I was plummeting, falling fast, the ground had disappeared beneath my feet and I felt the wind against my face.
My cheek collided with the pavement and my jaw cracked painfully. I lay there still for a moment, mulling over the stinging of the tiny loose rocks embedded in my skin. The longer I stayed down, the easier it would be to get back up.
Or so my logic went, anyway.
As a kid, you were probably told you were special in your very own way. Perhaps you're still told that. Either way, I'm sure you've heard it from someone at least once in your life. My mother raised me to believe something much different. "One day, we will all be nothing but dirt, one and the same. That's what counts in the end." To me, this makes a lot more sense. It's much more practical. I mean, after all, we can't all be special or special wouldn't exist.
Or so my logic goes, anyway.
I felt a light touch on my back, but my eyes were closed, so it was a hand floating in empty space for all I knew. I considered just lying there some more. If you don't move, no one can see you.
Or so my logic went, anyway.
Strangely enough, the hand did not disappear. It must have been attached to someone, because next a mouth pressed up against my ear and whispered insistently, "You should probably get up." The voice was female, as far as I could tell by its sound and the sweet smell of cocoa butter that drifted to my nostrils on the light breeze. Which only makes this stranger, because girls don't talk to b****** children.
Or so my logic went, anyway.
Intrigued by this phenomena, I opened my eyes, the sunlight brutally piercing my green irises and causing my pupils to shrink back behind them for protection. My world was sideways, and I felt small, being so close the the ground. I was staring at pale knees, exposed by a short, black, ruffled skirt which was paired nicely with a white and black striped tank top. These details don't seem important, but if I'm taking so much notice they must be.
Or so my logic goes, anyway.
It was indeed a girl, as obvious statements have implied. She had had choppy light brown hair extending just below her chin, a soft and clean complexion with rosy cheeks and deep brown eyes. She removed her thin hand from my back and placed it on her lap alongside the other. She had a fragile-looking figure, but a warm smile and a bright look of intellect in her eyes. I decided she was pretty. In addition, I assumed she was nice, or she wouldn't be speaking to a b******* child.
Or so my logic went, anyway.
She stood up and I saw a flash of blue beneath her skirt. Not that I was looking, but it did cross my line of vision. She stretched out one of those delicate hands and I finally lifted my face from the pavement, and took it as she helped me to my feet. I had attracted a decent amount of attention from people walking their dogs and couples holding hands and such in this area of the park. But I suppose anyone would get that attention, being on the ground like that.
Or so my logic goes, anyway.
She hadn't let go of my hand yet, which was another strange thing. But I didn't want her to let go, so for this I was grateful. We had never met before, and it is usually proper to introduce oneself. But if we had already skipped to holding hands in the park, I supposed no introduction was necessary.
Or so my logic went, anyway.

Later that day, I will push her own the swingset and she will call out and giggle like a young child, with such an expression of exhilaration she might have been. She will dance and skip ahead of me on the pathway, urging me to keep up. She will twirl around and exclaim how she loved that her little skirt would follow her movements seconds behind her, wrapping around her legs. She will continue to hold my hand until the sun slips behind the trees and casts her face with a warm glow that makes her seem even more beautiful. And then we will sit in the grass as the park grows emptier and emptier until we are all alone, and she will lean her head into my shoulder and start to cry, which I will find strange because I will never meet anyone who seems happier than her. She will tell me of her alcoholic father and she will show me the bruises on her stomach. I will tell her that I am a b****** child, and strangely she won't say a word against me. She will smile and lay her head in my lap. That night we will go back to my apartment, and she will fall asleep next to me in my bed even though she had meant to go home. The following day she will kiss me good morning, and then tell me her name, which I will find strange because its usually the other way around, and a good morning kiss is rarely a first kiss as well.
In the end, no one in this world is really special.
But everyone gets special moments.
Even b****** children, which is strange.
Or so my logic goes.