A Pair of Gloves
Thick black leather. Protecting the large hands underneath. They always seem to be clenched into fists. The leather creaks under all that pressure and tension. But it never gives away. The barrier between the rough outside world and the smooth skin underneath never breaks. The gloves are rarely removed to reveal the dark bruises coloring his skin in black and blue and purple, traces of recent outbursts of rage, and in green and yellow of long cooled anger. The leather stretches and crumples again. The anger never really leaves. It is one of his loyal companions, always boiling underneath the surface, waiting to be released. The smooth dark surface protects him from drawing blood, from leaving any crimson traces wherever he chooses to unleash the snarling beast inside of him.
His hands are no longer used to handle delicate things, no longer know how to touch with caution, with gentleness. They have forgotten how it feels to touch softness and warmth. The leather feels smooth and soft against his skin but it is cold. Unfeeling. A cold wall protecting him, closing him off from the world, from touch, from feeling.
When was the last time he had truly felt anything, the last time his fingers had run over, truly felt a smooth surface, a soft fabric, warm skin? Of course, he would take the gloves off to wash himself but never for a long time. He had unlearned to feel anything. The gloves remain on his hands when he sleeps. Even in his sleep he doesn't find any peace. There are demons much more brutal and merciless waiting for him in the night. He doesn't like to sleep. Without his gloves he would have calluses in his palms. Thick, ugly calluses by constantly digging his nails into the flesh. Every morning his fingers ache from constantly clenching his fists. His thick gloves have protected him all these years.
That's why he freezes when she holds out her hand to him. His breath hitches and he feels like his heart has skipped a beat. He can only stare at it. Her hand is delicate, much smaller than his. Despite their dryness and roughness, proving a lifetime of hard labour and neglect, he feels like a monster compared to her, with his large hands, prone to uncontrolled violence.
And somehow, despite knowing knowing, witnessing what he is capable of, how much destruction these hands have caused, she reaches out for him. His eyes jump back to her face. Tears stream down her cheeks. There's a slight tremor in her lower lip as she stares back at him. She is scared.
He is terrified. Terrified of what he is about to do. He tries to suppress the trembling of his fingers when he begins to slowly pull off one glove. He doesn't break their eye contact, afraid that she would shy away, close herself off again once he looks away. He is also sure that he would lose the courage to continue if he did.
The leather slips off his fingers. At once he feels naked. Exposed and vulnerable. Slowly he reaches out to her, his outstretched fingers trembling in anticipation. His other hand holds onto the discarded glove like his life depended on it but her eyes, reassuring and stable despite the fear behind them, are what's anchoring him, keeping him from withdrawing his hand, keeping him from escaping back into the darkness.
Their finger tips are merely inches away from each other. And then a jolt goes trough him, traveling from his fingertips, from where their skin connects, through his arm. It feels like having touched an open life wire. It spreads all over his body in pleasant tingles. He releases a shaky breath, he must have held the whole time. More tears spill out of her eyes and she takes a trembling breath. His heart pounds against his chest when she leans forward and grabs his hand. Her warm fingers close around his. He lets go of the glove.