#eyesred

It’s been a while, but I’m back now. Here’s some art and words.

Get Gone Rivers, You Ain’t Needed here

Witstead, 1985

The air outside the diner is syrup-thick with a sweaty heat and fryer smoke. Baby had let herself linger again. Tucked herself into the old booth parallel to the counter so she could watch Margo work. Now she’s stood outside, alone beneath the flickering sign. Chased, or rather weaned out by a group of rowdy men who’d stumbled in shortly after being served her third milkshake— too loud for Baby’s liking.

So now she’s standing, hugging her jacket close, ignoring the sting of grease as it lingers in her eyes like a blurry film of wax. Even though the night’s warm, a chill still sticks to her bare legs, just like the smell of that lukewarm diner. Stagnant, rich in sodium, makes you grimace once you’re done eating, you wash it down with another cup of coffee.

Her eyes drag along the roadside, towards the neon lights, so bright they sting her eyes and she almost doesn't notice her at first.

Abbie Baker, standing across the street near the payphone, cigarette burning slowly between her fingers. Her hair is lighter than Baby remembers, her eyes darker, more shallow. The neon leaking from the pawn shop cuts her in half. One side green, one side shadow.

“Abbie?” Baby calls out into the dark, voice small.

She doesnt asnwer right away. Looking up, exhaling smoke. She smirks the way she used to in the school halls— mean, maybe bored too.

"Well, if it ain’t little Rivers.” She drawls. “Didn’t think they still let you out after dark.”

Baby crosses halfway before stopping, not even bothering to check for cars. Her lips part as if to speak, though nothing leaves her throat. There’s a pause, a long one, like they’re afraid the town’s listening. The sound of a car backfiring somewhere down Main makes Baby flinch and skitter across the rest of the way. Abigail watches her closely, eyes darting over her face. Her hands, the tremor of her oesophagus, the deep crease of her eye bags.

“You been messin’ with that stuff?” Abbie asks suddenly, loud enough for it to reverberate off the empty streets, echoing for the shadows to hear.

“What stuff?”

“You know what stuff.”

Baby shakes her head, too stiff, too sudden. “I don’t know—”

A hoarse chuckle wheezes out of Abbie. “Course you don’t. You never do.” She lets her cigarette fall, crushing it under her heel. The grating makes Baby’s teeth shudder.

“You oughta go home, Rivers. Better yet, get gone.”

Baby blinks once, “What?”