Salma Shlool

Falls by Salma Shlool

Shhh…

In my ear, a waterfall hums a sharp, mellow melody, the water glimmering and crystal. A perfect height, the arm rest fixed at, as I lay slumped against the warm, black bench. Beneath the bench and beneath my feet, lay arrays of dark heavy stones. Not so far overhead, a flock of samaras twirled and danced, frolicking in the merciful, feather-light breeze. Landing suddenly on my head is one of the helicopter seeds—shriveled and infant, like a light but perpetual drop of rain plopping down onto my hair. I feel not the need to flinch or the need to remove it, but not because it was helpless or benign, but because I felt as though my just relaxing and being here at the time has caused me to interact with the fate of nature, and that perhaps, there was a non-zero chance I’d just been blessed. A small snicker nearly squeezes its way right out of my lips at the notion that this hypothesis was my own, an incredibly conspiratory theory. Yet, all I could do was watch in trance, as the now idle seedling rested deep in repose atop my head of soft coils, now sinking into the labyrinth that they were, its family mutely sinking to my feet from grace from above, now scattered across the streets. The pores on my arms feel almost unusually warm and not in any way heavy, as though I could lift them up and bring my hands to my eyes without feeling a thing. Glancing upwards, the sky which I and everything in my vicinity was encapsulated by was very similar to a fish bowl, the sun, a glowing flame-red fish, swimming in clear, untainted waters. The scent of the falls coerce me deeper into a tranquility with each inhale I take. The hour is perfect, and it lasts for days, dragging its feet down the path which was the day. I rest in lonesome by the waters and scene, in a spot perfectly wedged between isolation and proximity. In this world, there is no reason to think. 

There is a word for this.

Peace is the word, and peace is what has passed away. The waters grow harsh and horrible, the sky, now seething and filled with turmoil. The beautiful bright red fish which once swam in the now cloudy, murky fish bowl has died, leaving only angry trails and puffs of grey, dark grime. The stream's song now reaches a violatory decibel, no longer a perfectly relaxing tune. The obnoxious patter of the rain preys on the ears combines with the screeches of the fall to create a trifling racket, as though someone had their legs carelessly strung over mine in a ridiculing manner, aggressively pulling my ear back, then blowing into it with an Aztec death whistle. The stones beneath my feet grow dark in depression, the leaves drown and rip, all as I sit and watch in dismay.  The moment sends an ache through my heart, one which causes my lip to quiver ever so slightly, like a sensitive dandelion being swayed by a soft breeze, as my nose is impaled with the acute scent of sulfur. The arm rest turns slippery, as though to pry my arm off, the action voicing its wish for my departure.

Sh Sh Sh Sh Sh-

Dop

Dop

Dop

The screams of the rain and the falls became far too much than I could handle. So I rose, slowly from my seat, staring straight ahead. The gap in my chest, once filled by a softness, now overflowed with an emptiness instead—an emptiness which dripped into my lungs and infiltrated the blood in my veins. The sight of even a single person eludes me—even a mere glimpse of the sun would have sufficed, putting my nerves at ease. Yet, the small enclosement of a world which was once provided by the now sobbing bench had abandoned me in fervor. There were no people, there were no vehicles, there were no animals, there was no life. My brain oozes into my face as I rise slowly, thoughts still missing from my mind, all of them now in my stomach. With a monotonous grandiosity, I begin the trek home, skull hollow, a vile ache in my chest.