08-31-2020, 02:40 PM
In the bathroom, the woman stood quietly by herself. It was still morning, she'd just made breakfast for her children. Pancakes and bacon. Not as creative as her usual meals, but it was easy, and they all liked it, so she settled for it. She wasn't hungry, though. She wanted something else. But she wasn't sure what exactly. Pain, to go away, she thinks. And she stares in the mirror, maybe at herself, maybe at nothing in particular.
It was hard to say whether it was getting easier or not. With age, pain did not become weaker - in some ways, it was even stronger - it only simply became more normal. And this was a sad mentality to take on, she did not want to think of adulthood, or later life, in this manner. But the simple truth was, people came and went all the same, and the longer you're around others, the more this was proven fact. And it was not time that would the wounds, but the simple act of allowing them to heal. But she couldn't let go, not quite yet, and in her grasp that meant she must hold on to everything, even the pain. Let the rose thorns poke her and blood run its coarse until it was time to drop them, let them sail to sea with the rest of them.
And she decides something. Her lightly scarred hands reach for scissors, intertwining with the handles, long curly hair pushed forwards now. And without much plan, they begin to snip. Break apart the strands, more and more falling, being cut shorter and shorter, until they stopped, seemingly satisfied. Set down gently, now grasping for something else, a box, unopened, seemingly having sat in its place for a while now. It's torn open, and Dee begins her work.
When she finally would leave the bathroom, now hours later, the first thing eyes would be forced to land on would be her hair. Naturally curly, long, dark black hair is what would usually be expected of her. Though as she leaves her home, steps onto her porch, it now sat just above her shoulders, a flashy, bold red. She wears a pale yellow sundress with simple white flip flops, and carried with a strap is her ukulele, still within its case. And Demetra decided, today, she would try to simply be okay. Ignore the blood, the weariness, and the deafening loneliness. Not yet ready to let go, but wanting to try.
It was hard to say whether it was getting easier or not. With age, pain did not become weaker - in some ways, it was even stronger - it only simply became more normal. And this was a sad mentality to take on, she did not want to think of adulthood, or later life, in this manner. But the simple truth was, people came and went all the same, and the longer you're around others, the more this was proven fact. And it was not time that would the wounds, but the simple act of allowing them to heal. But she couldn't let go, not quite yet, and in her grasp that meant she must hold on to everything, even the pain. Let the rose thorns poke her and blood run its coarse until it was time to drop them, let them sail to sea with the rest of them.
And she decides something. Her lightly scarred hands reach for scissors, intertwining with the handles, long curly hair pushed forwards now. And without much plan, they begin to snip. Break apart the strands, more and more falling, being cut shorter and shorter, until they stopped, seemingly satisfied. Set down gently, now grasping for something else, a box, unopened, seemingly having sat in its place for a while now. It's torn open, and Dee begins her work.
When she finally would leave the bathroom, now hours later, the first thing eyes would be forced to land on would be her hair. Naturally curly, long, dark black hair is what would usually be expected of her. Though as she leaves her home, steps onto her porch, it now sat just above her shoulders, a flashy, bold red. She wears a pale yellow sundress with simple white flip flops, and carried with a strap is her ukulele, still within its case. And Demetra decided, today, she would try to simply be okay. Ignore the blood, the weariness, and the deafening loneliness. Not yet ready to let go, but wanting to try.
NOTHING'S EVER LOST FOREVER, IT'S JUST HIDING IN THE RECESS OF YOUR MIND AND WHEN YOU NEED IT, IT WILL COME TO YOU AT NIGHT. I MISS THE YELLOW. I MISS THE YELLING AND THE SHAKEDOWN. I'M NOT COMPLAINING, NO, I GOT A BETTER SET OF KNIVES NOW. I MISS MY DRUMMER, MY DEAD STEPBROTHER, AND THE PIT CROWD. AND CHUCK AND MATTY - IF THEY COULD SEE ME THEY'D BE SO PROUD.
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