The Quiet Place

The bitter air tears through your lungs and assaults your hair, leaving your cheeks stinging as you gasp for a proper breath. The eastern wind exhales once more. You take a moment to observe the horizon, if you can call it that. The ashy, endless ocean and pale sky blend together almost perfectly, creating a hazy visage that twires before your very eyes. Still, there is a glitch between sea and sky, a fine line of pallid sun that separates the ocean from its god.

Before the achromatic skyline, a small harbor can be seen, laid out before you, almost beckoningly. The trembling waters rock the old sailboats and splintering docks with a nervous care, mindful not to disturb the fragile tranquility. Looming to one side of you is a tall university. Perhaps on a brighter evening it could seem almost inviting, but from this perspective it is simply a twilit block of shadows and cement.

Behind you lies the uphill suburbs of a quaint place, which you may have once called home. The tiny lights in the tiny houses and London town esque street lamps line the amateurly planned road, which leads unsuspecting victims to their destination of scenic tourist traps and gift shops.

The caustic breeze begins to pick up as you finally decide on departing. The air is salty and ripe with the distinct smell of a fishing pier. Stifling the urge to cover your nose, you sluggishly drag yourself uphill.

The true lifelessness of this quiet place begins to dawn on you as you make your way past the seasonal shoppe’s and various bland inns. There is nothing, nobody, around now. No smothered laughter, innocent banter, headlights gleaming down the boulevard, or even cigarette smoke, curling steadily towards the darkening sky.

In this quiet place, there isn’t much to do but wait. Wait for your lover or wait for your death, no one knows the difference anyway.