(no subject)
From Alex.
Blue:
Her favorite sweater was something multicolored, shot through with blue and black. She had it on the first day I met her, in a group of other broken misfits and lost souls. Almost every memory I have of her is of her wearing that sweater, the sleeves belled out around her hands. I remember her leaning over as I stared at her hands buried in a sweater the color of a bruise, saying to me that her clothes were eating her alive. That she would be waiting in the back room for me to help her strip them off, before they consumed her entirely, because her hands were already gone.
I remember shuddering when she rubbed a nub against my cheek before realizing that she had just balled her fist at me.
I remember she was wearing the ribbed jumper when she took me in. When she opened her door and saw me dripping blood and wet on her welcome mat, she had not thought to say no, she told me. She told me that when she found me lying in her tub and shivering wet for the fourth time that month.
She could see the slightest change in me and it was so unnerving. It was unnerving because she always knew what to say and when. It may have been her innate ability. But just that she was there was enough at the time. She would say something that would make me laugh and grow up and finish my classes.
She wore her favorite blue and black sweater with a little black skirt to my graduation. She was the only one, other than my Baba, that came to see that their little Aleksey become a man. No one else cared that I had graduated better than suspected in my classes. No one else was proud that Alex Anakerov would be going to Kunst School of Arts with a full ride scholarship because he was that good with words. No one cared... except for Joanna and Baba.
She was small enough that I could hold her the same way I always wanted to be held. Her head tucked under my chin and my arms wrapped around her, forcing Time to stand still. My heart beat a little faster as she sighed and cuddled closer for a moment. If only I could hold her like that forever, shielding her from any pain that may come, my life’s purpose would have been found forever.
She wore that same bruised sweater the last day I saw her before leaving for Angelus and England and not having the strength to say goodbye completely. She only took it off then to hand to me, standing quietly in the middle of the terminal.
“Your sweater?” She shrugged, the peach of her shirt crinkling with the movement. I stared at her then, never really recalling having seen her in anything less revealing than the tunic bruise she had handed me. “Are you sure?”
“Something to remember me by, Lexi. And when you are cold enough, maybe you will pull it out and remember there is always someone who loves you.” She kissed me then, and walked away, not staying to see me off onto the plane.
I have a blue and black sweater, ribbed and shot through with grey threads, falling apart at the seams, I know. It bells out around my hands, and if anyone asks, I tell them that they should not get too close.
My sweater has a taste for human flesh.
Blue:
Her favorite sweater was something multicolored, shot through with blue and black. She had it on the first day I met her, in a group of other broken misfits and lost souls. Almost every memory I have of her is of her wearing that sweater, the sleeves belled out around her hands. I remember her leaning over as I stared at her hands buried in a sweater the color of a bruise, saying to me that her clothes were eating her alive. That she would be waiting in the back room for me to help her strip them off, before they consumed her entirely, because her hands were already gone.
I remember shuddering when she rubbed a nub against my cheek before realizing that she had just balled her fist at me.
I remember she was wearing the ribbed jumper when she took me in. When she opened her door and saw me dripping blood and wet on her welcome mat, she had not thought to say no, she told me. She told me that when she found me lying in her tub and shivering wet for the fourth time that month.
She could see the slightest change in me and it was so unnerving. It was unnerving because she always knew what to say and when. It may have been her innate ability. But just that she was there was enough at the time. She would say something that would make me laugh and grow up and finish my classes.
She wore her favorite blue and black sweater with a little black skirt to my graduation. She was the only one, other than my Baba, that came to see that their little Aleksey become a man. No one else cared that I had graduated better than suspected in my classes. No one else was proud that Alex Anakerov would be going to Kunst School of Arts with a full ride scholarship because he was that good with words. No one cared... except for Joanna and Baba.
She was small enough that I could hold her the same way I always wanted to be held. Her head tucked under my chin and my arms wrapped around her, forcing Time to stand still. My heart beat a little faster as she sighed and cuddled closer for a moment. If only I could hold her like that forever, shielding her from any pain that may come, my life’s purpose would have been found forever.
She wore that same bruised sweater the last day I saw her before leaving for Angelus and England and not having the strength to say goodbye completely. She only took it off then to hand to me, standing quietly in the middle of the terminal.
“Your sweater?” She shrugged, the peach of her shirt crinkling with the movement. I stared at her then, never really recalling having seen her in anything less revealing than the tunic bruise she had handed me. “Are you sure?”
“Something to remember me by, Lexi. And when you are cold enough, maybe you will pull it out and remember there is always someone who loves you.” She kissed me then, and walked away, not staying to see me off onto the plane.
I have a blue and black sweater, ribbed and shot through with grey threads, falling apart at the seams, I know. It bells out around my hands, and if anyone asks, I tell them that they should not get too close.
My sweater has a taste for human flesh.