8504 Greywell Drive

May 17, 2011
By AbbyRad GOLD, Indianapolis, Indiana
AbbyRad GOLD, Indianapolis, Indiana
19 articles 7 photos 1 comment

Favorite Quote:
Emotion makes me want to do stupid things. Stupid, bad, wonderful things.

We had planned to meet at 8504 Greywell Drive, a little to the right of the driveway, to be precise. I leaned up against the long, gray brick wall that was a ridiculously high fence to the manor that separated this street from their home. A cigarette dangled out of my mouth. I had been smoking like a fiend all week because I was nervous, nervous for this meeting, for this collision of fate to occur. I knew it was a nasty habit and quite frankly I didn’t care; smoking wouldn’t be the death of me, that I was sure of. A whisper of the spring breeze blew across my skin; I savored the wind more than I did the smoke that came from my mouth, although watching the smoke fly away into oblivion that was the twilight sky was a beautiful sight. It made me want to paint. The sun had set, and the light came from the street lamp in front of me, cast off a bit to my left, right next to the mailbox that read in a spidery cursive, 8504 Greywell Dr. The glow made me feel a bit sleepy; it reminded me of my nightlight my mom used to turn on for me right after she tucked me into bed, when I was a little boy.

The wind picked up again, and I could smell rich grass on the other side of the wall. I let my eyes wander, following the ivy that climbed the stone wall to my right, absentmindedly counting the leaves as I pictured what she could look like. I didn’t know what the girl I loved looked like. She might be short, with long brown hair and brown eyes and freckles across her face. I liked freckles. Or maybe she was tall and slender, with wavy blonde hair and pale eyes and rich lips. She could be fat or short or black or pale or ugly or stunning a million other things. It didn’t matter, because it would be her, and I would be able to hold her and fight for her and love her with all of my heart until the day I died.

Footsteps. I turned and looked to my left to see a shadowy figure approaching me. I couldn’t see anything but a dark figure, but already I knew that it would be her. She walked forward slowly, and I knew she could see me. If what she had said truly didn’t matter – if she had been honest with every word – she would approach me and look into my eyes. She walked forward, into the light. She was wearing a long black and white checkered coat and black pants, with white boots that went up her tiny to her mid-calf. Her dark blond hair was pulled back away from her face. Her brown eyes were a little wide set and her nose was off center, and when she smiled I spotted a small gap in between her slightly crooked teeth and my heart ached. She walked up to me, shy for the first time, and then she looked into my eyes.

“Andy,” she said, a statement. Not a question. She knew who I was. She was the only one who did.

“Hi, Sarah,” I whispered, my voice shaking. She tilted her head, those deep brown eyes asking a question. I dropped my cigarette and put it out underneath my shoe. And then I put my hand gently on her neck and I kissed her with everything I had.

Two days later, I was still thinking about that perfect kiss as I was hung on Death Row.

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