The last Guardian

We’ve all read them right? Those sappy romance novels, the ones where some handsome stranger rescues the damsel in distress. He’s wealthy like no other and adores the ground she walks on.

There’s some life altering event, a struggle of some kind but it gets resolved and they live happily ever after.

As cute as they are, and as much as those kind of books can distract you from whatever is going on, that’s just not how life works. Your daily tasks are boring as hell, you have to work your ass off with very little to show for it and if life throws you a curve ball it’s usually not some handsome prince but rather more issues to take care of.

Real life just isn’t a fairytale and monsters aren’t real. ... ... Or at least not in the fairytale sense of the word anyway.

That being said, let me introduce myself;

My name is Tara, 26 years old and pretty much a plain Jane.

Although I’m relatively tall for a girl, about 5.9 without heels,  I’m nothing special to look at, not thick, not thin but somewhere in between, basic blue/grey eyes and even my hair is boring. I’m not a blonde, I’m not a brunette … I wouldn’t even have minded being a natural red-head, but no I inherited some bland color mix that doesn’t really match either of my parents hair and just gives me an overall unassuming look.

To top it off my hair is pin straight and extremely fine, not enough volume to wear it down, too thin to look good in a ponytail, it won’t hold a curl and even a simple braid doesn’t look like much.

so, here I am, trying to put the slightly tangled strands up in a sock-bun at the back of my head, in the hopes of looking at least somewhat put together after another night of restless sleep.

Looking in the mirror I recognize the hint of weariness in my eyes caused by the monotonous routine, a faint smudge of mascara from the previous night left under my eyes, another subtle reminder of life’s daily demands. Adjusting the bun with a sense of resigned determination I brush away a stray strand that keeps escaping my efforts.

Putting on my faded uniform, I glance at the clock on the wall, time just keeps ticking away while I prepare for another morning shift at the local diner, a place steeped in familiar routines and predictable encounters, I could have all our patrons orders ready before they even walk through the door. Old man Jack usually walks in just before 8 am;  a large black coffee, 3 scrambled eggs, extra crispy bacon, sausage links cooked to a snappy crisp and shredded hash browns. Mrs. Devereaux, will walk in just a couple of minutes later ordering a small coffee with extra cream, extra sugar, and blueberry pancakes, then Joe rushes in for his coffee and a muffin to go ‘cause his shift at the garage started about 30 minutes ago…  

Wiping away yesterdays residue and applying a fresh layer of mascara I mutter to myself;  “Well,.. here I go, same shit, different day” and walk out the door towards my trusty old Ford flatbed truck.

It’s once vibrant paint has faded and peeled, leaving behind patches of exposed metal that have succumbed to the harsh elements,… it’s way overdue for an oil change to state the very least of its issues. The worn out leather seats are cracked and torn, exposing the foam padding underneath. An assortment of broken gauges and switches scattered across the passenger-side floor hinting at the years of neglect. 

Turning the key, the once familiar sound of the engine roaring to life is replaced by a weak sputtering noise, the truck shakes and shudders. The engine struggles to turn over, emitting a series of coughs and wheezes, desperately trying to find its rhythm. A cloud of thick black smoke belches from the exhaust pipe, filling the air with a pungent odor. it lurches forward, then stalls… FCK!

The damn thing is older than I am, built somewhere in 1975 I think, hell, I believe my mother hadn’t even met my father yet back then.

Or maybe they had met, I don’t really know,… my parents separated when I was about 2 years old.

Never saw the man again after that and my mother doesn’t speak of him.

The old, slightly yellowed photograph my mother kept hidden in the back of her sock drawer is about the only proof the man actually exists. Not that it bothers me though, I was too young to remember anything and you can’t miss what you don’t know, am I right?

I sigh….I can’t help but feel a sense of nostalgia and sympathy for this once mighty machine but as I glance at my watch I realize with a sinking feeling that I’m already running late and despite my best efforts my truck refuses to start. Another glance at my watch, 35 minutes,… I only have 35 minutes to make to work on time. Forced to abandon my, up until now, reliable mode of transportation, I swallow my apprehension and embark on an impromptu journey through the woods that cover the area between the shabby little cottage I call home and my place of employment.

It’s the shortest route to get into town, I tell myself over and over again, maybe, just maybe I can still make it on time, though the voice in the back of my mind keeps trying to remind me that even if the truck had started I would’ve had to absolutely floor it to get to work before Mister Mason would start cussing and ranting about the work ethic of todays youth.

With a deep sigh, I set a steady pace, somewhere between a jog and a run.

Unknown p.o.v.

I smelled her again today, a mix of sandalwood, jasmin, coriander and a touch of cinnamon.

a smell like no other, unmistakable,… unforgettable. I hadn’t smelled it in over twenty years and yet, I would have always recognize it, even from miles away.

Just a few years ago a scent wafted through the air on the early morning breeze, it was faint, but I was absolutely certain it was there. I tried to trace it, trace her! I sniffed and searched for hours, but to no avail. “Am I finally losing my mind?” I thought the first time I caught her scent again, after all those years of searching, hoping and praying, begging what-ever entity that was willing to listen to bring her back home to me, and then I smelled her! It seemed impossible, but I was certain it was her!

For two long decades I searched high and low but no matter how hard I tried or how far I roamed, I never caught her scent, it was as if she had just vanished into thin air. I searched through all fifty  states, I even ventured into Canada, I crossed the Coronation Golf, searched all the way up to Brock Island and then ran all the way back down to the most southern tip of Cape Horn, heck, I even made my way out to Guam and the virgin Islands,… Nothing!  Not even a stale lingering indicating she once had been in any of those places. Then all of a sudden there it was, right where it always should’ve been. I’m still not entirely sure exactly where she’s living, almost like there’s a veil draped over her existence,  but she’s close, I know she is!

Every once in a while the wind will carry her smell right to my doorstep, it will linger in the air and stick to the droplets of early morning dew, waft through the air on the hot and humid midday heat or gets carried on a soft breeze through the dark, like the twinkle of the night’s first star, as if the veil that hides her from me, briefly gets snatched up by a sudden gust and lifted up, much like Marilyn Monroe’s skirt in that famous picture of the blonde bombshell, just a few seconds to let her glorious scent escape before it drops down again and hides her away.

I know I will loose her scent before I even make it to the barrier, but I have to try! Maybe this time she was closer than before, maybe this time the veil that hides her got blown away completely, maybe, just maybe I can run fast enough to catch up to her before she’s disappears again… maybe she’ll just be standing there, waiting for me.