I used to love adventure. It used to make my bones feel like feathers. It made my heart thrum like a harp in the heavens. It made me feel alive. So as a child, I always would try and escape from my house, from my chores and responsibilities. As a girl, I had certain expectations: keep clean, dress properly, sit strait, legs crossed, chew politely--they were endless. But when I'm adventuring, I forget all about that.
My friend and I, he calls himself Huck. He told me Huck was the greatest adventurer alive, so he wanted to be named that. He and I would wonder around our town, climbing trees, taking the unbeaten path in life at every opportunity. However... one beaten path didn't lead to the adventure we hoped for.
It was a rainy evening, making the ground as slippery as ever. We decided to go further than we'd ever gone before, up towards the mountain's top. It was the greatest adventure we'd thought up yet, and we were going to do it! So we did. We climbed all the way to the top.
In our celebration, we didn't see the path thin out ahead of us. We didn't notice the slippery rocks beneath our feet. We ignored the roar of the rain water rushing down the mountain. We didn't pay it any attention until Huck slipped, his body flailing as he tipped over the edge.
I tried desperately to grab his hand. Our fingers touched, our hands collided, but it wasn't enough. He fell. And I watched in horror as his body plunged into the river below. That was the first time I had ever wept. Not cried, but truly wept.628Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdpxQcKOame
Ever since then, I've been wary of adventure. It brings up a part of me I no longer wish to see, a part of me that reminds me of him.
So one would understand my absolute horror when I find myself forced to go on a boat across our country to visit family 12 years later, and see him. Huck. 628Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ62vKS9bDF0
