Cosette Wright

"The Lost"

The Lost He holds fast to my hand, his skin damp and soft as wilting flowers. The air smells of city refuse and azaleas, an odd mix I think, as we make our way to the wharf. Streetlights and palm trees spread out before us as soldiers in formation, and all the while my heart jumps in my throat, beating as a broom against a window sill. My grandmother’s favorite proverb reverberates in my mind: “The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.” The words lie heavy on my tongue, a metallic taste that won't go away. But for Julius’s sake I feign a smile and whisper in his ear, “It’s not much farther now. You see that ship ahead. That’s the Columba. It’s our way out of here.” He looks at me for a long moment, his eyes tinged with fear, his lips rounded, as though he is about to speak. But he hasn’t spoken in over a year, not since that day our lives turned inside out.