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Supporting the Creativity of
Readers, Writers, Artists & Free Thinkers
An excerpt from “The
Feather”
by imaginaryheartx
Powder-white, virgin snow glittered beneath the starry sky.
Hovering just above the horizon was a full moon. Its shine illuminated winter’s
flurry so bright one could see miles ahead even in the dead of night. Tree tops
swayed with the bitterly cold wind. Chunks of loose snow dropped from their
branches, plopping on the ground below. Icicles clung to the power lines
overhead, threatening to drop with every gust of wind.
Embry brought his hands from his pockets and popped the
collar of his leather pea coat in effort to divert the blustery weather from
his chilling bones. Cupping his hands together, he blew a lung full of warm
breath between his palms before he slipped them back into his pockets. The
several glasses of whiskey and soda he consumed when feelings and thoughts ran
rampantly through him usually kept him warm on his walk home.
But tonight no amount of whiskey could clear his head or
warm him through.
Just days earlier, Bella married Jacob in a small, quiet
ceremony on a beach in Hawaii, where the sun radiated vibrant rays of light and
happiness across its blue water and sandy shores. He had been invited as a
friend of the bride and groom, yet friend he was not, especially to the groom.
And the bride was the girl he freed into the arms of the groom, the girl he
slept with years later when his mother committed suicide, and the pregnant girl
to whom he confessed his unyielding love years after that.
There was nothing like officially
coming in second place to dilute the effects of even the strongest of liquors.
Or perhaps the alcohol he consumed placed a magnifying glass over reality,
amplifying the smallest, most miniscule emotions – emotions he hid years ago.
Regret burned like a rolling ball of flames with an endless
amount of fuel.
Fear wrapped its fingers tightly around his throat,
strangling the breath out of him.
Jealousy rolled over him like a wrecking ball through a
brick wall.
It could have been me,
he thought. If only I hadn’t planted
that seed.
Months following his last stand – his final confession
to Bella – Embry found himself lost in a dream state, questioning the
chances of reuniting, wondering why he was the catalyst in Bella and Jacob’s
dramatic love affair.
“Why me?”
Embry whispered the words to no one in particular, his
breath forming a fog as it left his mouth. Licking his full lips to prevent
them from chapping, Embry tucked his head down, watching the snow beneath his
boots cave and crumple. “Why did it have to be me?”
A thick, cold wind wrapped Embry in a chill, chattering his
teeth and blowing strands of hair around his head. His torso curled in on
itself for protection, not just from the brisk winter wind. A lump of
frustration and hurt clogged his veins. Unneeded questions bubbled from his
gut. Dreams of what he and Bella could have had vaporized his sensible
realistic side, tearing a hole the size of the moon straight through his chest.
As his feelings built up, as the pain became harder to
handle, as the whiskey began to take full effect, the desire to purge his soul
overwhelmed him. Embry craved the release creating gave him. His want for a
blank canvas grew, his feet picking up their pace, gravitating him toward the
place he always found himself so late at night after a few glasses of whiskey
and soda.
His art studio.
Yellow light from the small building atop the hill cascaded
against the pale snow. The tips of his fingers twitched in his pockets, aching
for the lightweight feel of a stick of charcoal. His ears were anxious to hear
the gentle sounds of charcoal and canvas, lulling his broken heart back to
rest. As his strides widened, Embry kept his eyes on the snow ahead as they
would soon be concentrated on the smooth fading of light canvas to dark charcoal.
His chest heaved with labored breaths when he peaked the top of the hill. The
burn eased a bit at the anticipation of his soon-to-be soft, easy breaths
brought on by the delicate release of art.
There was one reason to be thankful for all he had been
through – his ability to illustrate what his emotions screamed.
From the very first moment he decided to make the move in
Bella’s kitchen to the very last time her crying eyes pleaded with him to be
her friend to now, their relationship created a passion in Embry which allowed
his art to radiate.
He lived his dream because of the fire she lit inside of
him.
And there wouldn’t be a day he lived without appreciation.
It only took Embry a few seconds to push through the door,
shed his jacket, and drop his keys on the art table in front of the ten-foot
canvas. His fingers wrapped around the nearest piece of charcoal, ceasing the
twitch there. With a steady but careless stroke, Embry’s worn hands guided the
charcoal against the canvas, quenching his thirst for release. His eyes
steadied on the vision inside his head. His ears listened to the gentle
crunching and sweeping as the picture in his head reflected on the canvas. The
silence in the midst of creating something from scratch soothed the aching pain
in his chest.
This was it. This was the last time he would create a piece
of work out of pain. This was the last time Bella would get to him. This was
the last time he would regret his decisions. This was the last time he would
remember her with a loving heart.
This was the last time he would love her.
He couldn’t do it anymore.
This was it.
Exhaustion pounded through every vein and capillary of Embry’s body. His vision blurred, merging the lines on the canvas. The silence screamed a searing yell in his ears. His fingers were tender to the touch and grazed across the material in front of him as the piece of charcoal dissolved into a mere nub.
Time had all been lost in effort to bury the ghost of Bella
somewhere above his mother but below his father.
Satisfied with the lack of hurt swirling through him, Embry
tossed the miniscule piece of charcoal onto the table behind him and leaned his
weight against it. Crossing his arms over his chest, Embry inspected the piece
of art in front of him. On nights like tonight, Embry embossed his heart and
soul onto the canvas without comprehension, essentially healing his wounds. The
image on the canvas became a metaphor of the moment’s feeling.
A single feather’s fall was the subject.
The top of the canvas depicted the beginning, the first
jump, the decision to be free from restraint as the feather’s tip faced
downward. It cascaded with flips and spins in the mid-moment’s grace. Peaceful
freedom soared through the wind, while unconsciously its descent was hidden by
the intrigue of the fall. The breeze carrying the single plume disguised
gravity until the ground below was a fingerbreadth away. A final spin flipped
the feather, forcing it to face its own voyage. Only then did the feather slide
onto the ground, its barbs quivering with the minimal amount of breeze still
blowing.
Its journey was over, at least until the next gust of wind.
A sense of accomplishment fell upon his tired soul just as a
yawn crept out of his mouth. There was nothing left of him to give this piece
of work tonight. He would finish the shading and refine the edges another day.
All he wanted was to wash the charcoal residue from his hands and pass out on
the mattress in the corner of his studio.
Embry rinsed the black stains from his hands. The warm water
from the faucet soothed the tender tips of his fingers. Still-wet hands slid
through the black mess of hair on his head. It had grown a bit since he saw
Bella last. The length was almost even with the top of his shoulders,
accentuating the native features he inherited from his Quileute heritage.
Glancing in the mirror, two tired grey eyes swarmed with a
sadness he was unsure would cease. Still, tonight was the last night Embry
would allow Bella Swan to affect him. He allowed it to happen for too many
years. He should have let go the moment he left La Push for New York. He knew
that now.
Embry flicked the light off and for a moment stood in the
dark bathroom, gripping the sides of the sink, teetering on the edge of letting
go. A deep inhale absorbed the reality. A loud, exasperated exhale expelled
dreams of a different world.
A world where first place was his only option.
Heavy exhaustion carried him out of the bathroom toward the
mattress in the corner of his one-room studio. He rarely crashed here except on
nights like tonight – nights he had one too many whiskey and sodas. Nights of
remembrance and nights of solitude.
But as he rounded the canvas, a flash of color diverted his
eyes from the sheet-covered mattress just a few wide strides away.
In that moment, Embry realized his solitude had been
invaded.
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