Touch.
Such a fragile word. Overused, abused, milked for every meaning it can possibly give, and yet it still offers itself up again.
No one thinks about what it would be like to live without touching skin without a shiver of dread. They brag loudly that they could live without it, while in their minds they know that if they had touch taken away from them they'd go crazy.
Only those who have lived without hope, without love, who have had everything taken away from them, yet still manage to find the strength to move on can deal with touch trough a barrier. And by some freak of my genetic material, it happened to me. And so the feeling and memory of skin was replaced by that of leather, and silk, and a million other materials.
In the beginning, when I first realized that I was forgetting how skin felt, I fought like a wildcat. I'd sit still for hours, and would try to remember how fingers felt against my shoulders, how lips felt against my forehead. But slowly, ever so slowly, the memories of skin not my own was replaced with the memories of how leather clung to my fingers, how silk stuck to my lips, how wool seemed to caress my arms.
I hoped that Bobby would be brave enough to, but after an accidental brush a month ago, he's avoided me like the plague. We never got past the whole friends stage, so it's not as bad as if he was my boyfriend.
The man touched me without any fear, but he left five years ago. I have a version in my head, and in my dreams he touches me, but he's slipping away. Soon there won't be anyone to touch me at all.
But the longer I live without touch, the more I fade away, replaced with the girl called Rogue. One day soon Marie won't be here, just Rogue.
So I now sit at the window for hours, watching for the man and his motorcycle, hoping that he comes back before I fade away completely.