Unbroken

In truth, there was a darkness in him. It stirred and it brewed, and at times it burned so hot, Hunter had no control over it.

Which was why he was tracing his lips, running his tongue along the seams, trying to savour the taste of Skye. Her touch grounded him, fed the unfamiliar savage within, and now he felt light as a cloud.

When he saw the figure in the dark, standing out front of his home, he stopped in his tracks and stared—and stared—and the man stared back.

“Well, come on over,” the man eventually said. “We have work to do.”

*

He didn’t see pictures in his head the way Skye did. His memories were always in the form of feelings. When he thought as far back as his earliest memory (5 or so), it was sadness and curiosity.

Sadness because he was lonely and often ignored by everyone (no one wanted to be around the bruised boy who beat his head against the wall out of frustration). Curiosity because he wanted to know the name of the little blonde girl in the tall grass. She was new around here, and the kids at the trailer park didn’t seem to want anything to do with her; his first thought was:I know what that’s likeand,I wonder if she gets called a savage too.

When he had approached her, it wasn’t in an obvious sort of way. He meandered around her in a large circle, pretending to be busy (doing nothing). The girl didn’t seem to notice him. She was preoccupied, her attention solely focused on her lap. Hunter spotted her fingers moving fast, saw the long green stems of various plants.

Round and round he went, the large circle slowly closing in around her as his curiosity grew. He wanted to know what she was doing. Wanted to see what she was making. And then he hovered there, just behind her, looking at her long flowing hair, thinking,that looks so soft, I wonder how soft it would feel if I touched it.

He brushed his fingers along her hair. It was so light, she must not have felt it because she didn’t move. He brushed them again, and he was right. Her hair was soft, it smelled good, too, and it was so long, it pooled around her little body like a yellow curtain.

She reminded him of the sun. In fact, if he drew her with his broken crayons (the very ones he stole from Hayden’s porch next door, spoiled jerk), she might look like a sun floating on the grass. How stunning would that picture be? A sun in this dark place, the only bright light in a dark sea of disrepair.

He felt nervous, shaky, and his palms sweaty when he asked quietly, “What are you making?”

Fear suddenly hit him, and his heart clenched.

Fear of rejection.

Fear of being ignored.

Fear of her laughing at him.

They laughed at him all the time, and it hurt his chest so much when they did it.

He blinked rapidly, preparing himself for whatever cruel response she might have.

“A dandelion necklace, but it’s too short, so I think it’s more of a tiara,” she answered distractedly.

“Oh,” was all he said. He drew closer, peering over her shoulder and into her lap. Her white summer dress was covered in dirt; in fact, she had it under her nails, all over her skin and bare feet.Dirty like him.

“Wanna see it?” she then asked.

He shrugged, even though she couldn’t see it. “Okay.”

She patted the spot next to her, and he dropped down, sitting so close, his knee bumped hers. She picked up the saddest looking necklace/tiara he ever did see. The dandelion heads looked crushed, the stems bent and soggy, the loops she made to tie them across so fragile, his hands sprung up to support the other half.

“It’s…nice,” he lied.

She grinned, looking chuffed with her creation. “Come closer.”

He tensed. “Why?”

“So I can put it on your head!”

He leaned into her side as she raised the dead dandelions up. He was still balancing the other half, following her lead as she settled it over his messy, black hair. The second it was on his head, he froze. His eyes darted up to hers, uncertain. “Is it on?”

She stared at the tiara on his head and giggled. “You look like a dandelion princess.”

His lips twitched. “Or dandelion king.”