The girl who walks with the dagger is seen by a million eyes. She doesn’t look up, doesn’t even slow. Miles away, gazers on rocks count the eyes, but this girl does not have the time for peace.
These eyes are mine.
When she collapses in the alleyway, I can’t scream for help. My moon casts a glow over her body, and this is all I can do for her. I’m only the space between breaths; I have no air of my own. Minutes ago, she held a knife up to someone’s neck. Minutes ago, she fled. She left the smallest cut to the person’s neck—but first blood always leaves the darkest stains on one’s memory, no matter its amount.
She gets back up. The dagger shifts in her hoodie pocket, the edge of its blade catching the light like one of my stars. There is a tear in her jeans. Her knee is shining, blood welling from the fall. When she walks, it’s more of a stumble. She is not hurt, not really. This girl knows hurt. But her mind is spinning, beyond control—and so I can tell it is sheer need, rather than ability, that carries her further.
I’ve seen this girl before. My endless gaze comes with an unfortunate ability: an endless memory. I’ve watched every story played out through dark hours. I only know rumors of my neighbors, dawn and dusk, but their fumbles and follies carry on to me. Dawn gives people hope, dusk takes it away, and me? Well, I like to think I give them peace of mind. But I know that for this girl, all she sees is shadows.
Before she reaches her brother, she buries the knife deeper in her pocket. She’d wiped the blood on her pant leg earlier, and it blended in with the stains already there. There wasn’t a lot of blood, but she gagged when she did it, as if she could smell it. As if there was a phantom scent lingering on a wound that was not even murder. She knew what it was like to be hurt. She now knew what it was like to hurt another.
She shakes the boy awake. I can’t make out their words—not because they are far away, but because I don’t want to. Some stories are too easy to become invested in, too easy to become attached to. Despite my million, billion eyes, I force myself to shift away. I’m only the space between breaths; I have no air of my own. I can try to scream, but all that comes out is wind. I hope for happy endings, but I have to move on.
Even happy stories have last words. But if you leave before these words are written, the story never ends.
