When did it begin? This... transition. This death of a passion.
I couldn't tell you even if I tried. It's been a long while since memories, reality and dreams, could be discerned in my mind.
She smiled, her nose brushing against his neck as he crushed her in his arms. The day had been slow and pleasant, the light leisurely feasting on the hours before wrapping itself in dewy night. The couch was hot under them but the room was chilly, and the television sent strange shadows and bursts of colors through the room. He sighed deeply, causing her to look up. The heroes of Law and Order considered a case of murder and theft.
It was dark. Really dark.
Her gaze flicked and jumped with each passing headlight. The air was cold, tossing her robe behind her in a sad mimicry of the vigilante's capes back in the 70's. Her world was falling all apart around her, only to slowly be pulled back together by her cold, analytical mind.
What had she been wearing? she asked herself.
Pajama pants. Grey and white, with faded red. It was a plaid pattern but faded from being washed incorrectly. A black sports bra, but it wasn't like her to run outside uncovered. She was probably wearing a t-shirt now. Something that might have been laying around the living room? She shook her head. What else? Her weight, her hair color, facial features, height. The time she left. Possible whereabouts. All of it, a mental checklist. She knew the police couldn't take in a missing persons report until after 24 hours, but the circumstances would convince them that it was more urgent than that. It would have to.
Her fingers shook and her stomach was upset but her heart was slow, quietly beating. Calm.
Pain bloomed in her hand, her stomach lurching into her throat. She wasn't angry, only sad. Every time, she thought to herself, charting the roads that had lead up to that particular moment. No matter how sorry, no matter the circumstance, part two in a long process had already been set in motion. Or maybe it had only now made itself apparent. Maybe it was only her imagination. She couldn't tell, nor did she care to mull on it.
Her throat burned and she flinched, repulsed by the acidic taste on her tongue. The bolts to her doors slid with a defined sound. She cast a glance to her desk and sat down, reveling in the cool sensation of the metal against her arms.
Sloppy writing. I really couldn't care less. Just spilling these bits of scenes I had in my mind at the moment for exercise. They all sort of bleed into the next, though they aren't entirely necessarily connected. Think of it what you will. -shrugs- I just didn't want to get too rusty. Someday, I -will- be publishing one of my many novels, ya? (:
Question of the Day: Are you familiar with the song 'Meant to Live' by Switchfoot?