holes in her hands

Saturday, April 13, 2013

(just a little short story I scribbled up and thought y'all might enjoy.)

Darkness crept in on kitten paws, silent, stealthy.
Street lights gurgled all around, glowing like colourful bubbles when you blurred your eyes just right.
Melody's hands clutched at each other's chapped skin, and the unshapely nails of her left hand dug anxiously into her right.
"Almost there," she whispered to herself, careless of the dangers in a city street at night. Many times had she travelled this road, countless night had she tripped over that one large crack, until her feet knew the route well enough to miss it. The cold wind of a New York November whipped her hair unreservedly about her bare neck, and it gave her that familial warmth it always did. It had a song of it's own, that New York November Wind. It was the promise of happy Thanksgivings to come. It was those Certain Arms wrapped protectively around the waist she could never seem to shrink, the waist he loved anyways. It was dried leaves hiding in the cracks between sidewalk segments, it was crusted frost on early mornings. It was the way her hands felt like they had holes in them, the way the wind bit against the interior skin of her fingers.
She reached the destination easily, and her part-frozen fingers, in nervous anxiety, fumblinging rang the doorbell twice. She smiled because she knew he wouldn't care.
The door opened at perfectly normal pace, and somehow it didn't seem to take as long as it usually did when he opened it. Melody was trying to treasure every moment, and the swiftness of life frightened her sometimes. She was so busy trying to straighten things out in her head, that he caught her by surprise when he slipped his arms gently about her waist.
Words were exchanged between the two, quiet whispers about how Melody should have driven instead of walking, about how he was worried about her, and how Melody couldn't resist the autumn air, and the effect wasn't the same when driving, and she was safe and sound now, so what was the worry? Every word was sweet and protective, like a mother to her son, like a husband to his wife, like a sister to a sister. The words were not sugarry sweet, for such things are too heavy on lovers' lips. They were not light and feathery, like the wings of a bird, for those would soar into the atmosphere, available to others. These words, with a gently-weighted step, tripped from one pair of lips to the other, never to be repeated, as it should be with such words.
Melody had holes in her hands, but this time, someone's fingers would block them up.

(copyright bree holloway 2013 and all that dull legal stuff. basically, just don't steal it, k?)

4 comments

  1. how lovely, dearie! you are an excellent writer. ;) lots of love | grace

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    1. Thank you, Grace! You flatter me. :)

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  2. That is amazing!! Wish I had some sort of writing talent... xo

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