Bury me in Amaranth (reader x Edward)

Chapter 3

12.04.1967

There are numbers written on my wrist.

Digits inscribed in what seems to be ink, symbols marked black and permanent on the skin where I see my veins. Shades of light green and blue, a reminder that blood courses through my body, sustains my current form.

Ironic that my due date is carved on my vessels of life.

There is nothing but resentment to the engravement on my wrist, a loathing hatred that stretches from the blood on my toes to that of my head. My whole body an enmity to the fate that awaits me, a fate that will not change.

But foremost, I hate this repulsion has made my hope swindle like the fire of a candle. Blown to smoke as I sit in wait, despairing what is to come, unable to make myself stand and ignite the ambition I once had. Set aflame my wishes that never burned hot enough to remain standing, even while faced with the due date marked on my wrist.

I cannot stand.

Not as a scenery that had once taken my breath away passes by me, nor when the occasional person will sit down to ask of my place in this world. Where I plan to go, why I sit here in wait with the same three books, the same solomn face. But there is no place for a withering soul, and I mark down my wishes in these books as a last attempt to find my place in this world.

"Still here hm?"

Nowadays its a boy with gold hair and eyes that seems to always plop down beside me. Poke my shoulder and send a smile my way in attempt to evoke a reaction. I've grown used to his presence, and each time he speaks of his hometown and life in Amestris, I wish to reveal a past of my own. Why picturitsic scenes of creeks and meadows fail to draw the reaction I'd once had, why my wrist aches and head throbs.

He sets his hand on the book, "What book are you reading this time? You can't get a sneak peak of the cover this time."

The pages are filled with images of landscapes, hills of autumn leaves and muddied dirt roads crowded by tall oak. "Pretty places."

"Even I could tell that much," but he takes his hand off the page. He doesn't pester me about it, leaning back into the leather cushion and looking out the window. "Where's your stop?"

Not the first time I've been asked. I'm sure it won't be the last either. "I don't know." My thumb brushes the edge of the paper as the timer clambers in my head, I flip the page. He is however the first one I ask back, "What about you?"

He sighs absentmindedly, "No idea either. I'm travelling the east so I get off wherever."

Free willed, bounding off to the unknown without a second thought. As you thought, he truly is odd. There is no pleasure in throwing yourself into the undecided, there is no pleasure in stepping off this train.

So untethered to the fears that lay beyond, unshackled.

It made me laugh.

The first sharp breath in is a shock, and I let it out in a scoff before it seizes me again. My chest rises and falls clumsily, and I lean over my book as laughter bubbles up my throat again and again. Until a wave of relief washes over me, it feels good. Until I'm gasping for air, until my eyes grow red. Slowly, the insides of my ribcage feel fragile, and each hack of amusement I let out burns.

I want to cry. Not because of the pain, I've known enough pain. But this sense of ease feels so forlorn, so far away, unrecognisable. But even still, I know it, I know it well. And it torments me, because its been so long since I've felt it.

"You..." lost in the moment, I'd forgotten about the blonde haired boy who now speaks to me. "You remind me of my brother."

I swallow tears. "Why?"

"He spent a long time waiting for something."

Ah, so he knows there is a reason as to why I bide my time here.

Its a pleasant feeling, being understood. A heartfelt tug in my chest, and perhaps I would have felt it if not for the burning. The one that grew after my laughter, the heat that continues to rise up my neck, my face. Along my cheekbones and the ridges of my nose. Reaching my eyes, burning. Its impossible to hold my tears then, impossible to resist this vulnerability when my face feels hot, flushed.

My response is steady despite the waterworks. "The days go faster when everything is the same. Same setting, same music, same books, same view. It all blends together." My lips curl, I can feel tears dribble down my cheeks against my scorching face. "Until I am unsure of what has become of my reality, until everything becomes non existent. Unimportant.

"It makes the wait easier."

There are no words shared between us, silent through the rest of journey to his stop. But he cares, and I do not shy away when he takes my hand in his. Fingers lacing together as if I can provide some sort of support, a pillar to keep him upright. Instead I'm the one who feels grounded, supported, loved.

Goodbye Ed.