The Scarf

I leaned against a black lamppost next to the busy street and huddled underneath my raincoat. Rain spattered in noisy fat droplets on the sidewalk, on the cars passing by, on my head. I checked my cracked wristwatch and was relieved that I was an hour early for the bus. I was sixteen, and it was high time I left this crooked town, with my crooked family, behind.

Sometime during the wait I must have dozed off, because I jerked suddenly to attention when a rusty brown truck screeched to a halt in front of my face, splattering me liberally with muddy puddle water. “You alone?” a gravelly voice demanded. I hesitated.

I stared at the burly teen. He wore mucky gray clothes. His weathered skin formed harsh lines on his face, complemented by a shaggy brown mop of hair. He cleared his throat impatiently. “I asked you a question, kiddo,” he spat. I gazed into his small gray eyes and decided that I didn’t like him. “No,” I lied, as if insulted that he would waste my time with such a careless question. “Just on break from work.” I tried to look bored instead of nervous as I turned and ambled towards the line of shops. He didn’t believe me, because he whipped himself out of the truck and twisted my arm behind my back. “You shouldn’t be out alone,” he sneered. I kneed him in the diaphragm, stomped on his foot, and squirmed out of his grip. “Get away from me, you jerk!” I screamed. I zipped away towards the nearest store. I heard him take a few steps towards me, scowl, and stomp back towards his truck.

Shuddering, I retreated into a pawnshop. Plain, dully-colored things lined the rickety old shelves. I decided it was safer to wait for the bus inside and wandered around semiconsciously, hardly bothering to inspect the shelves. Then, in the midst of my monochrome world, a cherry red scarf caught my eye. Transfixed, I floated closer, as if in a dream. I had eyes for the scarf alone. My brain registered the comment of the man behind the counter, “Only five dollars, but I wouldn’t waste money on it. It’s haunted. They say it was dyed with the blood of a suicide, and her soul was trapped inside,” but immediately dismissed the information for later use.

I gently unfolded the scarf and draped it around my neck. The instant warmth was delicious, and I burrowed my face in its bright folds. Forgotten was my encounter with the gray teen in the rusty brown truck. Forgotten was the fact that I had arranged my pillow under the scanty bedclothes in the form of a human, scavenged the house for the cracked watch and loose change, and slipped out of my window on a damp fall night. This was bliss.

“Do you want it or not?” the man behind the counter asked rather impatiently. I nodded absentmindedly. “Only five dollars, if you’re willing to risk the ghost,” he iterated. I needed that scarf. I had saved up whatever loose change I could find, and I slid my hand into the pocket of my raincoat. Empty. Panicking, I shoved my hand all the way in, feeling more thoroughly. I pulled out my clutching fingers. They were holding one penny. How was this possible? I must have been pickpocketed, perhaps by the gray teen. Then I remembered the inside pocket. I unzipped my raincoat and checked. Yes, there was the money. I already had my bus ticket and a granola bar. I could spare it. The scarf told me I could, I had to.

I trudged outside, the cherry red scarf draped around my neck. I saw the bus a few blocks down the road. How nasty everything is, my sister Sorrel’s voice popped into my head. How dull. I’ve almost forgotten what color is. I remembered how much she hated our house, gray with a black door ominously bolted and barred from outsiders. Blackout cloth hung over each window. Even the yard was bleak, the gravel and a few scraggly, stunted trees providing no relief from the depressing grayness. Life outside this town would blind us, Sorrel’s voice said again, louder. Why bother trying to leave?

It had been ten years since I had thought of her. I remembered she had had a scarf, a hand-me-down from our aunt, that I was always jealous of. I had hoped it would be handed down to me. I’m sick of this place. Aren’t you? she said. I remembered those chilling words, just hours before I found her lying on the backroom floor with an old kitchen knife in her hands. Then the words of the pawnshop clerk ripped into my mind, shattering my spirit: “They say it was dyed with the blood of a suicide.” I stripped the scarf off my neck and held it gingerly in my trembling hands. Come join me! Dagny! This is your escape! Sorrel’s voice screamed from the scarf. The rain droplets rolling down my face became warm. I shivered uncontrollably.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the bus a few blocks down, streaking precariously down the slippery street. You won’t survive that world! Sorrel wailed as the bus speedily approached. Join me instead! My heart pounding, I began walking towards the incoming bus. I wrapped the scarf tenderly around my neck and stepped towards the curb. The bus was only a few yards away. Dagny! Sorrel whimpered one last time. Sorrel! I whispered back. I was sixteen, two years older than my sister had been, and it was high time I left this monotone world behind. I stumbled in front of the bus. Deep mahogany seeped through the cherry red scarf. I closed my eyes. It was still raining.