The Tear Drop (Chapter 2, page 1 of 9)


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Chapter 2

With some difficulty I tread down the hill. It was harder than it looked, for from its first appearance I thought I could simply walk straight down. But, as it turned out, I had to position my body to the side in the same manner as a mountain goat in order to make the journey down. Lightning still continued etching trails of light upon the horizon, cracking as if an otherworldly whip was being wielded; cracking like an egg shell the heavens that seemed to be ripped apart by a hairline crack outside of which a burning desire shone through.

The thunder's frequency diminished as the storm moved away in an easterly direction (easterly under the assumption I was heading north). And, all the while I doubt I could count a dozen raindrops that fell upon me. It was a dry storm where if any rain were present it was diffused in the mist that masked the canyon as if it were a translucent forest.

On reaching the valley floor and leaving the steepness of the hill, it was like having a weight lifted from my legs. I moved ahead with far greater ease even increasing my pace to a healthy jog for a moment and then slowing back to a moderate walk. With grass up to my knees, I whisked through brush and found my way to the stream that parted the valley and knelt down. I plunged both hands into the water. It was refreshingly cold. And, cupping my hands, I scooped up as much as I could and drank over and over again from it. Afterwards, I looked into the waters where amidst the thousands of ripples I saw my reflection for the first time. I looked nothing like I thought I should. For my countenance I immediately characterized as that of a dark, mysterious figure, with deep set eyes of dark brown, a long face bereft of any conspicuous shape, a long large nose and a small thin pair of lips. In short, a face that resembled the archetype of an archaic brute, not as sophisticated as I would have expected myself to look; or that my self-reflection would have suggested.

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