A dish fell and shattered, and he leaned against the counter and held onto the frustration that followed. It was an accident – it was, they couldn’t prove anything else, it’d slipped right out of his hands, just an accident – but one that he refused to let go, closed green eyes and concentrated.
A bell seemed to ring right in his ear, and the anger, blue and calming and natural, slipped through his fingers.
There was a brief flash of disappointment, but then another bell – bell, buzzer, ringer, wringer, wranglers for cattle – was struck and that flash was gone, too. He rubbed at his temples, fingers lingering on the band around his head for a moment – only a moment, he wasn’t going to yank or tear or scratch at it, he just wanted to feel it, that was all, they couldn't prove otherwise - before stooping down to begin to carefully pick up the pieces. Careful not to be cut, careful not to feel anything, and the whole incident went blessedly silent. He remembered he’d wanted to feel angry, but now, he couldn’t fathom why.
“Oh, dear, let me help you with that.”
He glanced up, took a moment to put face to name to label (girlfriend? or was it fiancé?), and smiled. Why had he wanted to be angry? Everything was perfect. But he looked over her brown hair, straight and long — at her (empty) green eyes — at her cream-colored dress, all curves and flow and no uniqueness, and his smile faltered.
He almost felt the anger coming back, anger at something, but the bell tolled once more and he couldn’t move, couldn’t think. After the blink in time passed, he found his face a few inches from hers, a female face with (mock) concern and a soft hand threading (fake) comfortingly through his hair. “Are you doing that again, honey? They told you not to. It’s bad. You know that. Why do you do it?”
He looked at her clean black shoes, at her thin arms and pale legs, and then he looked at the floor.
She sighed, gripped his forearm lightly, sat back on her heels. Heels in clean white socks and shiny black shoes. “I love you.”
A bell tolled. Black – not the shoes – filled his vision. Her voice filled his mind.
“But if you don’t fight it, I can’t love you.”
She gathered him in her arms (like his m----- had), rested her chin on his shoulder, hair to hair but no skin to skin, and his hands stayed in the pile of broken shards. There was something wet rolling down his cheek, but no bell tolled, and so he relaxed in the blissful quiet that came with feeling nothing.
She released him, (triumphantly) smiled. “See? That wasn’t hard, Jomy. Now let’s finish cleaning this up.”
toward the terra -> ⌈14.⌋ Relief.
A bell seemed to ring right in his ear, and the anger, blue and calming and natural, slipped through his fingers.
There was a brief flash of disappointment, but then another bell – bell, buzzer, ringer, wringer, wranglers for cattle – was struck and that flash was gone, too. He rubbed at his temples, fingers lingering on the band around his head for a moment – only a moment, he wasn’t going to yank or tear or scratch at it, he just wanted to feel it, that was all, they couldn't prove otherwise - before stooping down to begin to carefully pick up the pieces. Careful not to be cut, careful not to feel anything, and the whole incident went blessedly silent. He remembered he’d wanted to feel angry, but now, he couldn’t fathom why.
“Oh, dear, let me help you with that.”
He glanced up, took a moment to put face to name to label (girlfriend? or was it fiancé?), and smiled. Why had he wanted to be angry? Everything was perfect. But he looked over her brown hair, straight and long — at her (empty) green eyes — at her cream-colored dress, all curves and flow and no uniqueness, and his smile faltered.
He almost felt the anger coming back, anger at something, but the bell tolled once more and he couldn’t move, couldn’t think. After the blink in time passed, he found his face a few inches from hers, a female face with (mock) concern and a soft hand threading (fake) comfortingly through his hair. “Are you doing that again, honey? They told you not to. It’s bad. You know that. Why do you do it?”
He looked at her clean black shoes, at her thin arms and pale legs, and then he looked at the floor.
She sighed, gripped his forearm lightly, sat back on her heels. Heels in clean white socks and shiny black shoes. “I love you.”
A bell tolled. Black – not the shoes – filled his vision. Her voice filled his mind.
“But if you don’t fight it, I can’t love you.”
She gathered him in her arms (like his m----- had), rested her chin on his shoulder, hair to hair but no skin to skin, and his hands stayed in the pile of broken shards. There was something wet rolling down his cheek, but no bell tolled, and so he relaxed in the blissful quiet that came with feeling nothing.
She released him, (triumphantly) smiled. “See? That wasn’t hard, Jomy. Now let’s finish cleaning this up.”