the scarlet heartbeat; lucas & sierra [frankel] Aug 27, 2017 12:23:44 GMT -5
Post by kousei♚ on Aug 27, 2017 12:23:44 GMT -5
but no one knows you better
You feel it lacing up your bones, gripping your throat through the window as you watch the younger children walking home, their parents hands safely wrapped around theirs. You reach out, gently placing your fingers along the glass pane and listening to their laughter. Truth be told, you're used to this hurt; it's a primitive feeling pulsating out from the center of your chest to the edges of your fingertips. It's primitive, the white urge to be close to someone because you know that you belong to a social species by nature. It hurts you to be isolated even though you've done all you can to stop that from being the case.
You were cosine at times like this, starting at a high point before everything came crashing down to maximum displacement every time you caught a glance of the school opposite you and saw parents taking their children home. This is a familiar feeling to you, the first few years since you came to this place you would stare outside the window and hold back floods of salted tears because you didn't want to look weak when no one was watching.
Now you don't have to hold back blue floods and red tears; your mother and father have been reduced to shadows on the walls, slinking into corners and relegated to the permanent position of resting in the back of your mind.
Still, they were more once, you remember that they were warmth against your soft skin.
You were those children, once. You were those boys with their father's ruffling their hair and making them laugh, you were children with scrapes on their knees and telling their mothers about how brave they were even though they probably sobbed from the shock of watching their blood spill. You had a safety net, an escape route from the nightmares and you still held onto the dreams they planted into your heard and the values they instilled into your mind. Compassion, intelligence, cunning -- you still don't forget.
Despite the fact that you've reduced them to shadows on the walls, the remains of your sunlight. You're almost a grown man, seventeen years old and verging the coming of age and manhood but you still crave company and attention even though you would never admit it to anyone but yourself. Well, that's half true because you can count the people you would dare admit it to on the ridges on one finger but you haven't, and you wonder if that's due to a lack of bravery or a lack of courage.
You stand and turn your back to the shadows biting in the back of your mind. You are no longer a children but a boy on the verge of manhood and the sight of the more fortunate doesn't have to turn you into strip you of your high points. You could let your mood rise to the top and stay there; you could be tangent if you wanted to.
Your steps across the creaking floorboards have purpose but no direction. You just walk as quick as you can, you just want to get away from the envy that threatens to erupt from your chest and ruin the calmness you'd planted there to bloom. So you find yourself past your possessions and out of the doorway and you just walk and walk.
You stop when the red flare in Sierra's hair catches the corner of your eyesight.
Sunlight spills from the windows and coats her form hunched over a desk and it looks just right. You tell yourself to move on because the pang of frustration that overcomes you when cuts through the foundations to your concentration with idle chit chat is not new to you. However, while you can likely guess what she's looking at, you let curiosity overcome you -as any good scientist should- and find yourself drawn towards her like a moth to a flame.
You ignore the awkward feeling that used to overtake you by the floorboards creaking with every slow and awkward footstep because eleven years here hasn't taught you nothing. When you find yourself behind her your hands falls lightly on her shoulder. "Hey Sierra," you say softly, losing yourself when you let your hand just stop and sit there for a few seconds longer than it should before it finds itself on the edge of her desk. "What're you working on? Anything good?"
The papers you catch in the corner of your eye answers that question for her.