A/N: Happy holidays, everyone! A very nice reader went through the trouble of sending me a PM, asking if I was going to write here again. I wanted to give her a Christmas gift of sorts. Marissa Davis, this one's for you. It's a very short story but I will do my very best to finish it. Sorry for the short first chapter. I'm not used to this anymore.
For everyone else, I know it's been ages since I last wrote here so I'm still in the process of relearning my CI KS-shippery. I will try my very best and I hope I don't disappoint anyone. (Apologies if I do)
One
And so it is.
-From 'The Blower's Daughter" by Damien Rice
I look for her in between lines, in between rants and curses and misogynistic paragraphs and drawings. In each pen stroke, she is there. For every praise I have for a conquest, a part of it is for Kathryn, for every insult, the same thing. Thumbing through the pages, my fingers run over the dried ink like I am trying to read Braille. In fact, I am still trying to find her, convinced that she is nestled in the spaces. This is how I touch her now, how I see her. This is the only way I can stomach her.
Just as I snap out of my reverie, the door opens. She is there. Day twenty-three of this cold war. I close my journal, my fingertips warm from the memory of her skin. The mood is gone, replaced by the anger. I can stand Memory Kathryn, but not the real thing.
"I was shopping when I saw this," she places something on the table and walks towards me. Her tone is assured but the sound of her steps betrays her. There is a long pause before each click, each clack of her heels. "It's by your favorite author. I thought you might like to have it."
I turn away from her and fix myself a drink.
"Valmont, I'm trying," she tells me.
I examine my glass.
"Even etiquette demands that you at least acknowledge this attempt, surely you're aware of that."
I finish my drink.
"Goddamn you," she hisses. "Goddamn you to hell."
The clacking of her heels is fast now. She slams the door. The sound seems to echo far longer than it should.