(no subject)
The box sat in the middle of the basement rec room, her name scrawled across the side in black ink. She stood, warily hovering in the doorway, while her son toddled forward, walking a slow circle around the box and patting at it tentatively with his tiny fists.
"Get away from there," she murmured, holding out her hand and offering a faint smile when he came back to her. She was frightened of it, though she couldn't explain why. The January before, she'd woken one morning to find a small box at the foot of her bed, a digital camera tucked inside. This was different, out in the open, with her name written boldly across the cardboard, and she thought of that night in Paris, her doorbell ringing and on the other side of the door, that woman saying her name.
Your husband isn't sleeping, Sarah. Your husband is dead.
Eventually, she made herself approach it, made herself tear open the flaps, and inside there was some kind of tent, lined with slick fabric and collapsed in a carrying bag. There were other things, too. Jugs of chemicals. Bins and thermometers, film and paper, and hidden among the rest, a camera.
She sat down heavily on the floor, holding the camera in her hand, feeling the weight of it, and suddenly felt as if she might cry.
"Stupid," she muttered to herself, repacking the box and getting to her feet, Matthieu still close at her side. She needed to move it, someplace, though she wasn't sure where, and under the excitement, the anticipation of using it all for the first time, she couldn't help thenagging suspicion that this was a sign of something bad to come.
Things couldn't be good. Not for her. The world didn't work that way.
[[Sarah has found her NDPD gift: a portable dark room and professional 35mm camera. Find her in the basement rec room. Now is a decent time to meet her as any. ST/LT accepted. Italics indicate French.]]
"Get away from there," she murmured, holding out her hand and offering a faint smile when he came back to her. She was frightened of it, though she couldn't explain why. The January before, she'd woken one morning to find a small box at the foot of her bed, a digital camera tucked inside. This was different, out in the open, with her name written boldly across the cardboard, and she thought of that night in Paris, her doorbell ringing and on the other side of the door, that woman saying her name.
Your husband isn't sleeping, Sarah. Your husband is dead.
Eventually, she made herself approach it, made herself tear open the flaps, and inside there was some kind of tent, lined with slick fabric and collapsed in a carrying bag. There were other things, too. Jugs of chemicals. Bins and thermometers, film and paper, and hidden among the rest, a camera.
She sat down heavily on the floor, holding the camera in her hand, feeling the weight of it, and suddenly felt as if she might cry.
"Stupid," she muttered to herself, repacking the box and getting to her feet, Matthieu still close at her side. She needed to move it, someplace, though she wasn't sure where, and under the excitement, the anticipation of using it all for the first time, she couldn't help thenagging suspicion that this was a sign of something bad to come.
Things couldn't be good. Not for her. The world didn't work that way.
[[Sarah has found her NDPD gift: a portable dark room and professional 35mm camera. Find her in the basement rec room. Now is a decent time to meet her as any. ST/LT accepted. Italics indicate French.]]