[ study in emotions ] NightVale Presents: Start With This

[sativa]

Title: Study in Emotions
Project: Night Vale Presents: Start with This
Rating: PG-13
Summary: I've been wanting to write for a really long time but kept floundering on the what so when NightVale challenged people to just create something I thought, I don't have anything to write though. And then I was like, what if I did a series of character studies by picking an emotion and trying to create a scene and a person based on what that emotion means to me? So, in the comments, that's what I'm going to do.

Apathy
Indecision

Comments

Apathy

[sativa]

Blank stars gleamed dully in the twilight sky: grey covered and silent, a specter of what could and will never be. It’s a walk down the lane, footsteps muffled on the rain washed stones. It’s a heavy tread, a methodic, off-tempo stamp that gives and relents at the pressure pushing back. It’s easier to just turn, to take the other step. There’s no point in stopping (there’s no point in continuing).

She stumbled, ankle twisting on the cobbled stone, hair swishing as it fell in a sheet of tawny strands around her face, covering her mouth, her eyes, her nose. She was a creature that could see nothing, hear nothing, be nothing in this quiet hold of darkness consuming her. But her hand lifted, detached and separate, a thing that did as commanded rather than a thing that served in quick flashes and bright gesticulations. It brushed the hair away from the face, giving voice, giving vision to the person underneath, and Lilian breathed again, sucking in air as the painful reminder of living filled her lungs and consumed her nose with the smell of freshness after an afternoon rain, a hint of lavender breaking the curtain of water droplets scattered across the petals to reaffirm their natural state.

She shook her head, struggling to remember where she was going and where she needed to be. But there was no where she had want to go and her feet had carried her in an endless circle, spiraling away from work, spiraling in towards home. She was a habitual creature that did as told and returned to the fold dutifully after the clock struck the hour. It was easier then changing; it was easier then deciding.

Lilian lifted her hand again, studying the tool that often fed her, clothed her, took care of her as taught by mother, by father, by society that wished and begged and demanded a productive community take care of its own (and Lillian didn’t wish to be taken care of, didn’t wish to be noticed for longer than the fleeting second it took to acknowledge her existence). It was a spark, a fading ember of life that winked out as she turned, a choice deliberate in front of her.

Her ankled throbbed but the quiet trill of birds had broken through the malaise and the soft chatter of laughter echoed through the wrought iron fence on her left. She glanced at it, seeing children, seeing dogs trotting by masters as they walked the garden paths. She took another deep breath, letting the weight of an evening press on her thin shoulders and she took a step forward, gloved hand trailing against the ironwork as she steadied herself for each slow step, each ponderous weight of life. And she glanced at the garden and the playing children and the bright tinkle of voices on the other side of the fencing.

And she trudged on against the gloom and the light kiss of mist still hanging in the air, shivering against the darkness slowly creeping through the city. It was familiar, it was comforting, it was like Lillian: white washed grey against the evening shadows and the rain and the backdrop of life that bustled in the city streets and inside the garden park a stones throw from her tiny apartment on the far edge of the square.

It was home.

It was a beginning.

It was… every single day in between: apathy.

Indecision

[sativa]

It was a creak, a subtle shift of noise as the floorboard groaned under the weight of a young man’s expectations. There was warmth in the shop and the heavy scent of butter that had been baked into every crevice and wrinkled grain of the shop’s interior. It was a score of years and double even that which had seen the trays removed from the ovens and the pastries placed in the carefully cleaned display. It was decadent chocolate and smooth cream. It was a memory of bliss on the faces as young couples shared treats and it was a tinkle of laughter as men and women flocked in and out of the jangling door, talking, gossiping, sharing the brief flash of their lives in a dazzling display of brightness.

The shop knew it all: the despair, the joy, the weight of decision that marked a perfect selection.

It shifted under the weight of the boy, leaning slightly to the left, urging the boy towards its preferred selection, knowing that most loved the smooth taste of custard and the burst of fruit on the tongue. It couldn’t taste the delicacies that had found life within its sunbaked walls, but it knew people. It had watched and listened, soaking in the joy and despair of a thousand patrons.

It was a treasure well savored.

And it leaned until the boy finally pressed his hands against the glass, framing the delicate custard pie in the field of his vision, and he swallowed—hard—at the thought of the sweetness crossing his lips. He glanced up and immediately met the crinkled eyed gaze of an old woman smiling back at him, and he pointed.

“Can I have that one?”

She laughed and immediately opened the glass from behind the counter, stooping her shoulders slightly as she deftly cut and picked up a slice to slide it onto a delicately patterned plate almost as old as the boy, himself was. “Of course, little one. I have to admit, this treat has been a favorite for many, many years. It was the first thing I made for my husband when he was courting me, did you know that?”

The boy shook his head, tongue-tied as he stared fixated on the tiny little plate as the woman shuffled towards a table with the boy following in tow. “Indeed it was; you’ll never guess it after eating this, but it tasted horrible even though he ate every last bite.” She sighed, and the sound was a whisper on the yeast laden air and she shook her head slightly as she stepped to the side so the boy could take his seat.

“He’s gone now, but it was his encouragement that made me try my hand at it again.” She chuckled again. “Little did he know that we’d end up opening this shop and we’d run it for near on thirty years.” She sighed again and then her gaze suddenly snapped, sharp and alert and her hands fell to her hips as she cleared her throat gruffly. “But don’t you mind any of that; you enjoy that dessert. It’s on the house.” She winked. “It’s a gift from me to you.”

But there was sadness as she drifted back to the counter, a weariness in her shoulders and the shop folded her in scent and heat and memory, cradling her. Because it knew their time was limited. Nothing lasted forever.

And the Soon Closing” sign discreetly placed in the window told it all.