(no subject)
So I had forgotten even ever writing this, and when it was sent to me, it didn't actually suck, so I figured why not post. Also, I have no idea what the hell challenge this was for.
038. Obsession
From the outside, you'd never guess. She's just a woman with an eyepatch, he's just a guy with huge muscles. They're on opposite sides of the world. You'd never know that they were so connected, that he had kept her eye, that she held his heart in her hands.
That's if you never visited their bedrooms.
Take a peek into the master bedroom of the penthouse in Moscow. Looking around, it looks normal, almost like no one's ever lived in it. After all, she spends most of her time abroad, and the maid's great at making beds. Open the closet, nothing seems out of the ordinary - that is, until you notice the shoe box hidden under a pile of fur coats. A box filled surveillance pictures, stolen documents, and half-smoked cigarettes. Pictures have notations scrawled in Russian, notations that you'd notice (if you could read Russian) are filled with stupid and meaningless observations. "He changed his brand of cigarettes." "Where did this black eye come from?" She knows they're stupid. She never said she didn't. Dig a bit more into the box, and you might come across a few fabric scraps: part of a concert shirt, half a belt, bloody denim. She has copies of his birth certificate, a copy of his license, a picture of his mother, and even more things that she's managed to steal and buy on the black market.
It's not a full-time thing, you know. Once a year, maybe less, she'll get a picture of him, or (if she's lucky) find herself close enough to grab just one more piece of him for her little box, cardboard that once held boots.
It's okay. He'll never know.
Millions upon millions of miles away, in Colorado, he makes it a bit more obvious. He's never needed to reduce himself to her methods, but then again, he has more than she does to work with. After all, the heart he let her keep isn't physical; she can't keep it in a jar to assure herself he's real. He likes to watch her eye float around, morbid though it may be. It keeps her fresh in his mind, helps him remember that he has somewhere to go when he finally gets tired of this life. Someone who doesn't have to rely on him to keep them alive. Sure, she may wind up being the death of him, but at least she's not going to bitch about the bloodstains.
He doesn't hate them, you know. It's just that he needs that thought, that reminder that there's more out there for him. He doesn't seriously consider taking her up on her offers. Often, anyway. They're his family.
It's okay. She'll never understand, so the offer will always stand.
And as one goes to bed and the other wakes up, they each look at their reminders and know that somewhere on the other side of the globe, someone else is doing the same.
038. Obsession
From the outside, you'd never guess. She's just a woman with an eyepatch, he's just a guy with huge muscles. They're on opposite sides of the world. You'd never know that they were so connected, that he had kept her eye, that she held his heart in her hands.
That's if you never visited their bedrooms.
Take a peek into the master bedroom of the penthouse in Moscow. Looking around, it looks normal, almost like no one's ever lived in it. After all, she spends most of her time abroad, and the maid's great at making beds. Open the closet, nothing seems out of the ordinary - that is, until you notice the shoe box hidden under a pile of fur coats. A box filled surveillance pictures, stolen documents, and half-smoked cigarettes. Pictures have notations scrawled in Russian, notations that you'd notice (if you could read Russian) are filled with stupid and meaningless observations. "He changed his brand of cigarettes." "Where did this black eye come from?" She knows they're stupid. She never said she didn't. Dig a bit more into the box, and you might come across a few fabric scraps: part of a concert shirt, half a belt, bloody denim. She has copies of his birth certificate, a copy of his license, a picture of his mother, and even more things that she's managed to steal and buy on the black market.
It's not a full-time thing, you know. Once a year, maybe less, she'll get a picture of him, or (if she's lucky) find herself close enough to grab just one more piece of him for her little box, cardboard that once held boots.
It's okay. He'll never know.
Millions upon millions of miles away, in Colorado, he makes it a bit more obvious. He's never needed to reduce himself to her methods, but then again, he has more than she does to work with. After all, the heart he let her keep isn't physical; she can't keep it in a jar to assure herself he's real. He likes to watch her eye float around, morbid though it may be. It keeps her fresh in his mind, helps him remember that he has somewhere to go when he finally gets tired of this life. Someone who doesn't have to rely on him to keep them alive. Sure, she may wind up being the death of him, but at least she's not going to bitch about the bloodstains.
He doesn't hate them, you know. It's just that he needs that thought, that reminder that there's more out there for him. He doesn't seriously consider taking her up on her offers. Often, anyway. They're his family.
It's okay. She'll never understand, so the offer will always stand.
And as one goes to bed and the other wakes up, they each look at their reminders and know that somewhere on the other side of the globe, someone else is doing the same.