๐ง๐๐๐ฅ๐๐ฆ ๐ ๐ก๐ข๐ง๐ ๐๐ง๐ง๐๐๐๐๐ ๐ง๐ข ๐๐ง.
๐ฅ๐ค๐ ๐ณ๐ด๐ฑ๐ค๐ฒ ๐จ๐ญ๐ข๐ซ๐ด๐ฃ๐ค :
๐ก๐๐๐
๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ผ๐พ ๐ป๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐จ๐ข๐ข ๐ฝ๐๐ฟ๐ฟ๐พ๐๐พ๐๐ ๐
๐๐๐พ๐!
๐ ๐ผ๐บ๐๐พ๐๐บ
๐ฌ๐ ๐ท๐จ๐ฌ๐ด๐ฌ ๐ด๐ญ๐ข๐ฎ๐ฌ๐ฅ๐ฎ๐ฑ๐ณ๐ ๐ก๐จ๐ซ๐จ๐ณ๐ธ! ๐จ๐'๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐
๐๐๐พ ๐๐๐พ ๐๐พ๐บ๐
๐๐๐๐๐.
- ๐ญ๐ ๐๐พ๐พ๐ฝ ๐๐ ๐๐๐บ๐๐ ๐๐พ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐พ๐, ๐ง๐บ๐๐๐ ๐ก๐จ๐ฑ๐ณ๐ง๐ฝ๐บ๐ (!) / ๐ซ๐๐๐พ ๐ง๐ ๐ณ๐ค ๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY CHARLIE, always accepting; @demunitization.
the pillow sits in her hands later than she's sure he would've liked. a random pillow caught up in the hotel's cozy hustle and bustle, had she not caught sight of the thing who's to say where it might've ended up. in the garbage outside, behind the hotel somewhere, tangled up between dingy sex toys and used needles grimy with overuse on the top of a trash heap. where it belongs. her nails dig into the edge of the plush fabric, the cherry red of her cheeks creasing in tandem with the harsh downturn of her mouth. no matter how she tried to parse this, it was just... cold. too cold.
happy birthday to me, she'd think bitterly. a shake in her grip when she turns the ostensibly life sized plush over in her hands to glance at the underside, a dip in the fabric portending the promise of the voice box and no doubt an object far more intrusive. she wasn't an idiot, he liked to watch. as if public mockery wasn't enough, he had to pry into her private life too. he couldn't leave well enough alone could he?
with an insufferable huff of air, she falls back into her ever faithful couch. just a girl and her lifesized vox pillow. she snorts, the sheer impossibility of it too much not to laugh if derisively. maximum uncomfortability! it's just like the real thing! displayed on the note as though proud, crudely so. her heart wrenches at the confession uncomfortably, somber. a sharper, meaner, part of her would be inclined to agree; he was uncomfortable now. but before?
โ you weren't uncomfortable before. โ she murmurs, feeling stupid. she'd never tell him now anyways. mocking though the words read, like a presumption of how she felt, always assuming ahead of her like he thought better, like he was better, howeverโโ she'd seen his lows. though jeering, there laid an ugly truth beneath the words, and her knuckles come up to brush against his idiotic head like a salve soothed into wounds. did he sincerely believe that? that she thought he was uncomfortable to be around?
โ stupid, so fucking stupid... โ her head tips back, shoulders pressed square against the back of the couch, eyes tracing the floral ceiling wallpaper in search of an answer. fruitless. the fact he remembered makes her want to laugh, a bubble rising and choking her, though no sound escapes. only her, and the walls around her, her sanctity of safety. and this fucking thing.
it shouldn't choke her up, shouldn't get under her skin like it does so, like he does. an ebbing ache she can't just shoulder away, and she can't decide whether she wants to throw him at the wall. call it quits and dump him outside in the garbage herself, or... her gaze drifts to one of her own plushies; some brought, some mangled and hand made labors of love she'd toiled over herself, each the same ones she'd reach out for when things got too much. unable to bear the sanctity of loneliness herself, aching for affection she starved herself of. the safety of being held without the hazard of being seen.
fucking hell, she couldn't be this pathetic could she?
time ticks by, silent melancholia. she allows herself the reprieve to mope for what was, the has beens, could've beens, doors slammed shut and promises lost to time.
lithe legs stretch out, head lolling back up as her words settle into incomprobability. a barely there, โ alright... โ, stretched loose as though resisting finality, akin to the long suffering close of a book, a new chapter pending; when she begins her theatrical stand, pillow tumbling to the floor. she stares down, brows knitting. that uncomfortable feeling was back. she didn't have the energy to figure it out, better to reserve what she did have for nicer things.
when she does pick him back up, the fabric catches neatly in her claws, grip firm. somehow, in the short space of the journey between her room and her walk in closet, she'd hoisted him under her arm.
โ into the closet you go, mister. โ she speaks with finality, stuffing him at the very, veeery, far back corner. far as she could hope to hide him, figure partially obscured by the various blazers hanging on high. the doors close slow, footsteps a distant rumble on carpet floors.
