(no subject)
title: wings
rating: pg, really.
pairing/characters: her/him
summary: This is no way to live.
a/n: so i'm trying something new. just a little bit of writing, each day. i don't care how sucky it is. this is just to get me writing more, and to make me better. word count; 440. quote credit to alexander michael deleon.
She was crumpling. Falling, spiraling, whatever the fuck you want to call it. She didn’t care enough to properly classify her emotions anymore. Devastated? Tired? All she cared about was the fact that she just didn’t. She stopped caring, and that was what tore the last strand.
There she was, curled up on a musty smelling armchair in her dingy apartment. She couldn’t remember the last time she had actually been there, in the cramped living room. Her days had been spent wrapped in her little cocoon of blankets, most of the time. She barely felt her hunger, barely her discomfort. But what she did feel was overwhelming… loneliness.
On days where she felt up to rising, she would take the short steps to her closet, pulling out a dusty guitar. But you could hardly call it that now. The wood had warped and cracked from the cold long ago, the strings slipping drastically flat. Each time it was removed from the small room, the coat of dust was visibly thicker, the time since being played noticeably longer.
But she had a talent with it, she was willing to admit. She could pluck at the strings gently, piecing together a melody. Time would pass like this; sometimes mere minutes, but most times hours. She would snap back to life after what could have been an eternity, just then noticing the words passing through her chapped lips. But she could never remember them. Not once.
Her tears had long since faded, her face blank from another bout of thoughtlessness. Her body jerked, finally coming back to reality. It was an epiphany, almost; this is no way to live.
And then she felt it. It was one of those days, one where she craved the feeling of the metal frets under her calloused fingers. But when she rose, she did with purpose, striding into her bedroom as opposed to her usual trudging.
Reaching into the closet, she found a grip on the guitar’s neck. The instrument had a distinctly larger amount of dust layered on it. She carefully tuned, embracing the familiar feeling.
And then she played, music floating from her fingers, hums emitting from the back of her throat. She didn’t feel. There was not a trace of her loneliness, not of the now foreign shape gracing her lips.
Now she knew. God gave her a ticket. She’d better use it, or she’d miss the only train.
And now his words became clear to her, the ones he had spoken so long ago…
“Wings were made to fly,
not to hide a fragile spine.”
And for the first time, she flew.
rating: pg, really.
pairing/characters: her/him
summary: This is no way to live.
a/n: so i'm trying something new. just a little bit of writing, each day. i don't care how sucky it is. this is just to get me writing more, and to make me better. word count; 440. quote credit to alexander michael deleon.
She was crumpling. Falling, spiraling, whatever the fuck you want to call it. She didn’t care enough to properly classify her emotions anymore. Devastated? Tired? All she cared about was the fact that she just didn’t. She stopped caring, and that was what tore the last strand.
There she was, curled up on a musty smelling armchair in her dingy apartment. She couldn’t remember the last time she had actually been there, in the cramped living room. Her days had been spent wrapped in her little cocoon of blankets, most of the time. She barely felt her hunger, barely her discomfort. But what she did feel was overwhelming… loneliness.
On days where she felt up to rising, she would take the short steps to her closet, pulling out a dusty guitar. But you could hardly call it that now. The wood had warped and cracked from the cold long ago, the strings slipping drastically flat. Each time it was removed from the small room, the coat of dust was visibly thicker, the time since being played noticeably longer.
But she had a talent with it, she was willing to admit. She could pluck at the strings gently, piecing together a melody. Time would pass like this; sometimes mere minutes, but most times hours. She would snap back to life after what could have been an eternity, just then noticing the words passing through her chapped lips. But she could never remember them. Not once.
Her tears had long since faded, her face blank from another bout of thoughtlessness. Her body jerked, finally coming back to reality. It was an epiphany, almost; this is no way to live.
And then she felt it. It was one of those days, one where she craved the feeling of the metal frets under her calloused fingers. But when she rose, she did with purpose, striding into her bedroom as opposed to her usual trudging.
Reaching into the closet, she found a grip on the guitar’s neck. The instrument had a distinctly larger amount of dust layered on it. She carefully tuned, embracing the familiar feeling.
And then she played, music floating from her fingers, hums emitting from the back of her throat. She didn’t feel. There was not a trace of her loneliness, not of the now foreign shape gracing her lips.
Now she knew. God gave her a ticket. She’d better use it, or she’d miss the only train.
And now his words became clear to her, the ones he had spoken so long ago…
“Wings were made to fly,
not to hide a fragile spine.”
And for the first time, she flew.