would happen, and they would never forget. That was life. And that was why scars criss-crossed his forearms though most were faded and worn now, half-hidden in rust-colored fur, but never invisible, never gone. Laruku ceded his own almost-a-smile. I'm not good at telling stories either, he said, and even the explanation of why was a long story in itself. He'd lived too long. He'd been there too long.



I don't know, was his truthful answer. A month maybe. Month and a half. I was sick, so close to dying. A friend, a lover, brought me here. And I don't really have anywhere else to be. His first lie of the evening, though that was subjective. He had a place to be -- a graveyard surrounded by a different fog in a different forest. A cabin further east where no one would disturb him (and where he would disturb no one else). He had a lot of places to be: any place that wasn't there, he could be.

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