Unsevered Thread
Emma T
“The body of an unidentified woman was found on a road in the West Vaughan Trail,” says the radio announcer, voice piercing through the semi-dark haze.
“Are you hearing this?” asks her dad. His hands are clenched around the steering wheel, his knuckles white. “I told you it’s dangerous to hike here alone.”
She shrugs, forehead pressed against the cool glass of their car window. The sun is just beginning to fall, its shy rays of orange peeking out from behind tall stone-gray mountains. She names jutting rock formations as they glide by.
Disfigured Arm.
Angel’s Wing.
Dad’s Face.
Angel’s Other Wing.
“According to the autopsy, the cause of death was dehydration,” continues the announcer. “Police have speculated that someone pushed her off the cliff, but based on the position of her limbs, it appears that she fainted on the trail and tumbled down afterwards.”
Yawning, she reaches for the Carplay wire and unlocks her phone with a swipe. “Don’t start playing that music of yours,” her dad warns. “This is very important news.”
She drops the wire with a loud sigh, then redirects her focus to the phone. Another swipe reveals his name on her screen. Two new messages.
Her dad casts her a sidelong glance. “What’s got you smiling?”
She tears her eyes away from the blinding notifications before she can read them. “Nothing.”
“Someone text you?”
She shrugs. He doesn’t press.
In another life, one where she is poised and bold and wholly un-her, she wouldn’t refuse to admit; wouldn’t bite the inside of her cheeks until she tasted copper; wouldn’t have to force the corners of her mouth down, down; wouldn’t leave things unopened, imagining she would text and he would text back and she would blast Cherry Wine through the car speakers and—
“For our hikers listening, this is a reminder to pack more water than you think you need, especially when it is this hot outside. Speaking of the heat, our local forecasters predict a high of 105…”
The voice cuts out abruptly, replaced by an incessant buzzing. Two jagged cliffs have risen up on either side of the road, blocking all wavelengths. Only a sliver of amber light trickles through the crack between them.
—and she’s standing on the precipice, letting the tendrils of imagining envelop her in warmth and daring.
When she blinks again, they’ve driven out of the valley. Surrounding their car is a vast expanse of rolling emerald fields and a cloudless sky, blazing blood orange and golden yellow.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” her dad murmurs. She nods, expression stoic.
No, not stoic—she’s laughing, falling, and he’s with her: in their car, dimpled cheeks and smoldering eyes, watching the sunset.
No—that’s all in her mind.
In real life, even if he was sitting in the car, she’d probably ask something morbidly ridiculous, or ridiculously morbid. Do you think that big rock looks like a Stanley bottle? See, that handle right over there, on the left…
Do you think that unidentified woman died here? I mean, imagine staring right at the bottle. I’d have wished I brought more water.
Which way would you fall, standing on the edge right there?
He’d look at her with a confused smile, or perturbed eyes, or something equally catastrophic.
Well? Do you think…no?
Nevermind.
So, she stares at the tiny white 2 in the red bubble above Messages, and imagines: imagines he wants to know something about that school assignment, imagines he wants to know something about her.
What would she even say, if it were the latter? No, I don’t know which way I would fall.
She’d much rather dangle. Right there, legs swinging, tethered by boundless potential and absence of risk; by the hope of unread words and the safety of imagining; by an invisible thread connected to the vivid spectacle of colors above, ready to work its miracle.
She much rather pretend: pretend they’re sitting side-by-side in the radio static for eternity, long after the fire has drained out of the sky.