Jess. 22. Texan.

Stumbling through adulthood and willing to talk to anyone about anything. I do a lot of shipping and a lot of writing.

 Angels with a Shotgun

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The doctors said he was stable enough, mentally, to have shoelaces again. He didn’t even know how much he missed shoelaces until they were gone. Still, he appreciated the change from the usual stark white scrub outfits. He now sported a soft sweatshirt, broken in jeans, and trainers. 
Still, something about the clothes didn’t feel right. He felt like he needed more layers, something to cover him up. 
He felt exposed in so little.
Maybe it was the vulnerability, that exposure, that drove him to the window sill. It was always so warm and the window provided the perfect vantage point to watch over his rose bush and the cars passing below him.
He hated the bars though. It felt like another restriction, another stolen freedom.
The light from the sun warms him straight through and triggers memories of grass that smelled of apples and a woman—Rose—next to him, head thrown back and laughing. He loved this memory. He loved this Rose. He wished he could remember everything.
The nurses draw the line at him sitting there at night. They complain that he needs to interact with the other patients, concentrate on senses and his surroundings to trigger memories. 
He tries to explain about the apple grass and Rose, but the nurses gently explain that Rose is a figment of his imagination and hand him safety scissors and paper. “Make something.” He puts the scissors down and sits at the window instead.
Still, he finds a way to sit at that window at night. He seems to possess a predilection for sneaking around places he shouldn’t be.
The night is dark and the stars are bright. He closes his eyes and recites the name of every star, every constellation. He knows the exact latitude and longitude and the knowledge scares him.
He also has memories of tracing stars on a pale, flat stomach with his tongue. Hands creating universes and galaxies of their own on stretches of soft skin. He knows it’s Rose. Knows it with every fiber of his being. Everything comes back to Rose and he won’t let the nurses tell him otherwise.
So he sits at this window and waits for the day his Rose finds him.
Waits for the day he finds himself.

The doctors said he was stable enough, mentally, to have shoelaces again. He didn’t even know how much he missed shoelaces until they were gone. Still, he appreciated the change from the usual stark white scrub outfits. He now sported a soft sweatshirt, broken in jeans, and trainers. 

Still, something about the clothes didn’t feel right. He felt like he needed more layers, something to cover him up. 

He felt exposed in so little.

Maybe it was the vulnerability, that exposure, that drove him to the window sill. It was always so warm and the window provided the perfect vantage point to watch over his rose bush and the cars passing below him.

He hated the bars though. It felt like another restriction, another stolen freedom.

The light from the sun warms him straight through and triggers memories of grass that smelled of apples and a woman—Rose—next to him, head thrown back and laughing. He loved this memory. He loved this Rose. He wished he could remember everything.

The nurses draw the line at him sitting there at night. They complain that he needs to interact with the other patients, concentrate on senses and his surroundings to trigger memories. 

He tries to explain about the apple grass and Rose, but the nurses gently explain that Rose is a figment of his imagination and hand him safety scissors and paper. “Make something.” He puts the scissors down and sits at the window instead.

Still, he finds a way to sit at that window at night. He seems to possess a predilection for sneaking around places he shouldn’t be.

The night is dark and the stars are bright. He closes his eyes and recites the name of every star, every constellation. He knows the exact latitude and longitude and the knowledge scares him.

He also has memories of tracing stars on a pale, flat stomach with his tongue. Hands creating universes and galaxies of their own on stretches of soft skin. He knows it’s Rose. Knows it with every fiber of his being. Everything comes back to Rose and he won’t let the nurses tell him otherwise.

So he sits at this window and waits for the day his Rose finds him.

Waits for the day he finds himself.

  1. mahleuzzi reblogged this from wholock-r-a-dorkiplier
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    why is he so adorable all the time?
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