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update from sparkleup

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Madison Scott-Clary 2024-01-07 08:45:05 -08:00
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writing/post-self/motes/005.md
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@ -53,7 +53,26 @@ The other, still-bloodied instance quit and Beholden smiled, carefully guiding t
*Hug,* Motes's body signed. *Hug. Alone. Dark.*
*And the toys?* this other her thought. *Tell her to get rid of the toys!*
But no, Beholden only hugged her, kissed her on top of the head, and tucked her in before turning out the light, telling her along each step of the way that she loved her
But no, Beholden only hugged her, kissed her on top of the head, and tucked her in before turning out the light.
*I am an adult…*
*I am an adult...*
And then it was dark and she was alone, her body and this mere mote of Motes who lingered up above.
Days past out of time and time past out of mind and mind drifted only in darkness where darkness gave no count of days. Delineations came only ever from within. She knew, for instance, that she got hungry at one point and quickly turned the sensation off. She knew that at one point that she got too warm and so she commanded the room to be colder so that she could bundle up.
The only interruption than came from the outside was the door at one point creaking open. Motes did not know how long had passed — this life without play admitted no hours — but she did know that it must have been night, for precious little light came in, and what light did make it into the room was Moon silver. She also knew that she was far closer to her body now, perhaps halfway there.
Even with so little light, it was plain to see A Finger Pointing's silhouette, and so she remained where she was.
Her down-tree instance did not wait by the door but instead crept in and closed it behind her, and Motes had to track her progress by the whisper of her slacks, the soft sound of her feet on the carpet. And then there was the shifting of the bed and the feeling of settling down behind her, laying over the covers.
"I love you, Dot," she said, arm tucking up and around her.
Motes watched dispassionately as her body started to relax at the gesture, the words.
"I am sorry," A Finger Pointing continued in a whisper.
There was confusion, then, and a spike of anxiety — had she found out about the letter? Was Motes in trouble? Was there a 'but' coming, and A Finger Pointing was about to ask her to change? — but when only silence followed, Motes relaxed the rest of the way and nestled back into her cocladist's arms. She was not yet able to speak, was still without her beloved play, but comfort was comfort and love was love and here is where it was to be found.
Finally she slept, finally she dreamed.