𝑰𝑵𝑲 • 𝑻𝒆𝒘𝒌𝒆𝒔𝒃𝒖𝒓𝒚 / 𝑳𝒐𝒖𝒊𝒔 𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒅𝒈𝒆

Force of Habit

Warmth enveloped the small room. Sun beams shone through the framed window, exposing the hovering dust particles to her heavy eyes. They hit the skin of her exposed stomach, so soft and still, heated by the sun's embrace. Her hair laid splayed out on the pillow beneath her, unruly, wild, and such a hassle that the temptation to just chop it all off grew with every passing day. 

But she'd never cut it, she knew he loved to play with it, and the knowledge of that soothed her. And besides, she wanted it to be long for her wedding, and there'd be nowhere near enough time to grow it back by then if she decided to get rid of it now.

Half of her face was flat against the pillow, morphing her features into its creases and covering  one of her eyes. She breathed softly through her mouth, her lips pursed and full. The melodic chirps of songbirds could be heard on the other side of the thin walls, which did little to keep out the approaching autumn chill. Forcing her to wrap herself up in blankets to keep warm; blankets which had sunk down her torso over the course of the night, now resting on the defined bones of her hips.

Despite the outward image of tranquility and calm coming from the scene, the girl's thoughts were in turmoil. Her gaze was so focused on what resided in the far corner of her room, she was convinced she'd implode from the sheer turbulence she felt inside. The only thing seemingly able to remove her from those thoughts and keep her present were the goosebumps raising on her naval from the disappearing sun rays, slowly being overshadowed by clouds.

Florence had been staring at the book. The book that had laid untouched, on top of a dust ridden stool beside her muddy boots, for months. The book he had given her for her birthday, and she hadn't dared open since his departure. He must not have known what was inside. If he did, he wouldn't have given it to me. 

Its pages were worn, some even had small tears or tea spillages on their surfaces, but nothing extreme enough to damage its contents. From its state, Florence assumed he had picked it up from a small store in a nearby town. It can't have cost an awful lot, and it can't be new I mean, look at the state of it.

The cause of her distress was rooted in the fact that for the first time in a long time, she felt the need to continue reading. The book was a collection of poems, all of which were written by who she assumed to be a variety of virtually unknown poets. They were all short, romantic works, hence Florence's doubts about the boy's knowledge of its contents.

In that moment, curled up on her bed, she was flooded with the memories of their effect. The security they brought her. They made her feel special, and these past few months without them had been the coldest and most empty of her life. She furrowed her eyebrows, subsequently squeezing her eyes shut and clenching her pointed jaw before giving in entirely and sitting up.

The wood boards creaked under her weight as she walked over to the other side of her room. Picking up the book and gently blowing on its leather cover to rid it of all the dust it had accumulated, she walked back over to her bed, sitting on its edge and tossing the book into the pile of covers beside her. Her fingers tapped a constant beat against her stiff mattress, its rhythm laced with nerves. She picked at the skin on her bottom lip, slowly mustering up the courage to unveil its pages.

In one swift motion, she reached for the book and frantically turned to the page with the folded corner. The last page she had read. The page she had read that morning.

'I walk with the weight of all the words I can't say

But I continue on towards the day that I may

For when that day comes, I've done nothing but pray

That you'll take me and tell me you feel the same way'