Second Street: A Short Story

A shiver of November wind chills you as you make your way home. Your feet crunch the leaves that have blown so lazily onto the pavement to an almost soothing rhythm. The sky is gray with winter clouds, yet still not threatening a winter storm. Yet, the way your breath freezes in the air and how your fingers rub together in the poorly insulated holes you call pockets makes you hurry. That is why you choose to go down Second Street.
You know it like the back of your hand, but like a friend that can keep no secrets and make no allies, so does everyone else. It is as familiar to you as your own home; so much, in fact, that the memories of its shuttered windows and closed doors fill your vision long before you reach the decision to trespass. But

even still, when you turn the corner off of Chance you find yourself forced to stop and stare at the depravity and ruin that now surrounds you. The broken street has been littered with the trash of a thousand people, the world having decided to discard the dreams of a million lifetimes at your feet. The shops that once glowed so brightly against the darkening sky appear broken. They remind you of old dolls that no one wanted enough to try and replace. The cracked and pothole-filled road makes the journey treacherous, but those who reach its end are blessed with seeing the crown jewel: a theater that dominates the horizon, holding up the weight of the world on its sagging shoulders. Blackened windows and rotting posters appear to make it cave in like the hollow stomach of a starving child. Its doors peer out onto the street with soulless eyes, leaving nothing out of sight.
The sight of the ruin overwhelms you as it hasn’t done before. Suddenly, the sadness caused by the neglect of a place once beautiful is replaced by the need to leave. As you turn away from the road, poised on the balls of your feet, you begin to hear a faint rustling. Like that of an animal scurrying away into its home. But nothing lives on Second Street. So you turn back, absently taking a step forward and to your utmost surprise, the street is empty—but in a way that it has never been before.
You rub your eyes to make sure what you see is real. The trash, there only seconds ago, has been swept away. The road is freshly paved, asphalt still drying in residue puddles near the grass. You’re certain that even the smallest speck of glass that may have been placed upon the path has been cleared, and in the distance, the lights of a beautiful building shine brightly along the horizon. Music plays softly from somewhere within, a mesmerizing melody that teases your memory. Before you have even realized what you have done, your feet have glided forwards along the warm pavement. The gray November sky has been replaced by a fiery rainbow of a June sunset. The shops advertise everything from high dollar fashion to an unimaginable cacophony of sweets. The lights glow in every window, illuminating beautiful displays of color and beauty, selling things that you have never heard of—nor will ever see again. Your head turns in all directions, swiveling around as you absorb every detail of this restoration.
You come to realize that this place must have once been at the peak of grandeur, and even as you understand there is no possible explanation your mind has already explained the cause of this phenomenon. As for its excuse, you can’t recall. But even clean and bursting with creative promises, the only sound you hear is the soft music in the distance. The street is still devoid of life, even your own breath daring not to break the peace. The dulled eyed mannequins watch you with no energy of their own, yet the drink from yours greedily. A sense of unease fills you, causing your legs to turn to lead and walking to cease. You look back the way you came, but the road stretches on in both directions and you cannot remember which way you were going. A heavy weight sets itself against your heart, bearing down the world on your shoulders. With it, comes an all-consuming emptiness that digs deep in your gut and makes you hairs stand on end. You are alone.
Completely and utterly alone.
Your blood begins to hammer through your veins.

Your breath quickens. You search desperately for an exit, a way to flee, a primal need to escape this place and return to a warm, safe home with people to comfort you. But even as the panic sets in, it begins to subside. And something even stronger than your fear compels you to move forward. You shiver, and even though you find yourself surrounded by a warm summer night you are cold to the touch. Your hands are white and clammy, your breath freezes in the air again, and yet still you wonder what has happened. A tug at your chest pulls you onward into the street, and like a dog on a leash you follow it. There are no objections on your lips, no thoughts of refusal in your mind. The pull forward is too strong and as the music grows louder you feel as if something wants you here. It wants you to see something that you’ve missed. This thing, this compulsion is beyond anything you've ever known. You wonder what would happen if you said no. If you followed you’re envisioning of safety and turned to never look

back.
At the thought of this, your heart aches with emptiness. It needs to have this void filled again, and some animalistic instinct tells you that this is the only way. If you go back now, you'll forever be waiting. Wondering. But never again will this happen. This is your last chance, your only chance, and you have to take it.
You have relinquished all control of your feet as they lead you forward. Each step is cautious. Your toes clench and curl behind the thin soles of your shoes as if they anticipate pain. They hesitate, waiting to be impaled on a rusty nail or a shard of glass from an old porcelain face. But no pain ever comes, and the road stretches on in front of you.
The desire to turn away has deserted you.

Everything behind you has disappeared. Then you can see the shadows of figures standing right outside of your vision. They’re guarding you. They’re watching your every breath and some deep part of your soul knows that these shadows are waiting for you to turn back. To hesitate. To look on the life you have left—if even for an instant. You are Orpheus in Hell and the demons that surround you long for you to give them the satisfaction of your failure. As the scenery passes you by, you can see them move from dark corner to dark corner. You envision the glowing red eyes and vicious yellow fangs of your story books, but somehow know that these monsters are worse. A chuckle brushes by your shoulder, fainter than a gust of wind, and even as it engraves itself in your mind you doubt if it ever

existed.