Several Days After I Ching's...
Kate sits next to a suitcase she's been packing for days. There's nothing truly significant there--most of her clothes by now, trinkets of necessity, the little makeup she'd ever consider wearing.
Her hands are toying with a brush older than she is, fingers rubbing unmercifully against the tarnished silver. She doesn't use it often, but right now she just needs something to hold that feels like home. Her first home, until death and bitterness cracked it and it all fell to pieces.
This is the right thing to do, she needs no convincing of that, and it will get done. She's going to gather everything fragile and wrap it heavily, put it in a separate suitcase. She's going to strap her desk into the trunk of her car. She's going to strip her bed of the covers and pillows from another home and stuff them into a bag. She's going to clean out her nightstands.
She won't have to bring actual furniture--the place she's looking into is decently furnished. All she has to do is bring everything that came with her, and everything she was given.
She’s going to do everything faster than she can think.
Soon. Right now she’s staring at her hands and what they clutch almost desperately, tasting blood and swallowing it down.
This is right, and she'll be glad she did it. She knows where she's going, why she's going, and soon she'll know when.
Soon.
She looks up at the picture rack hanging above her bed, beautiful and serene as the one who gave it to her, the one whose image fills most of the emptiness, and whispers love to it one last time.
Her hands are toying with a brush older than she is, fingers rubbing unmercifully against the tarnished silver. She doesn't use it often, but right now she just needs something to hold that feels like home. Her first home, until death and bitterness cracked it and it all fell to pieces.
This is the right thing to do, she needs no convincing of that, and it will get done. She's going to gather everything fragile and wrap it heavily, put it in a separate suitcase. She's going to strap her desk into the trunk of her car. She's going to strip her bed of the covers and pillows from another home and stuff them into a bag. She's going to clean out her nightstands.
She won't have to bring actual furniture--the place she's looking into is decently furnished. All she has to do is bring everything that came with her, and everything she was given.
She’s going to do everything faster than she can think.
Soon. Right now she’s staring at her hands and what they clutch almost desperately, tasting blood and swallowing it down.
This is right, and she'll be glad she did it. She knows where she's going, why she's going, and soon she'll know when.
Soon.
She looks up at the picture rack hanging above her bed, beautiful and serene as the one who gave it to her, the one whose image fills most of the emptiness, and whispers love to it one last time.