shadows on the pavement burn a watermark of you (pg-13, cindy/lennon)
Title: shadows on the pavement burn a watermark of you
Author: cloudytea
Characters/Parings: Cindy/Lennon, allusions to Colleen/Lennon.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: His eyes are tired, but a different sort of tired that comes with the territory. 758 words. For 10_prompts's Hold your breath. Not sure how I feel about this, but I'm trying to get my muse back.
People don’t like me here, she says one day and Lennon looks up. He’s not good with words -- interpreter is a job, not a lifestyle -- and conversation has never been Cindy's forte. And so he says nothing. It wouldn’t be the first time and it certainly won’t be the last. He pretends he can’t practically feel the anxiety radiating off her. He pretends because pretending is the only thing he can hang onto in this dangerous, unpredictable world -- A world that delivered Cindy here and a world that snatched Colleen away. It was like replacing oxygen with water in his lungs -- It was simply hopeless.
(Some nights, the smell of burning flesh stings his nostrils and he cannot make it go away.)
He takes the smoldering pit in his stomach as a sign of punishment -- A sign that he is drowning. And so he pretends. He ignores her. She doesn’t exist in this world, in his world. The only thing that exists is his loyalty to Dogen, the only that’s keeping him afloat.
For her, it’s different. When she dreams -- If she dreams -- she dreams about traffic flooding city streets, about coffee shops, about the faces of people she once knew whose faces smile back at her mockingly. About things that don’t exist on this island. She’s trapped in a place of isolation, a place she spent seven weeks starving, a place of strangers who glare at her through suspicious eyes.
(It’s not that simple)
Everyday, she tells herself this and every night she unravels with doubt and despair, only to start over the next morning. Soon, the day comes that she can finally sense a late afternoon shower in the air, and that’s when she knows she’s here to stay -- For good. Jungle living is now apart of her and runs through her veins. The people here are born with the wilderness in their blood -- And now, she is one of them.
When he touches her (sometimes he’ll pass her something, a fruit or a knife) it is brief and brisk, but she can feel the hot pressure of his fingertips scarring into her own -- The burning tears at her skin and makes her eyes water and her hands shake.
One night, after she’s put the children to bed, she walks out to the campfire in the center of the courtyard, where a few of the adults gather around each night only to stare into the flames as if it would tell them their fates and desires. She sits next to him and notices Dogen’s not around -- he’s barely ever around in the first place, but he sometimes does manage to join them during these evenings of silence and the occasional roaring from the jungle -- They are all used to it now and barely even flinch. They know they’re safe here.
When the distant roaring comes that night, her hand creeps upon his and she can feel the burning returning, imprinting feverish scars upon skin. She entwines her fingers with his and tightly locks them together, determined -- She relishes in the sensation, because it is one of the very few things she can feel, apart from anxiety, sorrow, and the few other emotions this place has granted her.
People don’t like me here, she repeats her sentiments from before and he looks up, just as he did then. Only this time, he leans in and whispers into her neck. I like you. His grip tightens around her hands, while his other hand drags through her curls and caress the back of her neck. Right here.
The taste of his lips could be comparable to a summer day -- It brings scorching fevers that seem unreal, and yet the moment they disappear, time seems to creep sluggishly by before you meet them again. His eyes are tired, but a different sort of tired that comes with the territory. He’s seen so much here and that scares her, because there are things here that no living human should ever lay eyes upon. He’s probably even killed a man or two, and his strong hands are a testimony to that.
From then on, she dreams of monsters in the shape of men and planes flooding with ocean water and emergency doors that won’t budge.
Some nights, she goes down with the plane.
And in the mornings, she drowns in his touch and ignores the burning in her lungs.
Author: cloudytea
Characters/Parings: Cindy/Lennon, allusions to Colleen/Lennon.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: His eyes are tired, but a different sort of tired that comes with the territory. 758 words. For 10_prompts's Hold your breath. Not sure how I feel about this, but I'm trying to get my muse back.
People don’t like me here, she says one day and Lennon looks up. He’s not good with words -- interpreter is a job, not a lifestyle -- and conversation has never been Cindy's forte. And so he says nothing. It wouldn’t be the first time and it certainly won’t be the last. He pretends he can’t practically feel the anxiety radiating off her. He pretends because pretending is the only thing he can hang onto in this dangerous, unpredictable world -- A world that delivered Cindy here and a world that snatched Colleen away. It was like replacing oxygen with water in his lungs -- It was simply hopeless.
(Some nights, the smell of burning flesh stings his nostrils and he cannot make it go away.)
He takes the smoldering pit in his stomach as a sign of punishment -- A sign that he is drowning. And so he pretends. He ignores her. She doesn’t exist in this world, in his world. The only thing that exists is his loyalty to Dogen, the only that’s keeping him afloat.
For her, it’s different. When she dreams -- If she dreams -- she dreams about traffic flooding city streets, about coffee shops, about the faces of people she once knew whose faces smile back at her mockingly. About things that don’t exist on this island. She’s trapped in a place of isolation, a place she spent seven weeks starving, a place of strangers who glare at her through suspicious eyes.
(It’s not that simple)
Everyday, she tells herself this and every night she unravels with doubt and despair, only to start over the next morning. Soon, the day comes that she can finally sense a late afternoon shower in the air, and that’s when she knows she’s here to stay -- For good. Jungle living is now apart of her and runs through her veins. The people here are born with the wilderness in their blood -- And now, she is one of them.
When he touches her (sometimes he’ll pass her something, a fruit or a knife) it is brief and brisk, but she can feel the hot pressure of his fingertips scarring into her own -- The burning tears at her skin and makes her eyes water and her hands shake.
One night, after she’s put the children to bed, she walks out to the campfire in the center of the courtyard, where a few of the adults gather around each night only to stare into the flames as if it would tell them their fates and desires. She sits next to him and notices Dogen’s not around -- he’s barely ever around in the first place, but he sometimes does manage to join them during these evenings of silence and the occasional roaring from the jungle -- They are all used to it now and barely even flinch. They know they’re safe here.
When the distant roaring comes that night, her hand creeps upon his and she can feel the burning returning, imprinting feverish scars upon skin. She entwines her fingers with his and tightly locks them together, determined -- She relishes in the sensation, because it is one of the very few things she can feel, apart from anxiety, sorrow, and the few other emotions this place has granted her.
People don’t like me here, she repeats her sentiments from before and he looks up, just as he did then. Only this time, he leans in and whispers into her neck. I like you. His grip tightens around her hands, while his other hand drags through her curls and caress the back of her neck. Right here.
The taste of his lips could be comparable to a summer day -- It brings scorching fevers that seem unreal, and yet the moment they disappear, time seems to creep sluggishly by before you meet them again. His eyes are tired, but a different sort of tired that comes with the territory. He’s seen so much here and that scares her, because there are things here that no living human should ever lay eyes upon. He’s probably even killed a man or two, and his strong hands are a testimony to that.
From then on, she dreams of monsters in the shape of men and planes flooding with ocean water and emergency doors that won’t budge.
Some nights, she goes down with the plane.
And in the mornings, she drowns in his touch and ignores the burning in her lungs.