I have always been the curious little child. Since my days as a clumsy little toddler, I have always gone on to find the next big discovery or to scavenge around for what could be buried treasure. As a child I would always quite leave the mess behind, all in the spirit of adventure. It would infuriate my parents, but over time they would actually admire my zeal for discovery and would eventually encourage me further. They would worry about my own safety before, but over time they have trusted me enough to wander on my own with the certainty that I will always come back home safe and sound.
I have always believed the world to be so small and my own life to be so finite, which is why I explore so much. I have an insatiable lust for that which needs to be found, to be discovered. I go for adventure not because anyone would tell me to; I have been merely born with the spirit to constantly find new things. I would go anywhere regardless of how I feel or of how the weather is like, and I would embrace it all regardless just for a simple change from whatever anything once has been. I am always out to make a \new memory every moment that I can take, and I make sure never to take it for granted.
Today’s adventure takes me out in the woods just a few blocks from my house but far enough to remain undisturbed. I have only just been staying over at a friend’s place for the past few days and so have been itching to get out and explore this neighborhood. My friend understands my own need for adventure and so has suggested this particular area of neighborhood for me to discover, only warning me of the possibilities of getting lost. I recall laughing off his concern for me, confident that I will come back safe and sound just like I always have in the past.
“Hello,” I hear a girl’s voice chime a few feet in front of me.
I take my eyes away from the trees towering over me and find her crouching by a berry bush nearby. Dressed in a cream wool coat and brown boots with a red knit scarf around her neck, she looks to be a teenage resident around here. She could have been taking a walk around these woods and must have just so happened upon the bush. She seems to be picking berries off the bush. I know that I am all about making new memories, but something about this sets my alarms off. Maybe that is just my wary nature, but I do not let it get the better of me as I approach her with caution.
“Hey there,” I greet back, walking towards her. “Are you from around here?”
“Yeah, that’s my house over there,” the girl mentions, pointing to a large old colonial home peering through some birch trees past the bush.
“Oh, so I’m assuming this part of the woods is yours as well?” I ask, gesturing around the whole woods.
“You can say that, but you don’t see any fences around, do you?” she retorts.
“I guess not,” I admit out of humiliation. “Pretty big place you got here.”
“You’re not from here, are you?” the girl snaps as she stands to face me. “This is a small neighborhood, so everyone knows everyone here. I’ve never seen you here though.”
I get a better look at her face and immediately catch that still prepubescent cherubic face staring back at me with curiosity. She looks like she could be a middle school student, but her baby face could have her mistaken for much younger. Her steel grey eyes quickly paralyze me. That icy cold stare is no more frigid than the cool autumn breeze around us. Even though she is merely staring at me, those eyes seem to be judging my every move regardless of her expression. I have never seen such eyes on someone so young; it makes her look much more mature than usual it almost frightens me.
“No, I was just visiting a friend,” I answer. “I just thought taking a walk around the neighborhood would be nice.”
“Familiarizing yourself with your surroundings, I see,” the girl comments. “I hope my presence here didn’t disturb your walk.”
“I thought I was the one who disturbed your berry-picking business here,” I admit. “I’m assuming that that’s what you’re doing.”
“I am. Would you like to help me?” the girl suggests as she crouches back down by the bush, gesturing that I come over to her side.
Without a second thought, I take my place down beside her and join her picking berries. I notice a basket beside her already half-full with various other berries that she has probably picked earlier. I study her every movement, noting her preference for the brightest fruits she could pluck out of this bush. I am not sure if color determines the taste of a fruit, but it is quite a specific manner for which I am intrigued.
“Does color have to do with the taste of the fruit?” I start rather nervously. “I’m no expert with fruits, but I’m pretty sure that good fruits don’t always have to look like fruits in advertisements.”
“I don’t care if they taste good,” the girl argues. “I’m after the pigment.”
“Why’s that important to you?” I ask. “Do you do decorative fruit baskets or something?”
“No, I’m a painter,” the girl laughs. “I’ve been painting since I was a little girl.”
“I guess you make your own paints then,” I presume, carefully picking out the brightest berries just as she is. I do not feel like disappointing her for some reason, now that I know her hobby. She seems quite serious about it, so I figure not to play around with her now as I help her add more brightly colored berries to her basket.
“I’ve only started doing so recently,” the girl beams. “My parents got me started on basic watercolor and poster paints, but I eventually got resourceful.”
“Why, are your parents not getting you enough paint?” I guess.
“No, I just thought like experimenting,” the girl replies. “I’ve got a closet full of every painting medium my parents and I can find, but I figure that other alternative mediums could better express my art even more.”
“So you have this thing now for natural do-it-yourself paints, I suppose,” I remark.
“You can say that,” she acknowledges.
I study her as we pick out more berries together, her lack of a reaction a silent sign of her contentment with my work. Though she seems no more satisfied with this activity than a child in an amusement park for the first time, something about her eyes seems to secretly express a feeling of loneliness. She does not seem to have many friends and even if she does, they probably rarely pay her a visit. She looks to long for a companion, but my presence here hardly sates her longing.
I notice her silver eyes glistening with desire, those steel orbs twinkling like stars falling right out of the sky. They enchant me like windows with the curtains partly closed, like a new moon on a clear night sky. I have never had such eyes mystify me. They seem to both reveal and conceal everything, like a deep lake with waters so clear they look shallow. I see both desire and loneliness in them, but there seems to be a glint of mischief hiding there somewhere. She could be planning something else, but she is difficult to decipher.
“Is something wrong?” I ask out of worry for her. “Aren’t these the fruits you wanted for your paints?”
“Yes, they are,” the girl sighs, forcibly throwing in every berry that she plucks right into her basket. “It’s just that I’ve already worked with these berries, and I don’t think merely mixing them together would really be ‘experimenting’.”
“Sure it could be,” I suggest. “Maybe the result of the mix could be a whole other color that you probably haven’t painted with before.”
“No, it’s got to be something new,” she remarks, her face scrunched as she thinks hard before slowly turning to me. “I just have to try something new.”
Something about the way she looks me frightens me. Her striking eyes are aimed right at me, sizing me up and down like a predator looking at its prey. I feel like a deer caught in the headlights. I know she is just a young girl, but I have seen and heard enough horror media tropes to understand what looks like is going to happen.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I quiver, slowly inching away from her and from the bush.
“You know my parents call me a miracle,” the girl mentions. “You know what a miracle is? It’s a form of divine intervention, so in a way I am God for divinely intervening with my parents’ barrenness.”
“What, that doesn’t make any sense,” I argue. “We’re all just merely human.”
“No, I was made in His image and likeness. Therefore I am Him, and He is me,” the girl retorts.
“I’m no believer, but I’m pretty sure that that doesn’t figure at all,” I reason.
“Does it matter? I need new paints, and I think I might have just found my next new source,” she beams as she stands over me, her hand tucked tight into her the front pocket of her coat.
“What are you talking about?” I gulp.
“I have a thing for making religious paintings, so you must know that my next painting’s going to be about the Rapture, which is that time in the end of the world when God collects souls,” the girl smiles wide, slowly approaching me with a switchblade she has had concealed this whole time until now. “You know I can’t make such a great painting without staying true to the source material now, don’t you? I need new paint, and I think you’ll do great for it.”