selina’s just going to return a book. that’s all. a book. (she’s always so quiet. her heels mute any sound, all sound, not even the steel ping ping ping of her shoes.)
she forgets, sometimes. her spine goes ramrod when she hears something shatter — her body seizes up, and she feels her lungs pull air like the room’s been sealed. her fingertips tingle and numb, her toes feel the same — her feet buzz inside those heels. they don’t feel like weapons at all. they cease to be knives suddenly. the book falls forgotten in the hall.
she regrets ducking in immediately, hates her feet for moving her more sternly toward the source of sound. it makes her nauseous, makes a deep flush of heat cross her shoulders, her neck, her back. she’s inside her body and she’s operating it, but she’s not precisely aware of it. it’s a body, that’s all, and if you asked her it’s just a mask of a different sort on her face.
every effort is made not to shrink from the possibility of violence. every atom in her body forces itself toward keeping her composure, toward not finding a corner quickly. she finds, instead, that she’s kneeling — picking up what’s been dropped, holding it out to the other in spite of herself. it’s half obedient, like of course the offended item has to be retrieved by her, but the instinct says pacify, will this pacify?
“hey.”
it’s quiet, she makes no move to stand just yet, she’s all molten brown doe eyes. she’s trying to keep herself together, sewn only by sutures barely managing though a lifetime. the image of herself is always there, imprinted loosely in the background — a child pleading not to be stricken.
