(no subject)
Ophelia waits.
She’s been waiting for several hours now. Sitting on the steps of the Compound, just out of the way to not block the passage of those who wish to come and go, her knees tucked up underneath her. There’s a book on her lap and she idly flips through it, not really reading it, but pretending to.
What she’s waiting for, she will not say, but when it comes she’ll know it.
Sighing, she leans forward resting her elbow on her knee and looking own towards the trees. It’s been two years and the start of the third and she knows this ought to be the mark of some sort of greatness. Something should be pushing at the invisible seam that holds her life together, but she doesn’t know what it might be.
It might not be anything. Ophelia hopes this is the case.
Instead she turns the page again, foot idly kicking and knocking the sunhat that had been resting at her feet tumbling down the stairs. She huffs, rolling her eyes, annoyed at the inconvenience. Still she doesn’t move from the step, rather leaning forward to try to pick it up without getting up, fingers barely missing it.
It's not time and standing would make her feel like she would be risking it. Holding her book in one hand, she resigns herself to the fate of movement, standing and taking a step, her movements quick as if to stall the temptation of fate. Her foot slips on the end of the step, on an invisible nothing, and she lands hard on the cement.
"Ow!" she cries, the book tumbling from her hand.
She’s been waiting for several hours now. Sitting on the steps of the Compound, just out of the way to not block the passage of those who wish to come and go, her knees tucked up underneath her. There’s a book on her lap and she idly flips through it, not really reading it, but pretending to.
What she’s waiting for, she will not say, but when it comes she’ll know it.
Sighing, she leans forward resting her elbow on her knee and looking own towards the trees. It’s been two years and the start of the third and she knows this ought to be the mark of some sort of greatness. Something should be pushing at the invisible seam that holds her life together, but she doesn’t know what it might be.
It might not be anything. Ophelia hopes this is the case.
Instead she turns the page again, foot idly kicking and knocking the sunhat that had been resting at her feet tumbling down the stairs. She huffs, rolling her eyes, annoyed at the inconvenience. Still she doesn’t move from the step, rather leaning forward to try to pick it up without getting up, fingers barely missing it.
It's not time and standing would make her feel like she would be risking it. Holding her book in one hand, she resigns herself to the fate of movement, standing and taking a step, her movements quick as if to stall the temptation of fate. Her foot slips on the end of the step, on an invisible nothing, and she lands hard on the cement.
"Ow!" she cries, the book tumbling from her hand.