Red Sky
Posted: 12 Jul 2012, 21:23
( The blonde woman with grey-green eyes is Thistle, whose writer was kind of enough to give full encouragement of me including her, in passing, in my RP after Thistle really did comment on grid that Mick shouldn't sit outside just before sunrise. Silly me forgot to take her in and I decided to use that as plotfodder! This is that story. )
It wouldn't be the same, no matter how many times she wished she could go back. The night of the 4th of July would have been changed dramatically if she could. Mick would have opted to stay home and curl up on the couch to watch television and enjoy a bowl of ice cream with it. She would have decided that she could see the new piece her friend Yvonne had put up in the art gallery in the morning on her way to work, or in the afternoon when she got off. Or, on her lunch break even. Any time after that night would have been fine.
She would've taken the utmost comfort in hearing her husband's fingertips tap against the keys of the desktop in the study, the door of which he always left open while he worked. He swore the noise in the house didn't bother him, and he had a running joke that, with the door open, he could hear when she walked through the kitchen so he could call out for a snack.
She would've distracted him roughly an hour before she figured he'd be tired enough to go to sleep and taken him upstairs to either their bed or their shower. It wouldn't really matter so long as she could feel the plane of his skin become flush with hers and that calmed energy tickle the fine, tiny hairs of her body each time his brushed it. Maybe it was just for convenience's sake, but she preferred the bed where her legs could crawl over the back of his as his thighs and backside flexed, relaxed, and flexed again. She would've inwardly quivered when Jeff propped himself up on one arm and moved his other hand into her hair, pulling it away from her face until it was completely exposed. He'd stare down at her and smile when she smiled.
Sometime after, when his body would be beside hers and he would lie on his stomach while she laid on her back, he'd prop his chin on her shoulder and pin the bristles of hair there. His arm would've stayed hooked around her stomach, fingers brushing the underside of her breast and the hard shape of her ribs. When her fingers would touch his hair and smooth the shortness of it back (just so the little strands would fall back in place), there would be a pause in whispered conversation and he would say, "I knew there was going to be something about today."
He always did.
Instead, Mick sat alone across the street from the West Towers building eight days later, July the 12th. Inside, on the fifth floor, there was an apartment she was supposed to live in with a man that wasn't Jeff, all because the night of the 4th took a transforming turn of events.
She stared at the face of the six story structure, arms submitted by her sides. For eight days, she'd spent her time there during the day, when she was supposed to sleep. With an hour until sunrise, she should've been in there already. Someone else seemed to know it because a blonde woman nearly her height took the time to pause as she walked by on the street. The vampire looked at her, and Mick looked back in recognition.
"Don't get caught in the sun, squirt," the blonde said. Her grey-green eyes almost seemed amused, and yet sincere at the same time, like a mother warning a child against the dangers of snakes.
Mick didn't answer, but simply nodded instead. She wanted to ask, "And what will happen if I do?" but the woman had walked on, presumably to her own little protective haven before it was too late.
What would happen if she stayed in the sun? Would she burst into flames? Would she shrivel up like a prune? Would she simply disappear into nothingness?
Eight nights had past and Mick knew with a sureness that eight more would come and go without a satisfying change in the way her life was. Eight more nights (or a thousand more) would only push her further away from what she so desperately wanted to get back to.
No more days spent on the lake shore when she and Jeff visited her parents.
She curled her arms around her stomach and held tightly, staring down the length of the street and above the jagged horizon of intruding buildings where it met the periwinkle sky. Those colors were already blossoming into a tender peach and a nipple pink hue.
No more Saturday afternoon walks with Jeff in the park.
It wasn't so much a convicted decision to stay exactly where she was to hold her ground for what she knew was coming as it was the lack of conviction to actually get up and move inside.
No golden anniversary, no fiftieth birthday parties, no holidays with their families.
When the sun broke over the brick walls and rained it's heavenly warmth across the asphalt and concrete of where she sat, Mick was forced to turn her head in the opposite direction as an instinctual guard of her face and her blinded eyesight.
No future children.
Sweat beaded down the back of her neck first and gathered along her arms. It moistened the underside of her curly black hair and the fabric of her clothes.
No more love making, no more shy kisses in passing down the stairs.
The fear didn't genuinely kick in until her leg jerked to flee the light but the sun (that glorious sun) kept rising in the sky to claim its domain of life giver (and the taker of it).
No more whispers against her temple, or sang lullabies from the shower when Jeff had too much to drink.
Her clothes were hardly a protectant and, instead, seemed to cling to the blazing heat, pulling it in against her. Her skin felt as though it was on fire and that fire had been swallowed and breathed in, lighting up her insides just as quickly. Everything hurt. Her bones, her tendons, her muscles.
No more "I love you."
The scream escaped her faster than she realized she'd belted it out. She dusted her clothes, her skin, her entire body as though a burning agent in the air had been sprayed onto her and it was all she could do to get it off. When she couldn't stand it anymore, felt her skin draw tight and hot under the burn, she fled for the building across the street. She stumbled once, but was quick back on her feet for the relief from the pain.
Flinging herself inside, she slammed her back against the front door and slid to the floor. Even away from the direct contact, it still hurt. It ate away at her and would for hours, left her physically drained of energy that she felt she couldn't move. But, she did. She kicked the ground, skidding the heel of her shoe across the tiled floor of the apartment lobby, and did it again. She beat the door behind her with her elbows and gave way to the flare of emotion. When she screamed that time, it was purely out of aggravation and helplessness, and the tears stung her red cheeks as they fell.
Before long, her thrashing left her completely exhausted, inside and out. She settled with her head tipped back against the door which, thankfully, hadn't been opened yet. Eventually, she moved off deeper into the lobby where she would stay, not wanting to face Hamlet.
Hamlet...How ungrateful she would seem. How hateful. When she would come across him, and when he would ask, she would simply answer, "I lost track of time."
It wouldn't be the same, no matter how many times she wished she could go back. The night of the 4th of July would have been changed dramatically if she could. Mick would have opted to stay home and curl up on the couch to watch television and enjoy a bowl of ice cream with it. She would have decided that she could see the new piece her friend Yvonne had put up in the art gallery in the morning on her way to work, or in the afternoon when she got off. Or, on her lunch break even. Any time after that night would have been fine.
She would've taken the utmost comfort in hearing her husband's fingertips tap against the keys of the desktop in the study, the door of which he always left open while he worked. He swore the noise in the house didn't bother him, and he had a running joke that, with the door open, he could hear when she walked through the kitchen so he could call out for a snack.
She would've distracted him roughly an hour before she figured he'd be tired enough to go to sleep and taken him upstairs to either their bed or their shower. It wouldn't really matter so long as she could feel the plane of his skin become flush with hers and that calmed energy tickle the fine, tiny hairs of her body each time his brushed it. Maybe it was just for convenience's sake, but she preferred the bed where her legs could crawl over the back of his as his thighs and backside flexed, relaxed, and flexed again. She would've inwardly quivered when Jeff propped himself up on one arm and moved his other hand into her hair, pulling it away from her face until it was completely exposed. He'd stare down at her and smile when she smiled.
Sometime after, when his body would be beside hers and he would lie on his stomach while she laid on her back, he'd prop his chin on her shoulder and pin the bristles of hair there. His arm would've stayed hooked around her stomach, fingers brushing the underside of her breast and the hard shape of her ribs. When her fingers would touch his hair and smooth the shortness of it back (just so the little strands would fall back in place), there would be a pause in whispered conversation and he would say, "I knew there was going to be something about today."
He always did.
Instead, Mick sat alone across the street from the West Towers building eight days later, July the 12th. Inside, on the fifth floor, there was an apartment she was supposed to live in with a man that wasn't Jeff, all because the night of the 4th took a transforming turn of events.
She stared at the face of the six story structure, arms submitted by her sides. For eight days, she'd spent her time there during the day, when she was supposed to sleep. With an hour until sunrise, she should've been in there already. Someone else seemed to know it because a blonde woman nearly her height took the time to pause as she walked by on the street. The vampire looked at her, and Mick looked back in recognition.
"Don't get caught in the sun, squirt," the blonde said. Her grey-green eyes almost seemed amused, and yet sincere at the same time, like a mother warning a child against the dangers of snakes.
Mick didn't answer, but simply nodded instead. She wanted to ask, "And what will happen if I do?" but the woman had walked on, presumably to her own little protective haven before it was too late.
What would happen if she stayed in the sun? Would she burst into flames? Would she shrivel up like a prune? Would she simply disappear into nothingness?
Eight nights had past and Mick knew with a sureness that eight more would come and go without a satisfying change in the way her life was. Eight more nights (or a thousand more) would only push her further away from what she so desperately wanted to get back to.
No more days spent on the lake shore when she and Jeff visited her parents.
She curled her arms around her stomach and held tightly, staring down the length of the street and above the jagged horizon of intruding buildings where it met the periwinkle sky. Those colors were already blossoming into a tender peach and a nipple pink hue.
No more Saturday afternoon walks with Jeff in the park.
It wasn't so much a convicted decision to stay exactly where she was to hold her ground for what she knew was coming as it was the lack of conviction to actually get up and move inside.
No golden anniversary, no fiftieth birthday parties, no holidays with their families.
When the sun broke over the brick walls and rained it's heavenly warmth across the asphalt and concrete of where she sat, Mick was forced to turn her head in the opposite direction as an instinctual guard of her face and her blinded eyesight.
No future children.
Sweat beaded down the back of her neck first and gathered along her arms. It moistened the underside of her curly black hair and the fabric of her clothes.
No more love making, no more shy kisses in passing down the stairs.
The fear didn't genuinely kick in until her leg jerked to flee the light but the sun (that glorious sun) kept rising in the sky to claim its domain of life giver (and the taker of it).
No more whispers against her temple, or sang lullabies from the shower when Jeff had too much to drink.
Her clothes were hardly a protectant and, instead, seemed to cling to the blazing heat, pulling it in against her. Her skin felt as though it was on fire and that fire had been swallowed and breathed in, lighting up her insides just as quickly. Everything hurt. Her bones, her tendons, her muscles.
No more "I love you."
The scream escaped her faster than she realized she'd belted it out. She dusted her clothes, her skin, her entire body as though a burning agent in the air had been sprayed onto her and it was all she could do to get it off. When she couldn't stand it anymore, felt her skin draw tight and hot under the burn, she fled for the building across the street. She stumbled once, but was quick back on her feet for the relief from the pain.
Flinging herself inside, she slammed her back against the front door and slid to the floor. Even away from the direct contact, it still hurt. It ate away at her and would for hours, left her physically drained of energy that she felt she couldn't move. But, she did. She kicked the ground, skidding the heel of her shoe across the tiled floor of the apartment lobby, and did it again. She beat the door behind her with her elbows and gave way to the flare of emotion. When she screamed that time, it was purely out of aggravation and helplessness, and the tears stung her red cheeks as they fell.
Before long, her thrashing left her completely exhausted, inside and out. She settled with her head tipped back against the door which, thankfully, hadn't been opened yet. Eventually, she moved off deeper into the lobby where she would stay, not wanting to face Hamlet.
Hamlet...How ungrateful she would seem. How hateful. When she would come across him, and when he would ask, she would simply answer, "I lost track of time."