Triangular Lives

"It was a small place and in small places it is very easy for darkness to hide. People are so tightly cramped together that they fail to notice the bogey man beneath their nose. Too close to see the obvious." Emma dreams in smoke, Daniel dreams in stars, and Lucy dreams in sepia.The shared garden sits between them - empty, careless and unwanted for as long as each can remember - but it's when something terrible and scandalous lies in the garden that the truth starts to leak out. ~~~ P.S. This is under re-construction ~~~ P.P.S. What can I say to explain the darkness of this story other than that I am always amazed by the cruelty of the crushed. All my characters here are crushed and there's only one who isn't cruel. ~~~ (Thanks to River_Summers ☕️for the wonderful cover!)

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27. Emma

27.


She noticed, as she re-packed the boxes that had brought her to the cottage, that what people said was wrong. People always compared life to circles: life cycles, history repeating, cyclic narratives spiralling unstoppably. Their analogies were flawed because people didn’t live in circles.

They lived triangular lives; essentially returning themselves to the same stages of mentality but having run different paths each time. Lives were not smooth, infinite – they had breaking points and corner points around which their narratives pivoted.

Maybe history, fashion and art ran treadmills but no one could pretend that they really lived without edges and apexes.

“We live triangular lives,” she whispered to the window pane and watched her reflection avalanche away beneath a fog of breath.  “That’s why we keep on living; triangular structures are the strongest.”

She wiped her breath clear and scowled at herself.

“What a load of rubbish,” She said.

“Emmanuelle, Dépêche-toi!” Dad shouted from downstairs.

Triangles.

“Un moment!” She replied and let one last breath fill the window. Somehow, although it was just condensation, it was beautiful. It was beautiful because of the nostalgia of all her childhood breaths and the pictures she hung on them with her fingers. Car windows and bus windows and travelling. On – always travelling on – going somewhere.

She drew a shape with three sides and three corners on the glass and left the room without looking back to see if it lingered.

 

 

THE END

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