Sometimes, when she accidentally brushes someone's skin with her own, she
flinches. If she is not deliberate, conscious of every tactile exchange,
if the touch is unexpected, sometimes - just for an instant - she panics.
She expects that pounding shock she has felt so many times before, the one
that slams into her, pushing her under until she disappears. She expects
the world to stop.
So she pays attention. She always has, of course. Scrupulous attention has been paid to every centimeter of exposed skin. Painstaking judgment has been applied to every breath's worth of empty air around her. She is intimately familiar with the geometry of personal space. Clothing has been selected with care; she knows the thickness and the weight of fabrics, and she knows where every thread lays against her body. She knows how to cloak herself.
So many years living by these invisible rules has made them difficult to repeal, but she is determined, and she is strong, and she is finally, finally free. If she flinches sometimes, it is always followed by the ripple of relief at what has not happened, and she can surely live with that.
She tries not to ask why this has happened to her. She barely understands how. There were tests after tests, scans both medical and telepathic. She winced at the sting of the first needle, and laughed at herself for it. She has been thoroughly examined and probed, and all they can really tell her is that they don't know. This should worry her; she knows it should. She should be terrified of this gift being taken away, and uncertain of her place in the world if it is not. So many questions in her path. Once she would have let them catch at her and stumbled upon them, or become hopelessly tangled in her own fear. Now, she walks forward with sure footsteps and steady gaze. Recent encounters with destiny have taught her nothing simpler or more powerful than that she controls her own. Perhaps she had been given a reprieve, be it by chance, fate, or circumstance. In her opinion, she had earned her liberation.
Every morning she looks at her gloves and smiles, and leaves them laid out on the dresser unused. It is remarkable the difference in sensation made by such a thin layer of cloth. Without them, the feel of a hand under her own is almost too much delight for her to describe. Everywhere around her, borders dissolving, walls coming down. The future that was once out of reach is now within her grasp. She used to think that if she could ever grab hold she would clutch it hard, knuckles white, desperate not to let it slip away. She hopes now she'll grip it with a firm yet tender hand. She has family to guide her. More than comrades; father, sisters, brothers. And she has him.
There has always been something between them. Fabric, or leather, or doubt, or pain. But now the barriers are gone; all that remains between them is that old magnetic pull and a joy so pure and fine that she wonders how it doesn't pierce her heart and drain her all away. Maybe this is growing up, she thinks, when love doesn't leave her aching and hungry for more and more of that someone else to fill her up. When love doesn't leave her at all, but pours out of her, flows through her, surrounds her and settles on her like a quiet blessing. Settles on her heart. Settles on her skin. Love is on her fingertips, and so she pays such careful attention each time she reaches out for him and finds his skin, his love, there to meet her own.
She's beginning to get used to casual contact. She is re-tuning her instincts to these new parameters of touch. The part of her that expects life to come to a screaming halt at a bump of elbows at the breakfast table or a jostle on a crowded street grows smaller and quieter every day. But still, when she touches him, miraculously, blissfully, the world stops.
So she pays attention. She always has, of course. Scrupulous attention has been paid to every centimeter of exposed skin. Painstaking judgment has been applied to every breath's worth of empty air around her. She is intimately familiar with the geometry of personal space. Clothing has been selected with care; she knows the thickness and the weight of fabrics, and she knows where every thread lays against her body. She knows how to cloak herself.
So many years living by these invisible rules has made them difficult to repeal, but she is determined, and she is strong, and she is finally, finally free. If she flinches sometimes, it is always followed by the ripple of relief at what has not happened, and she can surely live with that.
She tries not to ask why this has happened to her. She barely understands how. There were tests after tests, scans both medical and telepathic. She winced at the sting of the first needle, and laughed at herself for it. She has been thoroughly examined and probed, and all they can really tell her is that they don't know. This should worry her; she knows it should. She should be terrified of this gift being taken away, and uncertain of her place in the world if it is not. So many questions in her path. Once she would have let them catch at her and stumbled upon them, or become hopelessly tangled in her own fear. Now, she walks forward with sure footsteps and steady gaze. Recent encounters with destiny have taught her nothing simpler or more powerful than that she controls her own. Perhaps she had been given a reprieve, be it by chance, fate, or circumstance. In her opinion, she had earned her liberation.
Every morning she looks at her gloves and smiles, and leaves them laid out on the dresser unused. It is remarkable the difference in sensation made by such a thin layer of cloth. Without them, the feel of a hand under her own is almost too much delight for her to describe. Everywhere around her, borders dissolving, walls coming down. The future that was once out of reach is now within her grasp. She used to think that if she could ever grab hold she would clutch it hard, knuckles white, desperate not to let it slip away. She hopes now she'll grip it with a firm yet tender hand. She has family to guide her. More than comrades; father, sisters, brothers. And she has him.
There has always been something between them. Fabric, or leather, or doubt, or pain. But now the barriers are gone; all that remains between them is that old magnetic pull and a joy so pure and fine that she wonders how it doesn't pierce her heart and drain her all away. Maybe this is growing up, she thinks, when love doesn't leave her aching and hungry for more and more of that someone else to fill her up. When love doesn't leave her at all, but pours out of her, flows through her, surrounds her and settles on her like a quiet blessing. Settles on her heart. Settles on her skin. Love is on her fingertips, and so she pays such careful attention each time she reaches out for him and finds his skin, his love, there to meet her own.
She's beginning to get used to casual contact. She is re-tuning her instincts to these new parameters of touch. The part of her that expects life to come to a screaming halt at a bump of elbows at the breakfast table or a jostle on a crowded street grows smaller and quieter every day. But still, when she touches him, miraculously, blissfully, the world stops.