Moon Sight

January 15, 2009
By Kendall Bausch, Placentia, CA

The sun had been completely enveloped in darkness by the moon’s ominous shadow, the only indication of its existence was the vivid halo fringing out of the edges of the murky silhouette.

The scene dropped and I gazed down. Brimming on the surface of the ocean, a face emerged from the milky swirls. Almost like a reflection, the boy with grey eyes skimmed his fingertips on the sheen glass covering the water; his hand broke through, and grasped my wrist, yanking me closer to the mirror-like surface.

My own eyes fluttered open as if I had been roused from a daze, and I sat up in bed with a cold sweat down my back. My bangs clung to my damp forehead and I caressed my wrist. It was almost as if I could still feel his touch, cold and clammy, almost like the sea.

Moonlight filtered through my bedroom window, dispelling the gloom, but not the tight feeling in my chest. I didn’t want to be here. Not now, not when the shadows drifted to the corners of the room and every noise sounded threatening.

Eyes bore into the back of my skull and I twisted sharply and caught the gaze of a boy staring at me through the window. He was crouched on the tree branch, perching on foot, the other dangling down. His arm was slung over one limb of the tree, holding him up for balance.

His grey eyes seemed to search deep into my soul, and my heart pumped against my ribcage faster…faster…faster.

I strode up to the window slowly and opened the window, never once unlocking my eyes.
Almost in a trance, he reached out with hand, palm facing up. I couldn’t break the bond between us.

The moment my fingers grazed his hand, a cold liquid seemed to seep through my mind. I couldn’t inhale, I couldn’t move, my eyes felt dry. A pain surged through my body, like someone was sucking the life out of me. The boy cocked his head to the side and turned his head in all directions as if he was unsure of his surroundings.

Staring at me with clear, glossy eyes, he grinned a soft smile and tilted forward until his opposite hand, his palm wound around the branch, was extended as far as it would reach.

His face was so close I could his icy breath on my cheeks. Then he finally dropped his hand, and I gasped in great gulps of air. His eyes had a film over them again returning them to the dull grey again, instead of the misty blue they were when I was touching him

“Whitney Taylor. I have seen you, finally.”

The world spun into darkness and the last thing seen by me was the curtains billowing in the cool breeze, and a empty skeletal tree.

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