no quarter
i.
She's long since given up on the silly notion that is mercy, none is given from anyone and none is expected. So as she watches a small boy - he's just a child, helpless, harmless - clasp his hands together, anchoring down the pink tubes glistening from his gut as if in prayer, her answer is the thunderous cocking of a gun.
Her answer is no quarter.
ii.
"Do you think anyone sees us at all? Anyone listening when we kneel in prayer?"
"I"m listening."
"I didn't think so."
iii.
He's trailing after her again, but this time's different. This time she comes through the velvety red curtains not in her casual grey but in a brilliant maroon dress that sways and swishes just beneath her knees. Petals dark as twilight trickle over the ends of the dress, her waist sheathed in a large black ribbon that encompasses her, makes her small, dainty. His hands twitch at his side. He thinks she's the prettiest thing he's ever seen and he has only one thing to say.
"I thought you didn't like colors."
He has to keep from biting his tongue when she says, "Oh, I know but h-he says..." she trails off. "Anyway, do you like it?"
Does he?
"It's not your color." he tells her blankly, his hands fisting in his pockets as he turns away, ignoring her looks of disappointment. Despite his previous urging for vivid colors in her wardrobe, he comes back with a too large, too grey, too baggy turtle neck.
"How about this one?"
iv.
He's quiet, and is trying not to breathe lest he ruin the moment. Although anyone else who looked at him would think he was boredly scanning a bright orange book.
He inhales sharply as he watches her train, because even though she was dirty, bruised, sweaty. Even though there was a smear of dirt just under her lip and on her too large forehead, he thinks she's beautiful. He wants to tell her so, desperately but instead he bites his lip enough to bleed.
Instead he says, "Your form is all wrong. Your left leg is too far in, and your thumb is slipping at the third handsign." he quips boredly and watches as her face fall in disappointment, and felt it like an echo in his chest.
v.
She suppresses a wide, stupid smile when she wakes up to kisses pressed all over her face. Lazy eyelids, still slow with sleep opened blearily to bear chocolate brown orbs.
"Good morning sunshine." he says, and she thinks as she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror, 'Anyone who could love this face is definitely a keeper.'
vi.
There's still ice in her cup when he's washing the dishes. There's still the imprint of her soft pink lips on the cup, small lines forming the shape of a sumptious mouth. He spills the ice into his palm and fists it, turning the tap water all the way to boiling and holds in hand under, wondering if this feeling is burning or freezing.
She's long since given up on the silly notion that is mercy, none is given from anyone and none is expected. So as she watches a small boy - he's just a child, helpless, harmless - clasp his hands together, anchoring down the pink tubes glistening from his gut as if in prayer, her answer is the thunderous cocking of a gun.
Her answer is no quarter.
ii.
"Do you think anyone sees us at all? Anyone listening when we kneel in prayer?"
"I"m listening."
"I didn't think so."
iii.
He's trailing after her again, but this time's different. This time she comes through the velvety red curtains not in her casual grey but in a brilliant maroon dress that sways and swishes just beneath her knees. Petals dark as twilight trickle over the ends of the dress, her waist sheathed in a large black ribbon that encompasses her, makes her small, dainty. His hands twitch at his side. He thinks she's the prettiest thing he's ever seen and he has only one thing to say.
"I thought you didn't like colors."
He has to keep from biting his tongue when she says, "Oh, I know but h-he says..." she trails off. "Anyway, do you like it?"
Does he?
"It's not your color." he tells her blankly, his hands fisting in his pockets as he turns away, ignoring her looks of disappointment. Despite his previous urging for vivid colors in her wardrobe, he comes back with a too large, too grey, too baggy turtle neck.
"How about this one?"
iv.
He's quiet, and is trying not to breathe lest he ruin the moment. Although anyone else who looked at him would think he was boredly scanning a bright orange book.
He inhales sharply as he watches her train, because even though she was dirty, bruised, sweaty. Even though there was a smear of dirt just under her lip and on her too large forehead, he thinks she's beautiful. He wants to tell her so, desperately but instead he bites his lip enough to bleed.
Instead he says, "Your form is all wrong. Your left leg is too far in, and your thumb is slipping at the third handsign." he quips boredly and watches as her face fall in disappointment, and felt it like an echo in his chest.
v.
She suppresses a wide, stupid smile when she wakes up to kisses pressed all over her face. Lazy eyelids, still slow with sleep opened blearily to bear chocolate brown orbs.
"Good morning sunshine." he says, and she thinks as she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror, 'Anyone who could love this face is definitely a keeper.'
vi.
There's still ice in her cup when he's washing the dishes. There's still the imprint of her soft pink lips on the cup, small lines forming the shape of a sumptious mouth. He spills the ice into his palm and fists it, turning the tap water all the way to boiling and holds in hand under, wondering if this feeling is burning or freezing.