The Geode

As the geode collided with the cement below, one reality shattered into existence and an infinite number of possibilities died. Even from my height on the balcony, I could see the sparkling shards of crystal scattered among and around the pieces of its formerly encasing rock, like blood that had been spilled from a body. And it was I that had murdered it. I knew in an instant, in that instant when the eruption of sound and matter exploded below me, that I had made a mistake. Why had no one heard? The scene below remained void of life. As I looked on from the balcony, not a soul came to investigate the noise that had seemed deafeningly loud to me.

Why did I break the geode? I didn’t feel compelled to do it in the beginning. I remember the first day I saw it. I was nine. My childhood friend, Austen, and I found it by the riverside, but we never knew how it came to rest there for sure. We assumed that the river carried it to us; where it resided before that we never even asked. Its gray surface, polished smooth assumedly from time spent in the river’s running water, was oval in shape, and resembled a fantastic egg in our juvenile imaginations. It became our treasure, and we took it upon ourselves to guard it with the utmost care. We waited for the day its mysterious mother would swoop in to battle us for the prize. Our afternoons were spent fencing each other with swords made from Maple limbs, practicing our skills for the future battle.

The geode became the focal point of our friendship, and of the creative passions of our youth. At the end of the summer, I was sent back to my parents in the city; my summer vacation at my grandparents house being over. I never saw Austen again after that. At least, not for twelve years. When I returned to my Grandparents home the following summer, I discovered that Austen’s family had moved. An elderly Ukrainian couple inhabited their old house. They invited me over for pierogies, and let me explore the pisanki eggs, and other decorations they had around the house whenever I wished. I spent a good deal of time there. It’s amazing how sponge-like a house can be. Austen’s old house was saturated in his presence. The memories of him were imprinted on the walls and seeped into the carpet. Every corner sheltered ghosts of the past. My grandparents told me they could get Austen’s new address for me, and I don’t know why, but I never tried to write him.

It’s easy to imagine how surprised I was to see him again after twelve years. It was my first semester living on campus, and his third as I later discovered. I was walking home from class when he suddenly appeared, stumbling out of the on campus medical center, as graceful as ever. He had hardly changed at all. His dark eyes locked on my lighter, brown ones, and we shared a moment of delightful surprise. I had an overwhelming sense of fate. I thought it meant something that a person I could not forget was reentering my life so randomly, but I soon felt that this was not the case. The initial delight that he projected at meeting me quickly faded into indifference once we began to get to know each other again. I began to believe that I didn’t matter to him at all. But then… I found it. I had stopped by his place, on the third floor, to speak to him. His roommate let me in, saying I could wait for Austen, who was supposed to get back from his appointment any minute. And there it was. The solid, gray geode rested on top of a shelf against the wall that the balcony protruded out from. He had kept it all this time.

I wondered what it meant.
Why has he kept it for so long? It must mean something to him. He must value it after all. That would make his indifference a front, but why would he do that? It’s possible that I’ve changed. Maybe I’m just not the person I used to be. He is so unchanged that time doesn’t seem to have gone on at all since we were children, except for his attitude towards me. Why is acting like this? What does he really feel? I needed to know what was inside.

Notes:
1. I free wrote the first paragraph and have been trying to base stories off of it for a while. I used the same paragraph in "Virginia Creeper." I know they advise against reusing material, but I don't think I'm using it how I originally wanted to in either story. I might write a third story based off of that paragraph later. Maybe I will make it an exercise to see how many different plots I can work it into.