[Eastern] // Of Wanderings and Wool

wimdy
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(While On a Horse) I Met a Hot Girl Who Reminded Me of a Plant

[Eastern] // Of Wanderings and Wool Sept 2, 2012 15:49:03 GMT -5

Post by wimdy on Sept 2, 2012 15:49:03 GMT -5

In my many years (or has it been months or days, I can't remember a thing) of wandering around trees and crawling through mossy nooks and crannies of the forests of unforetold depth, I had never once found a home. Sure, I'd been able to find a tumble-down shack or two that could last me a few days of shelter before it simply grew too rotten to hold itself up. Other times I could find hollowed out trees to curl up in during rainstorms or lofty branches to perch upon while searching for food. I'd found a little doe once and I'd kept it as a pet for a while in a small clearing, but even she'd left me eventually, disappearing into the trees and never to be seen again. It had simply never been a permanent state, having a home or companion. Wandering secured that fastly to my life. I'd been alone since I'd started out (or had I? I remember shadows of faces and guiding hands, but they're all just a dream now) and as far as I could see, my only company was a squirrel up above and a few crickets all around.

The darkness is an inky black cloak draped across the globe and fitted with billions of twinkling lights tonight, a glowing moon strung up among fluffy clouds. The branches sway and moan with the force of the wind, leaves shivering with the movement. Owls' eyes watch me from above, their bodies nestled tightly into the notches of the trees so that only their beady eyes. None of this, however, is what has me sitting in the mud and matted grass sobbing to myself like a small child lost in a market place and with no way to find her mother. No, the thing that does that is the lightning. Flashes of brilliant white light surge across my sight and spider across my heart, poisonous fear seeping through my veins with every pump that paralyzes me. I'm molded against a tree, one of my hands clenched against my chest and my other knotted in the slippy grass strands beneath me. Every clangboom of thunder sends my heart racing into my throat and my lungs constricting so I can't breathe or focus on anything. It hurts to move even an inch after my body has been clenched so long, limbs under the spell of the unforgiving curse of fright. I don't even know what it is about the illuminating webs of energy that catch me off guard and send me spiraling into a panic (though something in me is screaming that I do, I do, I do).

A boom sounds nearby, the flashes of light dancing before my eyes as it hits earth. My body flutters into movement, my legs taking me soaring across the forest and skidding through thickets of mud and vines. I can hardly keep myself upright as I push my way through the bindings of earth and claw at the weeds that hold me back, crying out as I fall into the brown mush of land. It only takes me a moment before I'm up again, shoeless (no doubt lost in my struggle with the mud) and sprinting into an open pasture and towards a fence, the looming barrier foreboding, but holding no power. None of them did. I slip through, into the safety of a district unknown, whimpering as the barbed wire fencing catches upon my dress and tears with my every little move. My hands don't want to work in the storm, my hair sopping as it falls into my face and obstructs my vision. Another flash of lightning sends me into a whirl, pulling without care at my dress until it rips free of the binding and I'm sent tumbling downward again, already caked in mud and grass and soaked through with rainwater. My every nerve is on fire as I pull myself up from the fall again, tears mixing with rain as I scuttle haphazardly across the land sprawled before me.

My eyes are fixed on the building in the distance, the little barn looking like the coziest of homes in my eyes. (When was the last time I'd seen such a place? When was the last time I was inside something that wasn't falling down?) The wood is faded and old, but as I stumble through the creaky doors and shut myself in a world of hay and animals, it feels like home. (At least, it feels what I think home should feel like. Did I ever really have one?) The water is leaking through in some areas, the corners wet and animals avoiding them at all costs. As I shuffle across the barn, my eyes blink wearily at the darkness before me, the pens lit up every so often by my greatest enemy and darkest of foes. I don't even know where I'm going, but I let myself drop to the floor and crawl forward until I reach a wall, body sagging into a mound of hay and soft fluffy fur. It takes only seconds before I'm drifting off into an abyss of dreams, my mind already fuzzy with sleep and forgetfulness. (Why am I curled up in hay? And since when has it been raining?) However, as the numbness takes my mind and the warm woolen beings curl up against me, I can't help but let my questions cease. There's only one thing I can think of. This is the greatest home I've ever been in.

Last Edit: Sept 2, 2012 19:03:05 GMT -5 by wimdy

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[Eastern] // Of Wanderings and Wool Sept 2, 2012 19:26:13 GMT -5

Post by Eastern Orange on Sept 2, 2012 19:26:13 GMT -5

It was absolutely miserable outside when I finally got around to leaving the house. It was still overcast, and everything was painted a dreary grey color. The sky was still unloading water, but it was nothing like the torrential downpour of last night; it was a soft mist that coated every surface in tiny, individual droplets of water. It felt muggy, and claustrophobic, and eck, I just hated it. Rain is annoying. It just makes my life a lot harder. I couldn’t do half of my chores yesterday because I was interrupted by that rather violent storm that no doubt left me with even more chores to do. The time I had allotted to cleaning the water troughs and mending the fence were spent trying to cram all of my sheep into the barn so the stupid creatures wouldn’t drown, or catch pneumonia or something. The poor horses were beside themselves with horror at the prospect of spending the entire night with the baaing beasts.

The ground squishes underneath my boots as I tromp my way to the barn. My sheep dogs trail behind, trotting lazily, while at the same time getting as muddy as possible, just adding another thing to the list of shit I had to do today. As I get closer to the barn, the sheep start their insistent baaaaaaing, wanting to be let out to pasture, and the horses start whinnying, wanted to be fed. I throw open the barn doors, and immediately, the sheep try to push themselves out. My dogs growl and snap at them, stopping their escape. The sheep push themselves back into the barn. I roll my eyes, and whistle for the dogs to back up. Seeing that their way is clear, the sheep flood out of the barn, and the dogs herd them over to the gate to the pasture. Before I deal with the sheep, I must tend to the horses. They kick their stall with impatience, and I sign and go to the back of the barn to get them hay.

There’s a lump of something half buried in the hat, and my heart skips a beat, thinking that I’ve lost another sheep. I step closer, and realize it’s a person. Is it dead? Gross. I step forward cautiously, and realize it’s a girl. She is slightly damp and covered from head to toe in mud. “Are you alive?” I nudge her with my boot. “You’re trespassing. Get up.” Seeing that she is, in fact, alive, I allow myself to be annoyed, especially since she got most of my hay muddy and wet. That shit is expensive! I can’t feed that to the horses now. Speaking of the horses, they were still beating impatiently on the doors of their stalls. “Shut up!” I yell at them, and turn my attention back to the girl. She still wasn’t getting up. “Come on! I don’t have time for this!” I’m angry now, and I bend down and grab on to her arm. I let go immediately, surprised at the temperature her skin was. Shitshithshit. A trespasser was one thing, and a sick trespasser was another thing entirely. I gently roll the girl toward me, and reveal her face. I place a hand on her forehead, and wince at how hot it is. Great. I have to deal with this on top of everything else.

“Miss?” I say softly, feeling rather guilty about how callous I was to her before. “You need to get dry. Do you live around here?” She might be from a farm in the area, though I didn’t recognize her, and I was certain that I knew everyone from around here. Was she a run away? I couldn’t be sure how old she was, because she was a mess, but she looked young enough to have wanted to escape the tyranny of a parent. Her dress was shredded, and her feet were bare making me feel even guiltier. Not only did she have no shoes, but her feet were bruised and bloody, as were various other parts of her body. She looked like she had been through hell. Abusive boyfriend maybe? I don’t know. Why’d she have to pick my barn. Now I felt like I had some responsibility to make sure she didn’t die of a fever. “Come on. Can you walk?” The animals would have to wait, I guess.

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wimdy
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(While On a Horse) I Met a Hot Girl Who Reminded Me of a Plant

[Eastern] // Of Wanderings and Wool Sept 2, 2012 23:30:44 GMT -5

Post by wimdy on Sept 2, 2012 23:30:44 GMT -5

I can't remember the last time I slept soundly. (That's not saying much. I don't remember much of anything these days.) It's a miracle I can remember my name at all, not to mentions things other people say. Occasionally, I can stick on to something for a little while when I've repeated it enough times. ("Patrick's house? It's... It's um... It's that up... P. Sherman? Patrick Sherman, right? P. Sherman, 42 Wallaby Way, right Sydney?") There are days I'm lucky to wake up with any recollection of who I am at all. On my bad days, I don't remember a thing. Not even my name will stick to my head. Sometimes, I can't even remember the words to speak. Sentences don't exist. On those days, it's the worst. It's not like I have anyone to talk to in the first place, but being without words at all, not even to think in detail or speak myself down from a panic is as hard as it gets. Luckily, those days are few and far in-between. Usually, I'll just forget what happens as I'm going. (Like where I am or what I'm doing or what I've been spending the last ten minutes looking for.)

If the bleak grey haze that greets my waking mind is any sign, today is not going to be one of my good days. Granted, it's not black outside, so it certainly doesn't seem to be one of my bad days either. I can remember my name. That is a good sign. I cannot, however, remember where I am or how I got there or why, oh why, I am freezing. I feel like I've been skewered through with icicles and soaked in an Arctic bath for days before being left out in a frozen tundra to dry, badly. My skin feels clammy and I can't help but shiver despite my mind's commands not to move. My every muscle is screaming in pain with the slightest twitch of movement and it takes all of my effort not to cry. Crying doesn't suit young women, my mother used to say. (I don't even remember her, but I can hear her saying it as clear as day, though that doesn't say much in the present forecast.) My eyes slip shut again in a futile attempt to block out the pain that laces my every fiber.

Life, however, seems to have a different idea of what I should be doing at the present moment in time. "Are you alive? I whimper slightly, wincing when his boot digs into my side and prods, forcing my body to shift and my bones to scream for mercy. My eyes squeeze together tightly and I force myself to stop breathing for fear that if I take in one more breath, I'll surely start to sob. "You're trespassing. Get up." His words only make me curl in tighter on myself, hoping for some semblance of a miracle as I hear him holler at something in the distance. My head is going fuzzy again, but not with my normal forgetful haze of a swirl. No, this one is darker, more menacing. It's sickness. I don't remember getting sick before (though I'm sure I have, I must have, just why can't I remember) but I know that's what this is. I can hardly focus on anything and I feel oh so tired, my body begging to go back to sleep with every shallow breath I take (because yes, my body caught up with my mind and realized it had to start breathing again). The only thing that snaps me back into focus is the touch of a hand around my arm and muddled words again. It takes me a moment to realize they're directed toward me, coming from the mouth of a man staring down at me from above.

My first instinct is to scream, because when did he get there and why was he talking to me and where was I? My second is to start crying. (My second instinct wins out.) "Miss? You need to get dry. Do you live around here?" His voice is decidedly softer now, a soothing baritone that rings in my ears for a moment before I even realized he's forming words, real words, and is expecting an answer of some sort. My mouth tastes wrong when I try to form words until I realize I can't. (It seems though I haven't forgotten words, I've forgotten how to say them. Fantastic.) The tears spill thicker at this, washing trails across my dirty face as I shake my head in a barely perceptible negative to his question. "Come on. Can you walk?" My body resists at the mere mention of movement, my hands clenching in soggy hay as I try to push myself upward along the wall. They let go to stop my fall as I topple into the man, body sagging against him and trembling with the effort of ever standing up. My head is swimming with colors and visions and I can't even see straight. I feel so light-headed, but everything is heavy and I can hardly bear to breath (though I won't try stopping again because I've already learned that lesson today) let alone stand. My eyes are slipping with every moment passing, the fever coursing through my veins and drugging me into an abyss little by little.

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[Eastern] // Of Wanderings and Wool Sept 3, 2012 19:49:03 GMT -5

Post by Eastern Orange on Sept 3, 2012 19:49:03 GMT -5

I’ll admit, I panic when I see tears eking out of the girl’s eyes. Was it me? I wasn’t that mean to her was I? As the girl struggles to her feet, I hold my hands out, inches from her, so I can catch her if she falls –Which is exactly what she does seconds after getting semi-vertical. She falls against my chest and my arms go instinctively around her to stop her from slipping back on to the floor. Her weight against me is nothing (I have lambs that weigh more than her) and my heart twists in pity, which I immediately admonish myself for; pity leads to sympathy, which then leads to me taking in a stray that I can’t afford.

“Okay, okay.” I sign, holding her steady. “Don’t force yourself. I’m going to pick you up now, don’t be alarmed.” I bend down so I can scoop her up. I cradle her, one arm around her shoulders, and another behind her knees; she’s so light that I don’t need to strain to hold her. I adjust my hold on her so she can rest her head against my shoulder, instead of it just hanging limply. “I’m going to move you to my house, okay?” I carry her out of the barn, the horses scream after me, displeased with their lack of food, but I ignore them. They can go without food for a few hours.

It’s raining harder outside now –big fat droplets that send shivers up my spine every time they strike, they are so cold. I hold the girl close to my chest, and haunch over to protect her from the rain as best I can, while trying to walk slowly so I don’t jostle her any more than I have to. When did I become so caring and conscious of the pain of others? It’s disgusting. Though, it’s hard to be cold-hearted when you have a very sick, very skinny girl burning and shivering in your arms. What am I to do with her? Obviously, I’ll have to clean her up and get her dry, but what then? How am I to find out where she belongs? What if I do find out, and it’s a bad environment; an abusive parent, a ramshackle house infested with morphling addicts, god forbid she ran away from a whorehouse. But what if she had? It’s not my problem, not my business, and I shouldn’t get involved, but it’s obvious that where ever she came from, it wasn’t good. Do I have it in me to take her back, or even just turn her out on the streets?

I like to think that I’m a callous bastard that hates people.

But…

Even I’m not that callous.

I awkwardly open the side door and kick it open. I hesitate in my kitchen, wondering if it was best to shove her under some water or in a bed. I look down at her, and decide that it’d be best to get the mud that’s caked onto her legs and arms off first and foremost. I carry her over to the bathroom and set her down. With one arm still wrapped around her waist so that she doesn’t fall, I turn on the shower and turn it so the water came out lukewarm. I left her up and put her in the tub, where she immediately falls against the wall, weeping, and slumps down. I sigh. “You are going to have to stand up.” No response. God dammit. I step in behind her, boots and everything, and heave her to her feet. “Come on, stop wallowing, or whatever you are doing.” I have no clue why this girl was such a mess, both physically and apparently mentally, but I knew from experience that if you just lay around weeping, nothing was going to get better. Though, this girl was sick. Perhaps I should cut her some slack… maybe.

“I’m not getting fresh with you, just so you know.” I state, resigned. “I just need to get the mud off.” I run my hands over arms feeling like a pervert, considering I don’t even know how old she was. I sit her down on the edge of the tub, and turn off the shower head, running the faucet instead. I grab a wash cloth and get it wet. Gently, awkwardly, I wipe her face free of mud and tears. I run the cloth under the water, and then wipe down her legs feeling even more like a pervert than before. I clear my throat awkwardly. “Can you tell me your name?”

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wimdy
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(While On a Horse) I Met a Hot Girl Who Reminded Me of a Plant

[Eastern] // Of Wanderings and Wool Sept 5, 2012 22:07:51 GMT -5

Post by wimdy on Sept 5, 2012 22:07:51 GMT -5

I don't even know what's going on, but before I realize it, everything is light. I feel like I'm floating on air, but my lungs immediately close up. My heart thrums in my chest at the moment of takeoff, my mind whirling into a panic. (What is going on? Why am I floating? Why is the world so dark?) It takes me a moment before I'm startled from my trance by the reappearance of rain, the water flecks coating my skin and leaving me shivering against the warmth surrounding me. It's only then that I actually realize that I'm not floating in a delusion of my own self-conscious, but I'm being carried. I'm being rocked in someone's arms, my lithe frame tucked against his chest as he tries to shield me from the rain and transport me to somewhere else. My bony fingers latch onto the collar of his shirt, grasping at the rough material as I hiccup through my tears and try to calm the nerves that are sparking through me and leaving me desensitized. I don't enjoy the feeling, the numbness that spreads through me as I go colder than ice, but I can't fight against it in any way. (I can't fight against anything period.)

His words are falling upon deaf ears, the string of syllables that he grinds out slipping through my dreary haze in small clips of gruff noise. The rest of the world has gone silent, but my mind refuses to catch up to the present time. It refuses to make an effort to understand, to listen. I want so badly to speak up, to reply, but my lips can only quiver in muted whimpers and silenced cries as I let my fears fall upon his shoulder in water droplets. I don't like to cry. Crying makes me feel alone. I never used to be alone when I cried. Mother had always been there for me, taking care of me and letting me know that I wasn't the only person who hurt. I was her angel darling, her number one priority and love. (Was I really? She wasn't there to stop me from jumping out of that tree when I was little, was she? She didn't talk me through my most important cry; the cry for attention.) My head is aching as if I was that little girl who jumped out of the tree again, split open and sore and just wanted to sleep. Remembering always made me hurt. Being hurt always made me forget. It's a vicious cycle, one that's been going on for as long as I remember, if that's saying anything at all. It doesn't, but it's the sense of continuity and settlement with the statement that counts. It's long term, unlike my memory.

I don't even comprehend where we are until we've even gotten there. The man doesn't even hesitate to settle me in a tub, my feet slipping and my body shaking as I try to keep myself upright again. My head pounds, my eyes shutting tight as I lean into the wall and let my lungs fully breathe, taking in gasps of air and sobbing into my fist as I sink against the tile, my body trembling as I let myself go. I'm so tired and every fiber of my being is screaming for me to sleep and forget everything. (It will only be a matter of minutes before that happens anyway.) I can't help the yelp that escapes my lips as the water starts to run, my body clamming up as it digs through the dirt that is caked on to my every inch. I feel so cold, but the water is warm. It soaks into me, my knees turning to jelly as I struggle to try and pick myself up again, that is, until I don't have to anymore. His hands are even warmer than the water, calloused fingers holding me up and in the spray of the water and rubbing at the remnants of the mud on my body. (Why was I all muddy in the first place? And how did this man find me?)

It only takes him a few moments to clean off my arms, the water doing the rest for my upper body. My skin still feels dirty despite being spotless, pale canvas striped with red agitation. He's working at my legs now, somehow having sat me down on the rim of the tub and leaned me against the tiled wall, the cool surface chilling me to the bone as he continues to wipe away the dirt from my legs. Each swipe is careful, gentle, calculated. My mind supplies me that he'd told me he wasn't going to try anything, but I can't recall it for myself. (Sometimes, I know things are there, but I just can't remember how it happened.) He's speaking again, looking up at me from where he kneels and my ears decide to let it in, his words slipping in and settling in my brain. (Stick. It's decided to stick.) "Can you tell me your name?" I whimper, the sound low in my throat like a wounded animal begging for help. My lips tremble as I try to sound out the letters that are inside my head, the words that I know and hear and feel, but cannot speak. My eyes water again in frustration, my cheeks flaring up the same low sound spills from my throat. Every ounce of my concentration is on this, despite the foggy cloud in my head that is holding me back. It's always like this. This unyielding force holds me back and no matter how hard I fight against it, I just can't win unless it wants me to. I'm nothing, not when compared to the barrier inside my head. I'll babble like a baby until it has decided I've gone on lone enough. (One day, it might decide never to let me talk again.) I breathe out heavily, letting the tears spill down my cheeks as I reach out my hands to grab one of his, setting down the wash cloth and turning his palm up to face me. Slowly, shakily, I trace the letters I see in my head, line by line, curve by curve. Dory.

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[Eastern] // Of Wanderings and Wool Oct 22, 2012 23:37:27 GMT -5

Post by Eastern Orange on Oct 22, 2012 23:37:27 GMT -5

I watch with fascination as the girl seems to focus really hard on the question of her identity. Is it that she can’t remember, or that she’s deciding what to say? I cock my head to the side, giving her a questioning look. She whimpers, a small pathetic noise, and tears slip down her cheeks. I awkwardly shift my weight, at a loss of what to do to help this girl who wouldn’t – or couldn’t – even tell me her name.

Her hand reaches out and grabs mine; I bristle at the touch and fight the urge to yank my hand away. I watch, suspicious, as she takes the wash cloth from me and sets it aside. I stare at it instead of at her, because suddenly, I feel rather uncomfortable. The whisper of her finger brushes against my palm, almost indiscernible against the callouses scaring my palm. It takes only a second to realize that she’s spelling out her name. Before I can stop it, a feeling of pity settles in my gut, which is shortly followed by the rush of annoyance and the thought of are you fucking kidding me ? On top of everything, she is a mute. A goddamn mute. That’s just my luck, isn’t it? First, the rain, then the sick girl, now the fucking mute sick girl. How in the fuck am I figuring out where she belongs when she can’t even tell me herself?

I hide my exasperation, biting back whatever disgruntled curses jumped to my lips, in order to not upset the girl. Instead, I just smile a strained smile and say “It’s nice to meet you, Dory.” Now that she is reasonably clean, her face unobscured by mud, I can tell that she is older than I had originally thought. I was going to guess that she was sixteen or seventeen, but it appears that she is closer to my age, perhaps nineteen or twenty. It makes me feel more comfortable being alone with her… in the shower. At least I’m not a pedophile.

“Come on, let’s get you dry.” I stand up and step out of the tub, grabbing a towel off the rack. I bring her to her feet, and wrap the towel around her shoulders. I wonder briefly if I should let her walk, but one glance down at her bloody feet tell me that I better carry her. I scoop her up as I did last time and take her to my room, which sounds naughty, but I promise my intentions are pure. I sit her down on the bed, and go to my wardrobe, pulling out a shirt and some pajama pants. I toss them at her, suddenly feeling very unsure. “Um, can you dress yourself?” I ask, dreading the answer. So far, I’ve had to do everything for her, which I suppose is fine, but dressing her was something that I really did not want to be doing. I felt like a pervert enough already after that shower.

Relief washes through me at the vigorous nodding of her head. I smile, genuine this time, I’m so relieved. “Good, good.” I say, and turn to leave, grabbing a change of clothes for myself as an afterthought. In the hallway, I get out of my wet clothes and change into dry ones. I reenter the bathroom, and dig out the medical supplies from under the sink. Rubbing alcohol, cotton balls, bandages, anything that could be beneficial to Dory. I don’t have any medication that would help her fever, that stuff is way out of my price range, but at least I could treat her wounds.

I knock on the bedroom door, not expecting a replay, just to let her know that I’m coming in. I stick my head in cautiously, ready to duck out if I see anything I shouldn’t, but there is no need. Dory is sitting on the bed, changed. I go over and sit next to her, and show her the supplies I gathered. “I have to clean your wounds. We don’t want them to get infected.” I motion for her to lay back, and I take her feet and place them in my lap. Her feet are cut to hell; bruised, beaten, swollen. I set my mouth in a grim line, thinking of the pain she must have been in when she was on her feet. “This is going to sting.” I warn her. “Please try not to kick me in the face.” Without further ado, I dump disinfectant on her feet.