Rebecca Bavone

Rebecca Bavone Rush I was shivering. Fierce winds flowed through the line of long, open windows like dropped jaws, and I pushed my back against the couch. I stretched my neck and sat tall, a wall of warmth against the horrid night. One blanket definitely wasn’t enough. Four was getting there. I was perfectly still, as still as I had ever been, with only my eyes shifting between the windows. 1...2...3...4...1...2...3... There was a rhythm to it all, to these wide mouths that never shut, that yelled and blabbered and spewed indecipherable filth that never reached me. But the wind was trying. And past the tattered curtains, the trees writhed and twisted, whipping their branches around and throwing leaves. They bent this way and that, looking through cracks in peeling bark. They were looking, and I was so still and I was fucking shivering. A burst of cold air rushed in and it passed over my head, a mocking wave, and my legs flew to the floor and my heels dug down and I slammed the couch back to beat the wind, to keep what was mine, but it had already dropped behind me with a stomp. The trees tilted back in the moonlight, shaking with laughter, when the stomp became two and I heard it walk. I was so cold. My eyes closed and the wind took its time. It ripped the curtains off and danced around the room, hitting my face with the makeshift gown. It ran circles around the couch and paused to sit beside me and stare with eyes of impossible depth. It stood in front of me and crouched down to stick out its tongue and pull at my hair. I peeked and it tore the blankets away. It beckoned leaves and twigs and branches inside. It cried out and blocked the moon, and my eyes were wide from how freezing it was. The crinkling of paper had me jumping to my feet and flinging my body on the desk trapped between the couch and a wall, but the wind was just too quick. The letters flew out from under my touch and were carried through the windows, lifted up and shredded into nothing under a darkened sky. I took a step forward, my limbs frigid, and the mouths cracked when they fell. The wind howled, and I ran to the door when a shard of glass clattered to the floor and the chill squeezed its way back in. It wasn’t done yet. My aching fingers grabbed the doorknob and I held my breath as it turned. It was quiet. I peered past the corner of the door and saw the driveway up ahead, the empty street, and above, stretching on forever, was a sky scattered with bright stars and an even brighter moon. Below was a box that sat on the welcome mat, looking at me with a blood red bow. I inched closer and waited. I listened to the uncomfortable quiet, to the crickets and the mosquitoes, and watched the blinking of the stars. I tore off the lid and threw it as far as I could with my sore arm. I wanted to close my eyes, to cover them, to tear them out as I stared into the box because there was absolutely nothing there. The wind wasn’t done yet. The trees weren’t done. The world wasn’t done. They would never be. I stuffed my head in the box and let the wind come slicing by.