for The Endless Oppurtunites Challange, posted by Violet Scarlet Lily.
It's my little black dress, stained with blood that no magic seems to be able rid it of. I still have it, unable to part with such a lovely little article of clothing that cost near to nothing at a thrift shop. The straps are thin and silky against my shoulders, the material lining the inside the same way. It would still be perfect if it wasn't for a dark crimson splotch in the stomach area where I was stabbed. He practically murdered the bloke who did it, too.
It's his old boots, practically worn through in the heels and soles, tattered and falling apart. The ones he wore when he went out on his motorbike. The ones I wear when I walk the streets of London. When I stole them to go out, he would always gripe later about how I could ruin them. As if. It took him ten years to wear them to such a state. My slipping them on for a few hours hardly reflected that. I hide them in the back of the closet now.
It's the tattoo on my lower back, just above where the waistband of my knickers rest. A black skeletal butterfly, wings outstretched. It's roughly four inches long and two inches tall, and I know he has one too. Strategically placed by yours truly so he couldn't hide it. I'm positive it's still there. I don't have the guts to go check though.
It's the intoxicating scent of his old cologne that always seemed to encircle him. At first it pissed me off, until I realized where he hid the bottle of it, and chucked it out the window. He was horribly angry about it – didn't speak to me for a week – but I coaxed him into forgiving me by giving him another bottle. But threatening to send this the same way if he bathed in it again. He probably still smells like it.
It's the fistfights I came home from, bloodied and bruised, not wanting his help. And him forcing it upon me. I realize now he was doing it in my best interest, but it always seemed pushy and unneeded at the time it happened. The next morning, I would be in his bed, dazed and still in the cloud of sex surrounding us. The finger-shaped bruises in more intimate places were from him and me. No one is able to do that to me now.
It's my overprotective mother who refused to let me see Sirius once she found out we were having sex. She locked the door and all the windows after seven o'clock at night. Of course, she was a Muggle and I wasn't. So Apparition came in handy. She still doesn't approve of even the memory of us, claiming he always was and always will be trouble. My response was how you could be trouble when you were dead.
It's been six months since he died. Six months without our rough, raucous sex that irked the neighbours. Six months of coming home without anyone to greet me. Six months without someone to clean my wounds. It's true what they say: you don't know what you've got till it's gone.
Review?