She makes him more happy than the ever-expanding universe ever could. She makes him more happy than the stars and the sky and everything in between. The little raindrops and the little rainbows and the little milky way in her eyes that only he can...
Йой! Нажаль, це зображення не відповідає нашим правилам. Щоб продовжити публікацію, будь ласка, видаліть його або завантажте інше.
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WHEN PIPER STEPPED OUT, HER BLACK JACKET TWISTED AROUND HER PETITE BODY, SHE DECIDED THAT, MAYBE, SHE WOULD NOT GO HOME STRAIGHT AWAY. She kept thinking about her father, so the bleak apartment that was poisoned with memories of him would certainly not do her any good. She traipsed around bent corners and shuffled down cobbled streets, and, although it seemed she had been walking for hours, she was only a couple of minutes away from the library.
That's when she saw the swing set.
The swing set was quaint and old, stirring a flicker of memory, a sliver of laughter that bubbled up. Piper was convinced it was a mirage; the resemblance to her memory was uncannily precise. She was certain she had seen it before, but not here, not near South Morton Library. Touching the rusted red pole, she flinched, recoiling and pulling back her hand as if severely electrocuted. Then, cautiously, she stepped forward and sat down. And then, right there, as sudden as a flash, she was in euphoria.
That swing was deathly familiar, but also comfortable, so comfortable that it seemed to recognise her. She pushed herself up and the wind whipped her hair and it whirled around like a tornado. The yawning sky seemed to expand, because she was flying, flying with invisible wings. Oh, how her heart had ached to fly like this, and how the moon was so close and the stars did not only prick the sky but her pale skin. Gone is the feeling of her being hung by a single thread onto humanity, gone is the pain, gone is everything other than the wind and the sky and the stars and the moon.
Her legs touch the willowy limbs of the oak tree, or it seems. Her toes kiss Hydra and Cygnus and, oh, Orion as he stretches across the sky, embodied in a thousand stars that let out such insignificant lustres that, only as a whole, one can appreciate them.
But Piper has learnt how to appreciate those tiny, lost stars that are hardly there, that have disappeared almost completely from view.
That is because Piper, oddly enough, is one.
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WHEN PIPER WAKES UP, SHE REALISES THAT SHE IS TRAPPED IN BETWEEN THE CAPSULE OF DAWN AND DAY, WHERE GUNMETAL GREY CIRCULATES AROUND THE SMALL ROOM. She does not want to wake up, because the sunlight, however dull, still pierces her eyes with its small yet mighty power. The night is visibly dwindling. It is a rose, and it's petals are being ripped off, yet, tomorrow, it will reign as a black, dead rose again. After the unknown dream that rotates in her brain, a fizz of fumbling crimson, the light of the room is much too soft, and her limbs are thick and honey-coated. Piper cannot wake up.
Yet, she does. The room is greyer than her skin, so she looks at her trembling palms as if there are visible scars tearing through her outer shell, leaving ripples of blood and skin that flow in the wind of her breath. The dawn is being stolen, quicker now, as if Day is gathering her energy and ruthlessly kicking down Night. Piper closes the shutters. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, a symphony of sharp human behaviour that perplexes her. Why does bile rise in her throat? She feels sick again. That disgusting sickness when you know, you realise and you goddamn understand that someone is sick, that someone is dead.
