She Was Once

The click of the clasp may as well have been a rifle blast. There was nothing but smoke and ashes, tired rubble, shafted sunlight through the billowing columns - and silence. He stood at the edge of what may have once been a city. For some reason, he sensed he had once known its inhabitants - one inhabitant in particular, of whom he could almost picture delicate features, a mess of auburn hair…

His left hand rested, thumb in pocket, as if he were waiting in line at the deli, carefree, and not staring into the ashes of civilization. How did this happen? He quickly combed his mental files, baffled that his own mind seemed to lack the information.

In his right hand was a locket, which seemed somehow both strange and integral. He knew the delicate piece was important, could trace the edges with a practiced motion, but for some reason, he couldn’t remember what image the locket held. Lowering his brows in the direction of his raised hand, he turned the trinket to the light. 'Of course,' his rational mind interjected, 'the hourglass engraving.' And so he remembered that there was indeed a small, intricate hourglass etched into the metal lid of the locket. What he could not quite explain was the rush of simultaneous sorrow and hope the image evoked - a draining and replenishing feeling, like puling the stopper and opening the bath tap all at once.

The item itself seemed sturdy, well-constructed: an expensive piece. A heart shaped trinket like that….someone was loved. (His chin jerked toward the horizon as if he were searching for something Where had he acquired this item?) Cautiously, he prised open the hinge….

The click of the clasp may as well have been a rifle blast. It snapped shut in his hand, almost pinching skin. With a start, he looked up to find a world of smoke and silence; ashes raining over what once had been a city, and not a soul having survived. All of the cities were like this; he had yet to discover an alternative, and he had been traveling for some time, hadn’t he? The locket gleamed cautiously, out of place among the destruction. For some reason, he couldn’t remember what image the locket held. Setting his eyebrows against each other, he lifted the locket to the light, noticing the hourglass emblem. 'I wonder who this belonged to,' he mused, twirling the locket by its chain before bouncing it back into his hand and flipping it open.

The click of the clasp may as well have been a rifle blast amid the silence. The world before him smoked and settled, the earth dutifully reclaiming its blemishes, swallowing civilization and sighing heavily under the debris. 'Should anyone survive?' he wondered to himself, receiving an echo of an answer - he somehow knew there was not a single soul remaining here. Not even her. He lifted his right hand to find a gold locket, reflecting sunlight weakly from a dirty surface as as he turned it over in his palm. The locket felt important - familiar. He clicked open the hinge, hoping for a glimpse of brown eyes…

The click of the clasp may as well have been a rifle blast. Around him settled the ashes of a lost battle; what had once been a city was now nothing more than embers, to be blown back into the wind. Somehow, he felt as if he had been here before, had seen this scene hundreds of times (and you have, his soldier mind recalled, you have seen a thousand worlds burn.) And yet, his casual stance grew sharper and his chin jerked up toward the horizon at a thought that somehow, it was not meant to be this world. A gale of faint laughter blew past his memory, carried out over the remains of the city. How could she be laughing, now? Desperate to see her face, he lifted the locket in his hand. There was dirt caked into the etching; the hourglass was distended with it, and he ran his thumb over the casing to help smudge away the debris before clicking it open.

The click of the clasp may as well have been a rifle blast. The locket clicked shut in his hand, and without that small cough of sound, the world around him was silent. He stared across the scene with serene disassociation - a practiced approach. There were remains of a once-city spread out before him, fractured building materials reaching like skeleton hands toward the sky. The quiet was quite peaceful. He wanted to share it with someone. (A glimpse of brown eyes and a mess of auburn hair brushed his consciousness like eyelashes across his cheek. She had been here, once.) He lifted the locket in his right hand, wanting to remember the face contained inside. There was dirt smudged around the hinge as he clicked it open.

The click of the clasp may as well have been a rifle blast - and how out-of-place would that be in the calm silence of this scene? Before him stretched fields and mounds of stone, wrapped in soft vines and moss - the ruins of what had once been a city. Her city. As he stared across the landscape, left hand calmly hooked into his pocket, he thought just how beautiful this world could be - how adaptable and forgiving the earth eternally proved itself. It was the kind of generosity and kindness he had once known in someone- a patient, consuming warmth, grounded by a strength and gravity that moved moons. There had always been something of mystery about her, he thought to himself, the corner of his lip curling like paper in water.

Wistfully, he glanced down at the locket in his right hand, rubbing his thumb over the tarnished exterior, the hourglass etching having been rubbed almost completely to oblivion. The locket’s heart shape fit perfectly amid the lines of his dirty hand, nestled among the folds of skin and warmed by the blood below. He held the piece up to the light, dangling the pendant from its chain and watching it spin in the foreground as the field beyond rippled in a gentle wind - the first sound he registered, almost like a soft laugh.

Suddenly, the chain snapped and the locket landed unceremoniously between his feet. Groaning, he leaned to retrieve it - muscles and bones aching in protest, as if he had not moved in ages. He recovered the locket with careful fingers, dusted off the edges, and assured the clasp had not been damaged. For some reason, this locket was precious to him. With the reflected sunlight he blinked at a flash of memory: he could see her, even now, dancing in the grass. Opening the locket, his heart rose to his throat in expectation - knowing the face he would find.

The click of the clasp may as well have been a rifle blast, as he felt his heart parse cleanly to pieces.

Inside, the locket held nothing but dust, which whisked quickly away in the breeze. There remained only the gleaming expanse of gold, a memory as fickle as sunlight, burning and fading at will. The locket itself sat innocently in his palm: two hearts mirrored between his fingers - two thin, corroded, delicate golden hearts, hinged by each other, but otherwise wiped clean.