LJ Idol Week 1: I need the struggle to feel alive
One step closer to you, and I would finally breathe easy; vetiver and cinnamon. They told me during one of the tests this is not possible because all soaps are regulated, but I know my own senses. My scalp tingles. Whitecoat’s shoes click click click primly across the white tile; her lips are upturned, the corners are sharp in the white fluorescent light. She steps between us. The red stitching of her uniform makes the roof of my mouth itch. I see your fingers tremble. Your posture is precisely straight.
“Why did you inhale like that?” she demands, grabbing my wrist and looking at her white watch. I look at her white shoes. “Your heart rate is elevated, what other sensations are you experiencing?” she takes a tiny white flashlight from her pocket and shines the sharp beam into my right eye as she holds the eyelid open. She repeats this procedure on my left eye. The corners of her mouth twitch into a frown. “You have strange eyes, blue, with a contrasting blemish, improper.” Strange is a scrupulously chosen word for incompatible, abhorrent, worrisome.
The line moves and you move with it, but Whitecoat is in front of me, so I must stay still. My wrist is cold where her fingers were against my skin. I swallow hard, my mouth is dry. I see your back muscles tense; your shoulders pull back, the irregular red splotch on your skin momentarily visible. You told me my eyes were the color of a cool afternoon’s sky, with a freckle of rust, so I told you about the strawberries I had once, and how your red mark reminded me of them.
I look into the sharp white reflection in Whitecoats very dark eyes. “Thank you for your concern,” my voice soft and even, “I have sectoral heterochromia.” Whitecoats eyes narrow as she states lowly, “Inappropriate response.” She takes my left hand and presses a small symbol into the fingernail of my middle finger. The symbol on my thumb is visibly faded. The symbol on my index finger is not. Whitecoat takes a precise step out of the line and turns on her heel, click click click.
I move my feet along the line, counting my steps slowly, hoping my racing heart doesn’t betray me with the flush I feel, because I cannot afford another stamping; it would be another week in the lab, without outside recess, without you. My breath catches on my ribs as your eyes slide easily toward mine as you turn the corner toward the open door. The fresh breeze caresses my bare arms, surrounding me with the heady scent of you, the silhouette in the early pink light. You are very good. You do not turn around, but I see your fingers tremble. Your posture is precisely straight. Mine is too as I turn from the Whitecoat with the blue stitching, who is carefully checking the client’s fingernails before allowing them entrance through the green door.
I walk through the white corridors through the white doors to a white room. The tests are arduous. My body feels heavier afterwards, every muscle fatigued and aware. My foot steps feel more grounded, my sensations more exaggerated, and the progression of the ache reminds me of the care I feel for you, the connection I am capable of and what I can endure to keep it.
I stand outside the perfectly scheduled day the rest of the clients shuffle through; full of perfectly balanced meals at tables with perfectly spaced seating which never allow an accidental touch. You touched me, our toes hidden in the long grass near the dappled trees.
The next time I see you, I will be truer. You might even steal a quiet moment to press each of my new purple bruises to remind yourself what is at stake, your stamped fingernails faded and eager.
If you liked this story and would like to read the other entries and vote, you can go here: http://therealljidol.livejournal.com/953518.html.
I am in the second tribe ballot. Thank you for reading!
“Why did you inhale like that?” she demands, grabbing my wrist and looking at her white watch. I look at her white shoes. “Your heart rate is elevated, what other sensations are you experiencing?” she takes a tiny white flashlight from her pocket and shines the sharp beam into my right eye as she holds the eyelid open. She repeats this procedure on my left eye. The corners of her mouth twitch into a frown. “You have strange eyes, blue, with a contrasting blemish, improper.” Strange is a scrupulously chosen word for incompatible, abhorrent, worrisome.
The line moves and you move with it, but Whitecoat is in front of me, so I must stay still. My wrist is cold where her fingers were against my skin. I swallow hard, my mouth is dry. I see your back muscles tense; your shoulders pull back, the irregular red splotch on your skin momentarily visible. You told me my eyes were the color of a cool afternoon’s sky, with a freckle of rust, so I told you about the strawberries I had once, and how your red mark reminded me of them.
I look into the sharp white reflection in Whitecoats very dark eyes. “Thank you for your concern,” my voice soft and even, “I have sectoral heterochromia.” Whitecoats eyes narrow as she states lowly, “Inappropriate response.” She takes my left hand and presses a small symbol into the fingernail of my middle finger. The symbol on my thumb is visibly faded. The symbol on my index finger is not. Whitecoat takes a precise step out of the line and turns on her heel, click click click.
I move my feet along the line, counting my steps slowly, hoping my racing heart doesn’t betray me with the flush I feel, because I cannot afford another stamping; it would be another week in the lab, without outside recess, without you. My breath catches on my ribs as your eyes slide easily toward mine as you turn the corner toward the open door. The fresh breeze caresses my bare arms, surrounding me with the heady scent of you, the silhouette in the early pink light. You are very good. You do not turn around, but I see your fingers tremble. Your posture is precisely straight. Mine is too as I turn from the Whitecoat with the blue stitching, who is carefully checking the client’s fingernails before allowing them entrance through the green door.
I walk through the white corridors through the white doors to a white room. The tests are arduous. My body feels heavier afterwards, every muscle fatigued and aware. My foot steps feel more grounded, my sensations more exaggerated, and the progression of the ache reminds me of the care I feel for you, the connection I am capable of and what I can endure to keep it.
I stand outside the perfectly scheduled day the rest of the clients shuffle through; full of perfectly balanced meals at tables with perfectly spaced seating which never allow an accidental touch. You touched me, our toes hidden in the long grass near the dappled trees.
The next time I see you, I will be truer. You might even steal a quiet moment to press each of my new purple bruises to remind yourself what is at stake, your stamped fingernails faded and eager.
If you liked this story and would like to read the other entries and vote, you can go here: http://therealljidol.livejournal.com/953518.html.
I am in the second tribe ballot. Thank you for reading!