A/N: so. yep, new story. this was pretty much experimental, a new story idea i wanted to write. i hope you guys will like this new one.
prologue.
The sky is overcast. The clouds converge, dark and grey, and the street is covered in a quiet shadow. Thunder rumbles outside, but is muffled by the thick glass and the sound of strings coming from the laptop. A lone bird sits on a branch outside, calling, and calling, to nobody and nothing to be seen.
The apartment is dark and empty, lest for boxes, that have already been packed and sealed. They are everywhere, in the living room, in the kitchen, in the bedroom. It looked like the start to a new beginning. Yet tomorrow, they would all be gone.
She is slumped on the sofa, here eyes staring at the ceiling, tracing the patterns of the cornices with her fingers. The sound of soft yet crisp strums, tuned to perfection, float through the room. The acoustic, it was kept like a prize, and no one dared to touch it, to meddle with it or even suggest so. That sacred, it was. She imagines the fingers that play with the strings, slender and pale, that twist and pluck. She knows the geography of them, where they bend, how they feel, on the strings, on her. It is a pleasant burning feeling.
The tune is woeful, like the greying skies outside. The melody flows, through the house, through the door and cracks, as if escaping, hating the silence that is in. It reminds her of the aftermath of a failed crusade, the sorrow of all the warriors. The anguish and defeat of having lost a battle, to travel back to the start.
She remembers the day, or rather the night, it was written. When she was carried to the bedroom and put to bed. She was assumed to be sleeping. But she was awake for most of it. The pencil scratching on the paper, the strings of the guitar scratching, and then turning into an unmistakeable melody. She knew every note, every melody. The desperation and sorrow, the relief, the protectiveness. She could feel it, even if the thousands after that could not. She fell asleep to the haunting notes.
She pulls the blankets more closely around her, and pushes herself to rise. She walks to the glass windows. The city is covered in the behemoth clouds, threatening to crash down. The branches of the trees sway, and people run for shelter below, like little ants scattering. The song reaches it's end.
She hears the knob of the front door turn. She knows that he has been there for awhile, but he dares not to come in before the end of his own composition. She says nothing. She hears the padded footsteps, and the sound of something heavy being placed on the ground with a thud. It is silent for awhile, then she hears more footsteps, a door closing, the tap running.
She faces the window, but she can see his reflection behind her soon enough. The tips of his bangs are dripping with water, and he is shirtless, only a towel around his neck. The towel barely covers his pale, almost porcelain skin. She resists the urge to trail her fingers over his slender collarbones. He is looking at her with such a forlorn expression she wishes to turn and say something. She can't bring herself to.
"What time are you going tomorrow?" he asks, breaking the silence.
"The truck comes at 9," she all but gasps out.
"I see."
Nothing more is said, nothing more can be said. The air is thick with this finality. He eventually leaves the room, but his hesitance is felt to her. She wants to turn around and grasp his hand with her own burning one, but she cannot. She mustn't.
The laptop starts to play another track. She can hear the door shut a little too loudly on the far end of the apartment.
The bird stops crying, and flies away. The rain crashes down, pouring everything into the city.
It is her turn to do so.
A/N: visit my profile to check out the song that plays here. I decided on Irony by Sungha Jung.
I hope you guys are liking it so far. Tell me what you think in the reviews, and stay tuned for the next chapter, which will be the first.