"don't shut me out like this." @ chrissy. maybe perhaps chrissy was snooping around and found some stuff she shouldn't have. (: dead peoples' things.
Too-big teeth worry at the flaking skin of her lower lip - a testament to just how hard Chrissy has been chewing, as of late. When it’s not cannibalising her own lips, she’s picking at her nails: a never ending cycle of light self-mutilation as her world spirals out of her control. Standing at the wardrobe of the rickety old trailer, Chrissy stares at the aged, white lace in her hands, and she bites. After all, there’s no Laura Cunningham around to stop her anymore. To slap her hands apart, to pinch her chin; to tell her it’s unladylike to do such things, and that she’s ruining her appeal to any man that would consider taking her on a date. Ever since Chrissy ran away, found a new home in the dilapidated centre of Texas, she’s never had to endure a round of that scolding again. But some days, it takes a little extra convincing to tell herself she’s that better off here. She’s aware of Sissy’s presence in the room, the way her slight form still manages to take up the space of the doorway. Knows that even though Sissy cares for her, it doesn’t mean she can’t still get into trouble with her. But Chrissy can’t bring herself to speak. Like the centrepiece of the fragile, porcelain music box still sitting in her bedroom back in Indiana, she has to wait for her thoughts to wind themselves to completion before she tries to say a thing. Her teeth dig into her lip, harder. Maybe, she thinks, it’s her own fault for having rooted too far into Sissy’s clothing. Having been told she could get herself a new dress, Chrissy had been a little too eager to search through the fabrics - marvelling at the range of patterns and textures against her fingertips, stolen from countless lives. Different colours, different ages of fabric, all at her perusal. But she’d dug in just a little too far, and her fingertips had brushed against lace. Out of pure curiosity, Chrissy had pulled out the dress to look at it.
And for some reason, the remnants of some poor soul’s wedding night had caused her to freeze.
Maybe it was knowing how close she had come to the same fate. Remembering Jason’s hands on her - his pride and his surety that come the end of their University careers, he’d have Chrissy on his arm.
Still standing there, she finally bites down on her lip hard enough for it to bleed. Salt seeps into her mouth, her thumbs pressing back and forth against the stitching of the gown. It was nothing like the type of dress she would have worn. Nothing like the type she’d have wanted. But some girl had wanted it - had been so happy, probably driving off into the night with her beau.
Or maybe she’d felt just as trapped as Chrissy would have been.
Maybe, in some way, she’d been freed.
Maybe Sissy had freed her too.
“When… when did you get this?” she asks, a moment passing before baby blue eyes raise to Sissy’s own. Her head lifted, Chrissy’s own hair rests free around her shoulders: her restrictive ponytails long since abandoned when she accepted this new life. The dress bunches just slightly in her grip, though she tries not to crease it. Recognising even now, that it deserves to be handled with care and fragility.
“How long ago?”
