LJ Idol Week 13 - Open Topic (Who Are You?)
The anxious meowing of the cat weaving around her ankles brought her back to herself with a start, her fingers clenching so tightly around the case of her phone that the plastic creaked and cracked. Blinking, she shook her head and stared down at the cat, a pretty grey and white thing that twisted in a figure eight between her legs, peering hungrily at her. Her eyelids flicked like camera shutters as she turned her gaze a few feet away, to the open bag of cat food and the empty dish beside it. There was an old plastic measuring cup in the bag, the words 1 SCOOP 2x DAILY printed in black marker. The cat continued to meow and paw at her shins until she finally dumped a scoop of kibble in its dish, then happily buried its face in its food. She crouched beside it, absently running her hand along its back, wondering at
Daxen his name is Daxen
A rush of affection filled her for the small creature, sweeping through her body with the warmth of a crackling fire. She smiled without realizing it, scratching her fingers through the soft fur, filled with contentment as she listened to it purr.
Dishes you were doing the dishes don’t forget the dishes
The urge was a small whisper across her mind, anxious like the voice of a child telling a secret they can barely contain, and when she looked up the rest of the room came into focus as if appearing from a fog. The long counters, the smooth stainless steel surface of the appliances, the sinks full of soapy water. The cat was immediately forgotten, left to munch its kibble as she stood and walked hesitantly to the sink, her phone still gripped tightly in one hand. The faucet was leaking a thin, steady stream of water into the near-overflowing sink, and after tapping it off she simply stood there, staring down at the bubbles, half-uncertain, half-confused.
You were doing the dishes do the dishes
Her head jerked up and around as she tried to find the source, searching the large family room she could see over the breakfast bar. A glint of sunlight off glass caught her attention, and she walked away from the pile of gleaming pots and pale blue dishes, wandering into the other room. She trailed her fingers across the top of the overstuffed couch, stepped over a quilt that had fallen to the floor, moved around a low, battered coffee table, until she finally reached the source of the flickering light. A set of picture frames, she realized, resting on the mantle over the small gas fireplace, filled with photos she didn’t recognize. A girl with a tousled mop of black hair
That’s you it’s you know you know it’s
Her eyelids fluttered, like sails in the wind, the ship of her thoughts changing direction to accommodate this new information. Yes, it was her in the photos, smiling at some sort of formal event, wearing a bathing suit on a boat, standing in a pumpkin patch with a bright orange pumpkin balanced on her head. And beside her, in every picture, a man with eyes the color of bruised stone and -
The sound of a key in a lock pulled her from the photo, and she looked up as the door on the opposite side of the room opened, letting in a wave of afternoon sunlight and a backlit figure whose shadow stretched across the room until it spilled across her feet. She stepped back out of instinct, hugging one of the photos to her chest.
The whispers, they didn’t come.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said as he walked down the short hall, tossing a messenger bag onto the couch. The movement of his body stirred the air in the room, drifting the scents of summer and his soft cologne to her, and her eyebrows knit tightly together. “There was a problem with the server, and some sort of accident on the bridge, and -“
“Who are you?” she asked, and the voice that spilled from her lips sounded odd and unfamiliar, tasted strange and thick on her tongue. He stared at her, one hand frozen in the air above the strap of his bag, his other hand halfway into his pocket with his keys.
It felt like an eternity, the time in which he held her eyes, her mind shuttering and fluttering like moths at a porch light and his stare as unwavering and solid as stone. And slowly, as her expression grew more panicked and she pressed her back more tightly into the wall, hugging the photo until the frame creaked and the glass cracked across the surface, he seemed to become aware of her in the same manner that she did while staring at the girl in the pumpkin patch. His eyes softened, his hands dropped to his sides, and he backed a few steps away from the couch.
“I’m your husband,” he said quietly, softly. “Who are you?”
Daxen his name is Daxen
A rush of affection filled her for the small creature, sweeping through her body with the warmth of a crackling fire. She smiled without realizing it, scratching her fingers through the soft fur, filled with contentment as she listened to it purr.
Dishes you were doing the dishes don’t forget the dishes
The urge was a small whisper across her mind, anxious like the voice of a child telling a secret they can barely contain, and when she looked up the rest of the room came into focus as if appearing from a fog. The long counters, the smooth stainless steel surface of the appliances, the sinks full of soapy water. The cat was immediately forgotten, left to munch its kibble as she stood and walked hesitantly to the sink, her phone still gripped tightly in one hand. The faucet was leaking a thin, steady stream of water into the near-overflowing sink, and after tapping it off she simply stood there, staring down at the bubbles, half-uncertain, half-confused.
You were doing the dishes do the dishes
Her head jerked up and around as she tried to find the source, searching the large family room she could see over the breakfast bar. A glint of sunlight off glass caught her attention, and she walked away from the pile of gleaming pots and pale blue dishes, wandering into the other room. She trailed her fingers across the top of the overstuffed couch, stepped over a quilt that had fallen to the floor, moved around a low, battered coffee table, until she finally reached the source of the flickering light. A set of picture frames, she realized, resting on the mantle over the small gas fireplace, filled with photos she didn’t recognize. A girl with a tousled mop of black hair
That’s you it’s you know you know it’s
Her eyelids fluttered, like sails in the wind, the ship of her thoughts changing direction to accommodate this new information. Yes, it was her in the photos, smiling at some sort of formal event, wearing a bathing suit on a boat, standing in a pumpkin patch with a bright orange pumpkin balanced on her head. And beside her, in every picture, a man with eyes the color of bruised stone and -
The sound of a key in a lock pulled her from the photo, and she looked up as the door on the opposite side of the room opened, letting in a wave of afternoon sunlight and a backlit figure whose shadow stretched across the room until it spilled across her feet. She stepped back out of instinct, hugging one of the photos to her chest.
The whispers, they didn’t come.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said as he walked down the short hall, tossing a messenger bag onto the couch. The movement of his body stirred the air in the room, drifting the scents of summer and his soft cologne to her, and her eyebrows knit tightly together. “There was a problem with the server, and some sort of accident on the bridge, and -“
“Who are you?” she asked, and the voice that spilled from her lips sounded odd and unfamiliar, tasted strange and thick on her tongue. He stared at her, one hand frozen in the air above the strap of his bag, his other hand halfway into his pocket with his keys.
It felt like an eternity, the time in which he held her eyes, her mind shuttering and fluttering like moths at a porch light and his stare as unwavering and solid as stone. And slowly, as her expression grew more panicked and she pressed her back more tightly into the wall, hugging the photo until the frame creaked and the glass cracked across the surface, he seemed to become aware of her in the same manner that she did while staring at the girl in the pumpkin patch. His eyes softened, his hands dropped to his sides, and he backed a few steps away from the couch.
“I’m your husband,” he said quietly, softly. “Who are you?”