ID. 〉 FINN ‹ THE FINN ›
FINGERS play idly at the adornment, worrying the metal between work-calloused fingers. she does that a lot, working her pads over the i n t r i c a t e patterns, scraping her nail over the curved edges. mind whirs, rapid as the MACHINES she tends to day in and day out and as the cogs turn touch falls naturally to the amulet around her neck. he knows the story behind it, has heard brief s n i p p e t s of ‘ before ’ thrown here and there paige a percussive bomb none DARE drop on fragile foundations. his eyes flick from the necklace to the one wearing it.
❛ you never talk about her. ❜
@behindpipes liked for a starter [ x ]
BIBLIOPHILE . ( SHE BELIEVES IN BOOKS. ) &. the spines that holds the ribs of white pages together, the black script that was her berceuse. they hold the galaxy’s theories, the galaxy’s truths, the galaxy’s meaning. FICTION AND NON-FICTION ALIKE. hours upon hours dedicated to one simple goal : T O L E A R N . mind was her sharpest weapon ; a blade that will perpetually be forged, never to be s h a r p enough, never to be u s e f u l enough. this identity harbored behind pipes, her off hours spent with back against the pipes calloused ( E N G I N E E R ) hands worked on for eight hours straight learning, always learning WITH HER.
when a husband loses his spouse, he is a WIDOWER. when a wife loses her spouse, she is a WIDOW. when a child loses both parents, they are an ORPHAN.
what is a sister without her sister ? the galaxy ( HER RELIGION ) R E F U S E S to give her a response. her other half, gone. A L L that was left was the crescent moon medallion hanging from her neck, against her heart. fingers i n s t i n c t i v e l y trace the intricate patterns, wishing her sister was tracing the same patterns like she once did. her voice was already done, but her words remain in her head. ROSE, WHEN WE ARE APART, THEY NECKLACES WILL CONNECT US NO MATTER HOW FAR AWAY WE ARE FROM ONE ANOTHER.
❛ YOU WANT TO KNOW WHY I NEVER TALK ABOUT HER ? her name was paige. a consequential part that belonged in my chest. now, nothing works right with it gone. not like phantom pain of an amputee victim who lost a limb that could be built again like an arm. but like a heart that now beats in the spleen, useless. her body / her body was D E C I M A T E D into ash, blown apart with the ferocity of multitude of bombs, now nothing more than tiny particles never to be w h o l e again. ❜
