To read Part Two, please click here.
The city towered above me, aged stone buildings drenching the narrow alleyways in darkness. Streetlights yellowed the walls and the cobblestone paths, and black water rippled in canals that snaked underneath bridges. I weaved around wells, through squares, and past night lurkers. My steps — click, clack, click, clack — echoed through the arches I ducked underneath. They were nice shoes, mine. Good ones. Rigid heels that clicked nicely into stone. One might even call them “grown-up”. I liked that phrase and I dwelt on it often. “Grown-up”. It made me walk a little taller, wear my clothes like I didn’t earn them, but deserved them — like I had finally shed the skin of a small child in a forest.
The forest. How long had it been since I’d thought of it? Ten years, at least. Time is a strange thing. I shivered into my coat, my stomach twinging. I pushed it down. This city was enough of a forest, aging churches and basilicas and lives huddled into apartments stacked on top of each other, all crowded onto tiny patches of land. Like trees, the pockmarked limestone of these ancient structures breathed life into the city, into pathways so tight the only thing keeping the two buildings separated was a person’s body.
None of the shops were lit. The orange glow of the streetlight filled the alley, tossing shadows on the walls. I slunk past empty black windows, heels delicate and quiet, and approached the last shop. The light was faded, warm and yellow. It called out into the night. It called out to me.
I reached for the doorknob, cool metal grazing my finger. The door creaked open, a slit of light spilling out onto the stone. I pushed it forward, the warmth of the shop taking me in, feeling my cheeks and my nose. I shuddered from the sudden change in temperature and looked around. There they were, strung up like animal skin, hung like trophies — hundreds of carpets packed into the tiny room, rolled up and piled in corners, draped over one another in stacks. I needed one for my home, something to spread out on my nice, oiled wooden floor. Each of them coaxed me, their beautiful stitches and patterns, strings pulled tight.
Steps shuffled. I turned around to see the shopkeeper, a stout man with creases rippling across his brown forehead. He hurried over to me.
“Madam, are you looking for anything in particular?”
“Yes,” I said. “Something antiquated.” Antiquated. I knew words like that now and they fit just right in my mouth, like I’d been born to speak them. The man squinted, nodded, and went to look in the back room.
I turned to the carpets. They curled away from me, flattening against walls, shrinking into corners and against windows. I reached out to touch one. It was cream and terracotta, with indigo accents. I held my hand out, wide, ignoring the tremble that had begun to travel up my fingers. I spread my palm over the string and there, every bump and channel slid into the grooves of my hand.
Everything was very hot. Then cold. I tried to take off my coat. The room swirled with colors — whites and blues and pinks — as my coat dropped to the floor. Sweat beaded on my forehead.
I reached out to touch the carpet again. It stung like a scratch. I yelped and pulled it back, turning it over to look at my palm. It was red and dry, cracking at the creases. I held it to my chest and looked around. Suddenly I did not feel grown-up at all. I felt like a child in oversized clothes, caught in a strange dream.
The backdoor opened. I jumped and hid my hand in my pocket. The shopkeeper approached me, stumbling under the weight of a thick, rolled up carpet. I stepped back as he heaved it onto the pile. He sighed, breathing heavily, and patted it.
“This is what I was able to find,” he said, looking up at me. “Tell me what you think. I will be back.”
The floorboards creaked after him as he walked away. I looked back at the carpet. It was tightly rolled, frayed edges squeezed together. I stuck my thumb underneath the flap of fabric and began to peel it open, the hide of string falling away as it unraveled, revealing itself. The tickle of every imperfection in the stitching comforted the burning in my hand, and I began to wonder if I had imagined it, some made up memory forcing itself into my conscious mind.
I felt calm again, relaxed. The room felt neither hot nor cold. The lights were a warm yellow, no whites or blues or pinks. I swallowed, letting the action ground me, the undeniable reality of it soothe me. I was here, I was real. Nothing else. I looked down at the now unrolled carpet.
Tears filled my eyes and my throat seized. Dark, blue-ringed, hungry blots, woven by a frenzied, trembling hand I knew well, stared back up at me. I sunk down and rested my head on the carpet, the string, soft and knife-like at once, cradling me.
I stayed there for a very long time, weeping to no one, to nothing. Weeping of everything — of everything I’d outrun. Of everything I hadn’t.
The forest. How long had it been since I’d thought of it? Ten years, at least. Time is a strange thing. I shivered into my coat, my stomach twinging. I pushed it down. This city was enough of a forest, aging churches and basilicas and lives huddled into apartments stacked on top of each other, all crowded onto tiny patches of land. Like trees, the pockmarked limestone of these ancient structures breathed life into the city, into pathways so tight the only thing keeping the two buildings separated was a person’s body.
None of the shops were lit. The orange glow of the streetlight filled the alley, tossing shadows on the walls. I slunk past empty black windows, heels delicate and quiet, and approached the last shop. The light was faded, warm and yellow. It called out into the night. It called out to me.
I reached for the doorknob, cool metal grazing my finger. The door creaked open, a slit of light spilling out onto the stone. I pushed it forward, the warmth of the shop taking me in, feeling my cheeks and my nose. I shuddered from the sudden change in temperature and looked around. There they were, strung up like animal skin, hung like trophies — hundreds of carpets packed into the tiny room, rolled up and piled in corners, draped over one another in stacks. I needed one for my home, something to spread out on my nice, oiled wooden floor. Each of them coaxed me, their beautiful stitches and patterns, strings pulled tight.
Steps shuffled. I turned around to see the shopkeeper, a stout man with creases rippling across his brown forehead. He hurried over to me.
“Madam, are you looking for anything in particular?”
“Yes,” I said. “Something antiquated.” Antiquated. I knew words like that now and they fit just right in my mouth, like I’d been born to speak them. The man squinted, nodded, and went to look in the back room.
I turned to the carpets. They curled away from me, flattening against walls, shrinking into corners and against windows. I reached out to touch one. It was cream and terracotta, with indigo accents. I held my hand out, wide, ignoring the tremble that had begun to travel up my fingers. I spread my palm over the string and there, every bump and channel slid into the grooves of my hand.
Everything was very hot. Then cold. I tried to take off my coat. The room swirled with colors — whites and blues and pinks — as my coat dropped to the floor. Sweat beaded on my forehead.
I reached out to touch the carpet again. It stung like a scratch. I yelped and pulled it back, turning it over to look at my palm. It was red and dry, cracking at the creases. I held it to my chest and looked around. Suddenly I did not feel grown-up at all. I felt like a child in oversized clothes, caught in a strange dream.
The backdoor opened. I jumped and hid my hand in my pocket. The shopkeeper approached me, stumbling under the weight of a thick, rolled up carpet. I stepped back as he heaved it onto the pile. He sighed, breathing heavily, and patted it.
“This is what I was able to find,” he said, looking up at me. “Tell me what you think. I will be back.”
The floorboards creaked after him as he walked away. I looked back at the carpet. It was tightly rolled, frayed edges squeezed together. I stuck my thumb underneath the flap of fabric and began to peel it open, the hide of string falling away as it unraveled, revealing itself. The tickle of every imperfection in the stitching comforted the burning in my hand, and I began to wonder if I had imagined it, some made up memory forcing itself into my conscious mind.
I felt calm again, relaxed. The room felt neither hot nor cold. The lights were a warm yellow, no whites or blues or pinks. I swallowed, letting the action ground me, the undeniable reality of it soothe me. I was here, I was real. Nothing else. I looked down at the now unrolled carpet.
Tears filled my eyes and my throat seized. Dark, blue-ringed, hungry blots, woven by a frenzied, trembling hand I knew well, stared back up at me. I sunk down and rested my head on the carpet, the string, soft and knife-like at once, cradling me.
I stayed there for a very long time, weeping to no one, to nothing. Weeping of everything — of everything I’d outrun. Of everything I hadn’t.