-- all i can do , greenly

[emerson owens]

There were no lyrics, but Emerson knew the story by heart. Bittersweet longing and regret reverberated through the chords as his fingers moved with practiced ease across the strings of his guitar, losing himself to the melody. The back of his jacket was damp from the moss-covered rock he sat against; the mist of the waterfall coating his hair with a light frost. He didn’t care. This was one of the few places where he didn’t have to hold back. When he held his guitar he knew that he wouldn’t hurt it, wouldn’t steal something from it that was never meant to be shared. Instead he found the tales locked within himself and set them to music. Had the lyrics for this particular song been penned they would have told the tale of a boy who had fallen in love with his best friend only to have her abandon him. He had waited patiently until he had to leave her because it was the only way to save her from the monster he had become in her absence.

In the weeks since he had last spoken to Greenly, she had been ever-present in his thoughts. Her ghost lingered in the front room of his home, he saw her at school, at the corner store. At night, as he awaited sleep to claim him, there were times where he as certain he could hear her laugh. It was all in his mind, though. Greenly was gone and Emerson was certain that she would never return. When he had sent her away he had understood its permanence; knew that it was for the best. But now as he sat alone, Emerson found himself wondering if there might have been some way to have kept her around.

Of course his curse made that impossible. He cared for her too much to risk an accidental brush of the hand. Her memories deserved to be sacred, shared only if she chose to. With him there were no promises. He would take whatever came first with no regard for how it might harm her. Solitude was the only way he could ensure that he kept those he cared for safe.

“She sits with her shoulders squared,
Singin’ ‘the world can’t touch me if I don’t care.’
But she cares more than is in her social cues
Won’t let ‘em see how she bruise
Singin’ la-la-la-la
Someone see me…”

Music alone was no longer enough, and Emerson gave himself to the lyrics that slipped with velvety softness across his lips. He did not care if they were rough or didn’t make sense. All that mattered was that he tell the story before it was forgotten.

He had no idea how long he sat there, playing and singing. His fingers had grown numb from the cold, and the afternoon sun had dimmed to twilight. Above the craggy ridges of the mountains that hid Eventide from the rest of the world he could see the purplish storm clouds building. It would snow tonight, he thought absently. Yet he played on. It was only a shadow cast across him that pulled him from his thoughts. With a sigh, he glanced up, and his fingers froze upon the strings. It was Greenly. Standing before him she looked as perfect as ever, listening in silence as he played. He could remember all the times they had sat together, him playing while she listened, and wished he could be that naïve boy for her once more. If there was a way to freeze those moments and go back he would. Instead he swallowed the thick lump that had wedged itself in his throat and placed his guitar down. “Hey, Greenly. Did you need something?”

He needed her more than he knew how to say, and it terrified him.