mini-meri-manuscripts - Tumblr blog

[mini-meri-manuscripts]

Settled Isn’t Settled

“Uuuuugh,” comes a panther-growl from beside the gaping freezer door. Before any of the world’s grandfather clocks have the chance to chime, the icy, silver-hinged barrier swings closed with a disgruntled click. I could’ve sworn I’d left something here last time, the woman thinks.

No frozen corn.

No frozen green beans, carrots, waffles, pizza—nothing.

At least it doesn’t reek of decaying fish.

A solid sheen of brisk, bland light tickled with dust flecks hastens to beckon her attention as she strafes right on past the window. Barely-perceptible foot scuffs follow each step taken while meandering over to the opposite corner. Gravity yanks her thin-stretched figure down onto a massive, time-stiffened bean bag chair; the force of nature pays no heed to her condition (despite the fact that she makes close to no dent in the lump’s shape)—to be prudently fair, she hardly regards the irritation herself.

Jingyun sighs amidst her latest temporary sanctuary. The clean, crisp slates of white and ash-grey, the faint whiff of essential oils, the stench of stale dust...she’s neither stranger to nor used to this sort of lodging. Not that it matters. There’s no telling how long this seclusion session will last. She’s not visited a tidy safehouse in a while, even with the repetitivity and rapidity of the need to relocate. What’s it been since she’d been sent to this building specifically, months? A year now? Who cares. At least it’s one of the finer ones. Thank God this homebase still exists.

Reaching sluggishly down, she presses calloused fingers against olive-tan flesh just below her knee. Wait, no—not flesh; rather, coarse cloth. Barely any sign of a flinch wracks her. Tiny stings are nothing compared to what’s caused her real scars.

Red. Her finger returns, stained red.

Figures.

Of course the coppery stuff had soaked through. She oughtn’t be shocked. There’s only so much one girl can manage with a tourniquet that’s practically tissue paper. Especially when that paper is pinned in a wrestling ring with a jagged dagger slash. And especially when it all lies against the mangled remnants of what was once a typical limb.

That was years ago.

This knife-strike won’t last like the rest.

This knife-strike had been a toothpick scratch.

The agony surrounding her more ancient wounds would make a grown man beg for death.

Heartless, granite-cold eyes peer out like laser-cutters against the untempered ceiling bulbs. Sharp. Pristine. Modernized. Everything in the room’s got the same sleek feel. Every so often, her lightweight trods and footfalls echo back to the woman her earlier groan. The squeaks feign potency, though; their poison is rendered ineffective against her iron defenses. All things considered, she may not grow to feel as cooped up in this place as usual.

Just one detail’s missing, though.

She’ll have to snag herself a succulent. Pot it riiight there. On the windowsill. No covert regime-mandated low-laying is ever complete without one. A succulent, that is; she hadn’t gotten the chance to enhance the quarters’ livability when she’d been here previously (however long ago that was). Windows are an occasional bonus. Same goes for internet, regrettably.

Even after making herself “at home,” a few stray particles meander about the air, carelessly and controlessly floating as if through outer space. The inhabitant-in-hiding billows forth a puffed-cheek breath of unsympathetic fire, dragon’s-maw style. Each bit of dust scurries away into bewildered confusion and petrified terror as they dissipate, one by one. The fleed tidbits will only come to slumber somewhere else; Her breath might as well be deemed wasted. No matter. Her breath eases anyway.

The day’s overtaxed energy very nearly clutches her completely by means of unguardedness, but she’s trained in mastering that inherent human weakness rather than it mastering her. Her heart rate may deplete into typical reclining constancy, but no other piece of her being loses vigor.

Face stoic as Notre Dame’s gargoyles, the female sinks back into the quicksand lounger and finally acknowledges the window’s urging whispers. Not much can she make out from so poor an angle, but the sequestered sandbar just off the coast (the one with a tad of greenery sprouting on the ocean’s grainy blemish) hasn’t much been altered in the hourglass-cadence allotment during which Jingyun’s been clinging to the threads of life elsewhere. If she were to pick favorites, this hideout would be her go-to selection.

It feels like she’s barely offered time enough to slouch before a casual racket clamours from an unmarked black device on the distanced coffee table. A burner cell. Placed prior to her visit, as is natural. Her head all but snaps the buzzing ringtone’s way. With the way it’s creeping towards the wood slab’s edge, less conventional souls might brain-bendingly ponder whether it’s possessed.

Really? Already?

Grumbles scale an internal mountain peak in her mindscape. Of course she gets word just as she’s gotten settled. But she doesn’t have access to the luxury of complaining. One excessive stretch later and her sympathy-barren vocals speak up.

“Toshima.” A code name. Not hers, but the caller’s.

Not a pindrop of noise breaks the following silence.

“How long?”

Total stillness.

“On it.”

With not an instant to spare, she stands, curls up a fist, and pounds the drywall to her immediate left. Her memory serves her well when a panel slides back to reveal an intimidating metal mace with a glare that could slaughter. Lightning-quick reflexes latch onto its handle without so much as a lazy glance in its general direction.

Two-point-seven seconds later, she’s booked it.

So much for getting that succulent.

[mini-meri-manuscripts]

Moonlit Memories

Radiant ribbons of amber and sunshine-gold silk flicker in the softly crackling hearth. Near silence encompasses the fancifully dim room, the darkness of a star-peppered evening hushing everything beyond. The gentle rise and fall of the fair maiden's resting heart has settled into a pure rhythm of harmony, of tranquility, as the sole source of light dances gingerly upon chopped wooden logs.

The dame's eyelids have grown heavy with time. Glowing firelight thinly paints and animates her dolled, elegant features as she lounges snugly cloaked in a blanket that administers warmth and consoling comfort. Her serenely fallow head lies reposed against the shoulder of her dearest, who sits beside her on the cushioned sofa. The traveling heat of the graceful flames is a welcome stain for the flower's form to bear. The remainder of her torso leans in to follow suit, basking in the splendid solace the man at her side so graciously provides. Sheltered here under his wing of adoring care, she's never felt safer. The hint of a serene smile tugs just slightly at the corner of her lip.

It's quiet.

Just...quiet.

Being alone together has never felt so...peaceful.

If Dahlia could remain in this place, in this state, for the rest of her years, she'd ne'er yearn for anything more. Her love here to aid her should she fold forward in frail fatigue, the half-siren could very well fall into slumber here without a care or concern in the world, all her worries ephemeral and insignificant next to this moment. 'Tis a moment she intends to cherish forevermore.

Surely the unrestrainable forces surrounding them through every waking hour will take pity, just once; surely hell will relinquish its fury for one fleeting night. Surely nothing would be so cruel as to tarnish this moment of blissful calm these two troubled souls share...

Not this time...