(c) Lost. [PG]

by tea-boy. Sat 26 Sep 2009, 11:41 pm

Title: Lost.
Rating: PG
Author: Me.
Genre: Original Fiction.
Status: Really short one-shot.
Summary/Excerpt: Growing up.
A/N: Not my best. I haven't written anything since July, I'm rusty.
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From a cradle to a casket, there's no way to escape.

When we were children, we played a game called Lost. When the fog took over the land and clouded our vision, or when the rain came down so hard we couldn’t see straight, or when the boogeyman was coming to get you, we played Lost. The rules were fairly simple, when you were lost; you would find the little pumping well with the chip in its handle. That was home-base. And whenever one was lost amidst the abnormal weather, they would go there. And the second rule is that there would always be someone else there, and then you would grasp their hand and the game was over. Because you weren’t alone anymore. You weren’t lost.

And then no specific day came when Lost became silly and we used umbrellas for rain and waited out the fog with picture-less books. We let it slip to the back of our minds, like most other childhood games and rhymes do. But the more we forgot about the game, the more we needed it. Each day uprooted sure facts, each moment in time wrapping us thick in confusion and uncertainty. Until the day that we were all lost, dodging between cars and buses, buying intoxicants to get us more lost to distract us from being lost. Being so lost that day and night were only separated by light and dark and childish emotions strong in our chests withered away as the years went on. Plump, red cheeks became hollow and gaunt. Our smiles were lost behind the thin line of displeasure that our faces naturally held. Our touch was no longer soft and sweet, more frazzled, but methodical.

And each day is like a death sentence, the pendulum swings as each moon and sun fade away. The stars reflect in empty eyes and wash them out in the darkest nights, if we haven’t done it with strobe lights ourselves. But either way, we end up alone in bed, left with our emptiness to stare at the ceiling. We are lost. And it’s no longer a game. It’s no longer about weather or what goes bump in the night. It’s that there’s no hand to hold as we curl into our cold pillows and stare at the LED numbers on our clocks, waiting to feel something.