Jul. 10th, 2016

One for the Moon ~ One for the Sun

The hour was late, by the time she got to the building, her new home. It was past the witching hour, past the hour the ghosts haunted, past the hour when dreams were safe and into the realm of nightmares. It was so late that the moon was starting to rise on the horizon, and the yellowed wash from the streetlamps guided her path. There were none to see the leaves and spider webs stuck in her hair, watch her make her slow way to the door, or the way her hands shook as she pulled out her keychain. The silvery shine of a new house key, fighting to actually go into the old brassy lock, the only barrier between her and safety after this night of terrified despair. The only sounds were the clicking of metal against metal, a half-smothered sob, and then a door opening and closing. The walkway, empty once again.

Burned by Love ~ Cleansed by Tears

There was a certain mess to a home being moved into. Boxes along the wall, pictures leaning in stacks, the path from door to room was still not certain. Steps came and went, pausing here and there – not just trying to find their way, but to shed the night. A smoky-smelling wide-brimmed black hat left on a stack of books, a fiery-ribbon decorated staff dropped in a corner, uncaring when it fell to the ground and rolled halfway into the wall, a well stuffed backpack, the handle smeared with blood, left by a door marked with a muddy soot-like set of fingers. Things that would normally bother her, leaving things to be in other people’s way, but not tonight. Tonight, they were just more signs.

Buried in Death

Once there was a kind of safety to be found in the room – housemates still not heard or scene of, the woman leaned against the door, and finally looked back down at the hand clenched against her chest. Forcing frozen fingers open slightly, she looked at the handful of dust held safely within. Not just dust, though that was all it was now; the ashes of hope and dreams, the dirt of desperation – a handful of failure, just like they said. Because in the end, no matter the fact that this time she didn’t just stand by, didn’t just watch, there wasn’t a damned thing she could do. But then, what did she expect after all that occurred. Damned, it was starting to seem, was all too accurate.

Placed in the Accustomed Manner

Transferring the dust into the other hand showed a dirty and no doubt contaminated lacerated palm, but that was given no attention. Instead, she moved over to the old dresser/mirror against the wall and opposite the open walk-in closet, and started to dig through a jewelry box. It was unorganized, not something she usually got into, however, that just meant she knew what was in there. In this case, a small perfume bottle with a hooked latch on the top. It was a messy attempt, but after a try or two, the majority of the ashy-dirt was contained, and placed into a compartment with the only necklace she wore lately. How to put the two together would be figured out later – it was more important that she had found a way to keep it safe. Self-imposed duty done, she turned her back to the mirror and dresser, at a loss for what to do now.

On the Unsullied

Later, an hour, a day, a week, when a concerned housemate placed food and water near a door, the bedroom was empty. The bed was missing the old, hand sewn quilt, clothes were strewn on the floor, and the closet was closed. Along the bottom was a small corner of faded fabric and bright stitching, the rest eaten by the space beyond.

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