HELENA (Chapter Four)

Chapter Four



The hash was nearly gone, so the remains were stretched with a sprinkle of tobacco. It wasn't ideal, but necessity demanded compromise. The air inside had grown suffocating, thick with laughter and cloying perfumes, so stepping outside became the only option. Fresh air was needed—not just for my lungs but to escape the artificial brightness of the room and its shallow inhabitants.

The back exit offered quiet solitude, away from prying eyes and hollow condolences. Daylight was slipping away, the horizon fractured by gathering clouds that smeared the sky into a bruised expanse of grey. A storm loomed, its prelude carried in the wind that tugged at my blazer and whipped strands of hair into my eyes. Once meticulously styled, it was now a mess, but vanity held no weight here. Whether the wind's strength came from the storm itself or the sheer altitude near the sea, I couldn't be sure.

From the corner of my vision, a figure emerged at the edge of the cliff. Far enough away to be indistinct, it hovered on the edge of perception, like a smudge on a lens. Curiosity quickened my steps. Drawing closer, the silhouette sharpened into something undeniably human. Her diminutive frame seemed impossibly delicate against the vastness of the sea and sky, as though the wind might pick her up and scatter her into the waves below. Yet she stood firm, unmoving, where I faltered, wrapping my jacket tighter against the chill. Each gust seemed determined to drive me back, like a signal to send me retreating to warmth and light, but something about her presence compelled me forward. Golden curls, wild and unkempt, formed a halo around her head, catching faint light that made them seem almost luminous. The tangle of hair moved with the wind's rhythm, untamed and unbothered. Her face remained still, an unreadable mask, her expression as steady as the rocks beneath her feet.

"It's not exactly safe out here on your own," I said, my voice carrying awkwardly over the roar of the wind and sea.

Her head turned slowly, appraising me with a detached glance before returning to the horizon. "I'm not alone, am I?" she replied, a faint edge of sarcasm in her tone.

"Not anymore," came my response, dry and deliberate.

She gave no reaction, though something about her stillness invited more words. "What brings you out here?" I asked.

"Not much for crowded rooms," she said simply, as though the explanation needed no elaboration.

The sentiment struck a chord, unspoken understanding stretching between us.

Her voice, soft and reflective, broke the silence again. "I love the sea... it's always trying to tell us something, isn't it? We ignore it, of course, like everything else." She turned slightly, her gaze drifting over me with faint curiosity. "And you? Did you come out here to listen or to escape?"

The blunt was halfway to my mouth, the ember flaring as I took a slow drag. Smoke curled upward, a fleeting veil that gave me a moment to take in her features. Her skin held a pallor touched with a yellowish hue, lending her an air of fragility. Her nose, prominent but balanced, added character to her delicate frame. Thin, angular brows framed eyes that seemed too large for her face—icy sapphires that carried a chill but drew the gaze irresistibly, like the harsh beauty of winter frost.

Her lips, perpetually parted, seemed caught mid-thought, as if words hovered just out of reach. She looked less like a person and more like an artist's sketch—details boldly outlined, exaggerated, a creation not meant to fade into the ordinary.

"Were you related to her?" My curiosity edged into the question, tinged with relief at the possibility she wasn't family. Admiring her figure in that short black skirt felt dangerously close to blasphemy if she were.

"Oh, no. No," she said with a soft laugh. "Just a plus one." Relief followed, unbidden but welcome.

"And you?" she asked, her tone shifting to something gentler. "She was my mother," I said, the words stripped of emotion by repetition.

Her expression faltered, brows pulling together as her head tilted slightly. "I'm sorry," she said, her voice quieter now, carrying a weight that felt surprisingly sincere.

"It's fine," I replied with a shrug, the lie as practiced as my blunt. "She was sick for a long time."

"That doesn't make it easier, though, does it?" she asked, her words finding the cracks in my armour.

The simplicity of her response cut through me. She hadn't offered platitudes or empty sympathy—just an understanding of something I couldn't articulate. For a moment, the sound of the waves and the wind seemed to fade, her presence drawing me inward, grounding me.

The sea crashed against the rocks below, its rhythm constant, a reminder of the world's indifference to loss. Yet, in the quiet that stretched between us, there was a fragile connection, a shared acknowledgment of something unspoken. Time slipped away unnoticed, the storm clouds thickening overhead. But neither of us moved.

Her words lingered in the air, mingling with the salty tang of the sea breeze, until they became indistinguishable from the whispers of the ocean itself.