Post by Vanya Thenidiel on Jul 4, 2007 20:39:33 GMT -5
The street was bare down to the dirt where she had her feet so carefully placed. She moved her bare toes in the sand to get a sense of direction, but nothing. Her eyes were tightly closed, but not by choice. Each time she attempted to open them, she failed, as if she were a newborn still unsure of how the body should work. The dress was draped over her petite body, flowing in the wind. The white reflected against her skin and gave the illusion that she was glowing. Her hands were spread out into the world, her fingers tips moving back and fourth in a pattern only she could devise. As she moved one finger tip down and the other up she searched again for direction. Her nostrils flared open as she gave up on her other senses. Unlike a dog that would sniff without cause sporadically and wildly, she breathed slowly and gracefully. She repeated this process, but with no success. She persisted, only to fail again, but watching her was captivating. She bent down, so that she was kneeling, her finger tips graced the ground that her toes already once failed at recognizing. Her curiosity radiated only half as much as her beauty as her fingers made their way to her mouth. Her mouth opened as her tongue exited her mouth on a mission to find her fingers. The dirt rolled around her mouth, but again her process ended with no more information than when she began.
Perhaps he had enough of watching her suffer, or perhaps he could no longer resist the feel of her skin, either way he went to her. He placed his hands gently on her shoulders; her body jumped slightly, but almost immediately she calmed down. He waited and then continued, working his hands down her arms, relaxing them and placing them at her side.
His hand wrapped around one of hers as he began to clean the dirt from her finger tips. If she happened to be hesitant, he never would have known. She stood in front of the man comfortably and without resistance. Her long hair, with the reflection of the sun, made for a golden blanket of black, engulfing her body. She was art and he was the artist. He brought one finger to her face and swept back her hair, pushing it behind one ear. She fought again to open her eyes, but failed in her attempt. He leaned close to her as he tucked the hair in her ear he shushed her quietly. Instead of struck with fear, her blood ran thick with excitement. His forehead propped against hers, their hair intertwined in the wind, her white dress wrapping itself around him. There was no time to ask questions nor did either party wish to ruin the moment with words. His forehead rolled off of hers as he lowered himself down to her eyes. One hand for each eye gently made their way. She embraced his fingertips, without one desire to try again to open her eyes. His fingers glided across her lids, it felt to her as if he examined each individual eyelash, but she knew not for sure if that was the case. Much anticipation awaited his next move, his lips lightly graced each eyelid and then he stepped back. She could still feel him and the feeling was more important than the sight. She tried her best to keep her eyes shut tight, but this time nothing she attempted could keep them shut. Her eyes flew open, the deep black of her pupils easily visible. She lay in her bed, looking to the ceiling. She took in a breath and exhaled heavily. He was gone.
Perhaps he had enough of watching her suffer, or perhaps he could no longer resist the feel of her skin, either way he went to her. He placed his hands gently on her shoulders; her body jumped slightly, but almost immediately she calmed down. He waited and then continued, working his hands down her arms, relaxing them and placing them at her side.
His hand wrapped around one of hers as he began to clean the dirt from her finger tips. If she happened to be hesitant, he never would have known. She stood in front of the man comfortably and without resistance. Her long hair, with the reflection of the sun, made for a golden blanket of black, engulfing her body. She was art and he was the artist. He brought one finger to her face and swept back her hair, pushing it behind one ear. She fought again to open her eyes, but failed in her attempt. He leaned close to her as he tucked the hair in her ear he shushed her quietly. Instead of struck with fear, her blood ran thick with excitement. His forehead propped against hers, their hair intertwined in the wind, her white dress wrapping itself around him. There was no time to ask questions nor did either party wish to ruin the moment with words. His forehead rolled off of hers as he lowered himself down to her eyes. One hand for each eye gently made their way. She embraced his fingertips, without one desire to try again to open her eyes. His fingers glided across her lids, it felt to her as if he examined each individual eyelash, but she knew not for sure if that was the case. Much anticipation awaited his next move, his lips lightly graced each eyelid and then he stepped back. She could still feel him and the feeling was more important than the sight. She tried her best to keep her eyes shut tight, but this time nothing she attempted could keep them shut. Her eyes flew open, the deep black of her pupils easily visible. She lay in her bed, looking to the ceiling. She took in a breath and exhaled heavily. He was gone.
