Rings that rub your fingers raw.
She stands on the bridge, the wrong side of the railing, though from her point of view, whether it was the right or wrong side was up to interpretation. She’d been standing there for a while, in the cold, without her coat, arms by her sides, letting the cold have it’s way with her body. She could feel her body convulse as it tried to shiver, but she kept forcing herself still. She twisted the ring on her finger, and sighed, holding back the urge to shiver as she did so.
“Rosemary. Rosemary for remembrance, wasn’t that it? Ophelia’s story, I think…” She heard some people approaching, and looked down at the stream below her. Only 10 feet down - an easily survivable jump, and the water would help break her fall. No broken bones, just a possibility of hypothermia (though she was already inviting that in her current state). The people’s footsteps grew close, and started to slow. She heard one voice wonder aloud what she was doing, but she didn’t respond, and didn’t look up to see who spoke. There is a pause, then footsteps continue past her, as the bewildered people thankfully don’t interfere.
“What do you do when you’re allergic to rosemary though? What are you supposed to use for remembrance? Dandelions?” She snorted. “Not that it matters, since this time of year everything’s dead anyway.”
She looks up from the stream below her, out to the horizon; the small lake, trees, and buildings that scattered the area.
“I suppose it doesn’t really matter. You don’t need a plant to remember stuff. I just…I wish my memory wouldn’t be so damn biased.”
She scratches her arm, which starts her body shivering again, and she holds her breath as once again she forces her body still.
“Damn it’s cold.”
She plays with the ring. Her ring, his ring, their ring. She wondered if that even mattered anymore. Conjugating possessions. Whose ring it was wasn’t really the point. It was the idea behind it.
“That’s the crappy thing about the symbolism behind objects. It doesn’t always hold. When an idea is broken, the object doesn’t always mirror that. It’s just an object. Just a thing.”
She tries to hold back the urge to cry, but she knows she’s slowly losing the battle.
“Just a thing, just a thing, just a thing. It doesn’t actually mean anything. It’s just a ring. It doesn’t matter.”
She closes her eyes and holds her breath again, this time too focused on keeping from breaking down in tears to keep from shivering. She wraps her arms around herself, surprising herself when she realizes that she can’t feel her own skin because it’s gone numb with cold. She realizes that she’s started leaning forwards, and slowly straightens her back, not really wanting to fall.
“It’s not that bad,” she tries to reassure herself, but can’t help the disagreement in her head.
“It’s not that bad. It’s just…it’s not going to be the same again.” She starts crying, leaning forward again. She starts to lose her balance, but catches herself.
“It’s not a good idea to be here,” she admits, but doesn’t move.
“I don’t have a problem with change…just….just this kind of change. The kind where you lose something like this. That’s the kind I have problems with.”
Unconsciously, she starts dragging her nails up and down over her arms like she used to.
“Not that I don’t have plenty of problems to begin with.”
She sighs again, and lets herself shiver, tired of fighting it.
“I don’t know if it can go back. I thought it was perfect in its own realistic way, but it’s just…it’s not.”
She pauses to dig the skin out from under her nails.
“It doesn’t matter that I’ll hurt either way. It just doesn’t. I won’t be able to feel the same when I talk to him. I won’t feel the same when I touch him. I don’t know if I could touch him, knowing that he’s not really mine…….oh god, I think I’m going to throw up.”
She holds onto the handrail behind her and leans over the edge as the bile rises in her throat.
“Funny how I can get so upset just fucking thinking about it. Just from the idea of it.”
She watches the water beneath her and her stomach tightens. Her hair is blowing in her face, but she doesn’t care. If her hair gets messed with vomit, it’ll come out in the shower later, anyway.
“He’d never understand that.”
She stops and waits to throw up, but it doesn’t come, so she stands up straight again.
“He doesn’t know. He’s so wrapped up in his shit…and the things that he does ask usually aren’t that important. He just doesn’t get it.
Another group of people approach. This time it’s a larger group. She looks up, but fortunately it’s not anyone she knows. There’s a girl there with a shoelace tied in her hair like a headband. For a brief moment, she wants to try that, but she thinks and realizes that she doesn’t even have any spare shoelaces.
She thinks about dread locking her hair. It might be harder to get a job that way though. Same thing if she dyed it. She really doesn’t want a drastic haircut, because she wants to keep her hair long.
“What else is there?”
She needs some kind of metamorphosis. It’s too hard to internalize what’s going on, she needs some way of expressing it. She decides she’ll figure it out later. It’s cold out and she needs to get somewhere warm before she catches something.
“Rosemary. Rosemary for remembrance, wasn’t that it? Ophelia’s story, I think…” She heard some people approaching, and looked down at the stream below her. Only 10 feet down - an easily survivable jump, and the water would help break her fall. No broken bones, just a possibility of hypothermia (though she was already inviting that in her current state). The people’s footsteps grew close, and started to slow. She heard one voice wonder aloud what she was doing, but she didn’t respond, and didn’t look up to see who spoke. There is a pause, then footsteps continue past her, as the bewildered people thankfully don’t interfere.
“What do you do when you’re allergic to rosemary though? What are you supposed to use for remembrance? Dandelions?” She snorted. “Not that it matters, since this time of year everything’s dead anyway.”
She looks up from the stream below her, out to the horizon; the small lake, trees, and buildings that scattered the area.
“I suppose it doesn’t really matter. You don’t need a plant to remember stuff. I just…I wish my memory wouldn’t be so damn biased.”
She scratches her arm, which starts her body shivering again, and she holds her breath as once again she forces her body still.
“Damn it’s cold.”
She plays with the ring. Her ring, his ring, their ring. She wondered if that even mattered anymore. Conjugating possessions. Whose ring it was wasn’t really the point. It was the idea behind it.
“That’s the crappy thing about the symbolism behind objects. It doesn’t always hold. When an idea is broken, the object doesn’t always mirror that. It’s just an object. Just a thing.”
She tries to hold back the urge to cry, but she knows she’s slowly losing the battle.
“Just a thing, just a thing, just a thing. It doesn’t actually mean anything. It’s just a ring. It doesn’t matter.”
She closes her eyes and holds her breath again, this time too focused on keeping from breaking down in tears to keep from shivering. She wraps her arms around herself, surprising herself when she realizes that she can’t feel her own skin because it’s gone numb with cold. She realizes that she’s started leaning forwards, and slowly straightens her back, not really wanting to fall.
“It’s not that bad,” she tries to reassure herself, but can’t help the disagreement in her head.
“It’s not that bad. It’s just…it’s not going to be the same again.” She starts crying, leaning forward again. She starts to lose her balance, but catches herself.
“It’s not a good idea to be here,” she admits, but doesn’t move.
“I don’t have a problem with change…just….just this kind of change. The kind where you lose something like this. That’s the kind I have problems with.”
Unconsciously, she starts dragging her nails up and down over her arms like she used to.
“Not that I don’t have plenty of problems to begin with.”
She sighs again, and lets herself shiver, tired of fighting it.
“I don’t know if it can go back. I thought it was perfect in its own realistic way, but it’s just…it’s not.”
She pauses to dig the skin out from under her nails.
“It doesn’t matter that I’ll hurt either way. It just doesn’t. I won’t be able to feel the same when I talk to him. I won’t feel the same when I touch him. I don’t know if I could touch him, knowing that he’s not really mine…….oh god, I think I’m going to throw up.”
She holds onto the handrail behind her and leans over the edge as the bile rises in her throat.
“Funny how I can get so upset just fucking thinking about it. Just from the idea of it.”
She watches the water beneath her and her stomach tightens. Her hair is blowing in her face, but she doesn’t care. If her hair gets messed with vomit, it’ll come out in the shower later, anyway.
“He’d never understand that.”
She stops and waits to throw up, but it doesn’t come, so she stands up straight again.
“He doesn’t know. He’s so wrapped up in his shit…and the things that he does ask usually aren’t that important. He just doesn’t get it.
Another group of people approach. This time it’s a larger group. She looks up, but fortunately it’s not anyone she knows. There’s a girl there with a shoelace tied in her hair like a headband. For a brief moment, she wants to try that, but she thinks and realizes that she doesn’t even have any spare shoelaces.
She thinks about dread locking her hair. It might be harder to get a job that way though. Same thing if she dyed it. She really doesn’t want a drastic haircut, because she wants to keep her hair long.
“What else is there?”
She needs some kind of metamorphosis. It’s too hard to internalize what’s going on, she needs some way of expressing it. She decides she’ll figure it out later. It’s cold out and she needs to get somewhere warm before she catches something.