//short drabble that connects somewhat to this one by Tooth and gives a snapshot look into what Belle's been up to lately
The plate clattering into the sink basin startles her into the present, she sways for another second with the brief vertigo of suddenly being in a different place. A different person. One deep breath in, one out, and she tries to re-orient herself. There is her countertop cluttered with cute little knick knacks, there is the handprint painting she stuck to the fridge with a strawberry-shaped magnet, there is the bowl of fruit Tolya grew for her this morning(was it just this morning? it might have been yesterday or-), there is her favorite handsoap(need to remember to put it on the grocery list, it's running low and maybe check if-), there are her hands, bare of rings because she was...she was doing dishes. The left is shaking, still hovering above where the plate slipped out of its loose, uncooperative fingers. She balls it into a fist
Or, tries to. The immediate wave of frustration and disgust hits her and with ruthless efficiency she tries to crush it down. It helps nothing to pity herself even if, god, it feels like it would be a balm against the bullshit that is simply enduring at this point. Wallowing won't finish the dishes, won't get her chores finished so that she can get back to sitting with them (). She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes (does this even work? I don't remember if I need oxygen today), blows it out as slowly as she can. In and out, in and out until she can reconnect her will, or just her intention anyway, with the roots that weave through her arm between muscles and bones. It's like waking up an asleep limb, but worse. As their roots wake up, start to twitch and move inside the flesh of her arm and each tiny joint of her fingers, she has to force the shaky grit-teeth breathing routine through the sensation of nails scraping across a sunburn that covers every inch of her dead arm, inside and out. Her face is outwardly passive (even here at home - you know they can feel you, you don't have to pretend here) as she watches her pitch black fingers slowly fold into a fist. She squeezes until her nails cut into the flesh of her palm.
Something like smoke bleeds out of the crescent marks and drips down onto
The plate has long since stopped clattering (a few minutes? how long have I been standing here just trying to pull it together?) but the ghost of its vibration stays in her teeth. She looks down at it as the smoke-blood washes off under the still-running faucet.
For an indulgent moment she imagines herself slamming her fist into it, can picture the exact way it would sound snapping between her knuckles and the sink. The chime of the ceramic shattering and playing a tune of destruction against the stainless steel, the way each piece would become something more unique than the whole ever was. Sharper, more interesting. No longer fit for its intended purpose but still for something, maybe, even broken like this. She can feel the nearly imperceptible groove that one of the pieces would leave in the metal, a small unintended casualty of an act of desperate misplaced rage.
Who are you angry at?
She picks up the plate again, finishes scrubbing, rinsing, drying. It goes carefully back in its place in the cupboard, whole. A rolling list in her mind is ticked off task by task as she meticulously straightens the kitchen. Spices to the cupboard (labels out), dish rags to the laundry (remember to grab the other bag from upstairs), creamer in the fridge (a man falls from the roof of a building, her foot trips on an invisible dip in the floor), bread proofing out of where the sun will hit in the morning (how are they doing? I've been gone too long), everything wiped down. Twice. Her hand behaves, the burning faded to the background again by the time she's finished. 7 minutes and 38 seconds by the count of her slow, even breaths. Not really that long (I should rebraid their hair for them) but she's anxious to get back.
Tea in hand, she hums a song stuck in her head on her way back to the living room where she'd left them (it). "Bonjour lover, sorry that took so long. Had a channel change in the middle of doing dishes." A step down into the conversation pit and she finds a seat among the pillows next to them (it) where she can lay her legs across their (its) lap. Their (Its) hands are so enveloped in vines that they (it) couldn't hold her even if they (it) tried, so she gets as close as she can anyway, head on their (its) shoulder. She knows without words that today isn't one of the days where they (it) would be trying to hold her, anyway. There's a distance (it makes sense, that they don't want to be in it like this) and a pang of... something, when there's no reaction to the kiss to their (its) cheek but. A part of them wraps around her middle when she finally gets settled and almost immediately everything seems to slow down, get quieter. The constant noise of her turned down to a background hum.
Unfocused eyes don't see her, and there's nothing to indicate that her presence is even noticed, but she still makes idle chatter while she drinks her tea and scrolls through her phone. Nothing important, nothing memorable, just to fill the space and. Help, maybe? She's not sure. It feels, in some poetic way, like talking to a plant to help it grow. No way to know if you're being heard, but it can't hurt to try, can it?
Some part of them hears her. They're busy elsewhere tonight, but the vine around her stomach shakes a little as if laughing sometimes, or squeezes her in acknowledgement. Eventually another joins it around her ankle or wrist or throat, just holding her as they give her a little more of themself to be present. Her hand, steady now, makes idle superficial cuts in their flesh with her nails. Little hearts, little stars, cuneiform that spells out the background prayers. They (it) twitch or writhe even against the strength of their vines now and then, but she only readjusts and continues speaking if they (it) jostle her. There are lapses of comfortable silence, growing longer until she realizes that she's been nodding off sitting in the dark with them (it, them) for some time. She considers her options, whether to make the effort to get up and turn the lights on or stay put. There are a few other things that she should get done before she goes to bed, some paperwork and research that she needs to look at, some more chores. When she moves to stand, the vine around her stomach pulls her back down, deciding for her.
With a laugh she strokes her fingertips over the marks she'd made (these would look so pretty lit up.) "Mhm, message received, Garden. I do need to sleep. Help me lay it down?" She barely needs to ask before they're already shifting things, moving the body to a more horizontal position and moving her (to her laughing, teasing complaints) until she's settled on top of them (it) exactly where she feels the most comfortable. Exactly where it feels like home.
It takes time, even tired. A resistance to dipping herself back into the cacophany of witnessing when all she wants to do is stay awake with them. She focuses on the feeling of their plants inside her, tries to count all the places they touch. When she falls asleep it's with a still chest beneath her head and her lover holding every piece of her, inside and out.
