For Sirius

William was a rug rat of about six feet and a hat. He was scrappy but strong, his dark hair and olive skin a stark contrast to eyes bluer than the oceans on the Big Marble Map. Constantly underestimated, he was resourceful and quick in head and hand.

Beatrice was of no notable height but stretched longer than a midday shadow. She silently brooded and turned outside in more often than not. She was dull as a spoon, nothing particularly memorable other than the flaxen hair that spilled onto her shoulder blades, thickly shielding her skin.

William and Beatrice were an unlikely pair. He was of handsome features but no breeding and she of a prideful society uneasy with her inelegance. They gravitated toward each other, outcasts by default: One almost enough but not quite, the other a never will be.

Each were insignificant in their own right, but magnificent combined.

They ran through fields with complete abandon. When the final bell would yell, so too did William and Beatrice as they darted over the schoolyard fence racing each other to the edge of the field. Their primal screams of comfortable angst crept out of their windpipes, growing louder with each stride away from school, echoing against a backdrop of dandelion parachutes floating in a hot breeze.

They were unaware of primal scream therapy, rather they inadvertently stumbled upon it one particular evening. As they made their way through the hallways, dashing in and out of their musty peers, William chased Beatrice outside lagging behind as he always did. He was taller, but she had the speed.

A determined fella, William never took his eyes off Beatrice, always wanting keep up but falling short. But on this day, just a leap and a stream from their Fortress in the Field, Beatrice's long gangly legs stopped like the limestone bedrock turned to instant concrete and sucked her in.

William actually stopped this time, instead of running straight into her as he always did. He was usually like a baby elephant watching bright and shining things without looking ahead to the parade. He'd never before seen such a precise command of muscular force as when Beatrice concluded this action. Her hair swirled around her, a force of unstoppable motion. In fact, it was so extreme that he thought maybe overnight the world just ended at those specific coordinates and she was about to launch over its edge.

Beatrice was so impetuous that William stood in wonder, perplexed as to what exactly would - or should - happen next. He stared at her back, willing her to make a sound. She was so quiet that any sound would do, really. A whimper, a peep, even a grunt. His eyes were fixated on her hair, trying to summon up a phantom notion of telepathy to unlock her voice box.

And then she did.

She leaned her head back, curled her hands into fists at her sides and inhaled with such force, like it was this one fluid motion buried in her muscle fiber that finally made it's way to the surface. Her whole body released a howl so loud and guttural and intoxicating that it sent sound waves hundreds of feet around, disturbing the leaves and then the branches and finally the birds. A coven of doves made their escape and even the crickets stopped chirping, probably out of fear.

And then Beatrice swallowed the scream as quickly as she stopped running.

She slowly turned around, her face - a peculiar mix of adolescence and wisdom - was framed by the evening rays, her ruddy eyes meeting William's. He stood petrified by her display, this unexpected and brutish release of self. And she stood rested, peaceful almost, as if someone had reached in and taken out all of the sadness.

"What...what was that?" whispered William, half-afraid to hear the truth.

"For Sirius," she softly said as she turned her head skyward, taking in the lipstick dusk.

"I know it was serious, but why?" he implored, still shaken.

She looked back at him bemused and slowly walked his way. She planted herself at his side, her shoulder just above his elbow, their breaths naturally synching. He watched her silently as she formed his hand by placing his fingers to his palm and leaving his index finger extended. She lifted it up slowly, with calculated hesitation, and pointed his finger to the sky.

"Don't you ever just want to get the world out of you?" she asked.

He replied with a sullen and perplexed nod, the kind she could hear even when he didn't make a sound.

"I was trying to reach it," she whispered as she guided his finger tip to Sirius, the bright spot against the purple sky.

"There, my distant star."