“That depends on if you want to be lost at all, I’d suppose.”

Home was so far away now, it had disappeared behind the hooves of the horse he’d borrowed in bursts of sand and the very flesh of the earth. He’d been away from home for a week now, leaving Chance sleeping in his bed during the early breaths of the morning. Some days he forgot exactly who he was, who he had been in the past. Each day blurred into the next and the consistency almost amazed him. People expected life to be like the stories of old, always a beginning, climax, and happy ending, but things didn’t work like that. There was merely existence and then, finally, a finale. There would be no final kiss, no applause, just the sound of nothingness and the end of all things. Even when things were the best, though, he couldn’t forget the past entirely. Perhaps it was a defense mechanism he’d employed over the years to protect his thin skin from the assault of repeating history. He’d been taught that men never cried and never had emotions at the very beginning of his life. The scar had stayed on his soul all this time and left him with an inability to cope that few saw. It only hurts just once. They’re only broken bones.

The cliffs that he stood on now were massive, jutting dangerously up out of the ocean toward the sky. They almost looked like an aberration against light blue background, white puffs of clouds traveling across it slowly. The black rock shelves were sharp, bringing him back into reality where nothing was ever simply just nice. Life itself was cutting, abrasive, and hardly ever fair. Even when the present seemed to be wonderful, the past seeped into the stream, poisoning the water quite effectively. There were times when he felt like he was spinning out of control, living in two different times at once. Chloe had been his first love other than his mother, a charming sprite of a woman who had almost taken his name as her own. When Genil collapsed and he was away, his world collapsed as well at the same instant. He’d come back to a ruined city, a broken home, and a missing fiancée. He’d searched each of the cities for merely a glimpse of her dark hair, her eyes, but had found nothing. For six years, he’d been a broken man with little more than his paint brushes to console him. A story of pain and regret had been splattered along canvases that he’d never shown anyone. His own inadequacy haunted him, made him hate himself, but none of that really mattered anymore. It was par for the course for Lawrence, nothing he loved could ever be his for very long. Happiness was a fleeting emotion. I don’t mind falling to pieces.

Chance, the next chapter in his romantic life was a mystery to him still. Her eyes adored him, almost as if it was a natural inevitability from the moment they’d met. Guilt sometimes showed through his own eyes when he looked at her and wondered what would happen if Chloe was still alive and returned to his home. What choice would he make? Could he choose? He, himself, knew the answer to the question and it wasn’t a shock to him that he’d break a heart as easily as his father had once done. He considered himself so different from his mob-boss dad and yet, in essence, he could see pieces of the man he had hated in himself. Others' feelings were sometimes invalid if they crossed his own and he intended to get exactly what he wanted, when he wanted it. His own thoughts had disturbed him lately and he‘d known that he merely had to leave his home and find answers for himself out here in the wilderness. The artist was good at few things, but wonderful at painting and running away from situations. Let’s begin, feeding the sickness.

Lawrence dropped the reigns of the grazing horse as he approached the edge of the cliffs and stood next to the seated figure who looked like little more than a boy in the midday sun. This world was full of trickery though and instinct was of little use to someone like him, a mere human. Lawrence’s hair was tied back with a black ribbon to assure that no stray strands whipped against his face as he urged the horse to go faster and faster. His clothing was dusty, black pants with a wide leather belt and an open shirt that bared his chest and the existing scar in the center of his rib cage. A self inflicted wound had sent him into this world, he cursed himself for it and at the same time was thankful. A second chance was something he sometimes despised, sometimes adored, all depending on the day. His mood changed just as immediately as the wind and he accepted it for what it was, his own soul. Never mind, turn back time. You’ll be fine. I will get left behind.

“Beautiful weather we’re having, isn’t it?”