2Just a little story I felt compelled to write, it was either this or pay money to my landlord for pacing a hole in my floor as I wait for Warehouse to come back. I love feedback. Thanks for reading.
You've been here for a while. Far too long truly, you've never had an affinity for idleness. Your peers revered it; to sit over tea to discuss poetry meant you were well off enough to afford the luxury. You scoff. Luxury. Even when you were at your worst…even after Christina…you buried yourself in your work. You wrote because you were bleeding out feelings that would not be stayed until you cauterized the wound. During the rare moments where your fingers were bare of pen and steel you'd always pick at the scab and inevitably start the whole process over again.
It was torture, that time as a hologram. Held in a void, left alone with your demons and your guilt. And without a sense of time, even she had abandoned you. Time has always been your most spiteful lover. Has taken everything from you, and yet given you so very much.
And here you are, free. The shackles of responsibility the regents had inexplicably decided to bestow upon you have been removed. The world has not ended and you have been given yet another chance to live in it. And yet here you are, hiding…idle. The scabs are there. Your demons goad you to give in and satisfy that itch, to dig your nails in and let free that darkness that had been your only friend for a bronzed century. You know it would not take much…
Instead you sit chin propped up under your interlaced fingers, staring down in to pale green eyes. The shade is wrong, different from the ones you see in your dreams, but their gentle hue is oddly calming nevertheless.
You stare into unblinking green, beseeching answers even as you scold yourself for your idiocy. You don't know why you told the regents you'd handle the animal. You're even more confused as to why you brought it back to this squalor you'd carved out for yourself and the astrolabe rather than depositing it at the nearest shelter like you'd intended. You don't understand a lot about yourself anymore.
You went from ready to plunge the world into fire and ice to a path of redemption. You were ripped from your body and your psyche was pulled apart and rearranged. You're not sure how the pieces go together anymore. And you are starting to suspect there are pieces that shouldn't be there at all. It would explain why there is a cat sitting opposite to you on the small kitchen island.
She lingers. You want to dismiss the woman as an interloper, but you know better than that. She was your potential next life. And traces of her are still bouncing around in your brain. Emily Lake was a romantic. She looked for the epic and transcendent in her literature. Marriage in your time was a business transaction; love a fairy tale or a scandal.
The yearning is your own, you've carried its weight well you think ever since those bouncing chestnut curls and bright green eyes first met you over a cold barrel. But this churning anxiety, this tempestuous hope must be hers. You swear you can feel her giddy over the ridiculous and wondrous journey you've been on with her. Even you admit it is a tale worthy of being penned. Someday you might.
You groan and run your fingers through your hair. This is preposterous. Childish dreams. Even if you are fairly certain she at least somewhat reciprocates your feelings. And yet you smile, somehow comforted by this discordant optimism that swells in your breast. You wonder how much of it is Emily Lake and how much is her. Your Myka.
She sees goodness in you, and you so very much want to meet her expectations. You've never bent or changed for anyone but your Christina. If that doesn't scream the extent of your affections you don't know what does. You're in love.
There it is. You blink, your eyes dry. It's not all the answers. You are still so very broken, and far too stubborn to take up the regents' offer to pour out your tattered soul to a stranger under their thumb, but perhaps there is someone with whom you wouldn't mind putting back the pieces. It's not all the answers, and usually that would drive you mad, yet somehow it feels like enough. At least for now.
You catch yourself scratching its head as you rise to your feet. You let out a small smile as you gather your things. You fiddle with your keys as you turn out the lights and shut the door. If all goes well you'll only being coming back for the cat.
Somehow the small apartment hallway looks a little brighter. You're not sure what the future holds, but you hope-you shake your head at yourself but cannot help the first real smile that spreads over your cheeks-you hope it involves solving puzzles and saving the day.
