This is my entry for Darknessandlight's write the ending of her short story. The stuff in italic is her short story and then the stuff that is not is, well, not. XDDDDDDDD
The song on the side is amazing. It's got a really good... feeling, for this. Odd. Listen to it. It's not the same storyline as this, but it's amazing. It's called "bad wine and lemon cake". XD
All that was left of it was a picture- tucked away in the corner of one of her drawers, hidden underneath a box covered by old linens. For you could only have certain things in your drawers: one toothbrush and paste, a hairbrush, soap, and a small bottle of non-toxic spray. She used to have nail scissors, too. But, she found out, they don't like hands. Or was it scissors?
The picture. It wasn't even in good condition, the corners were chipped, the ink was fading and there was a long scratch that ran from one side to the other, connecting them like a line between two dots, engraved deeply onto the paper, cutting the man in half. Like scissors. Cut. After last time it was bad for anyone to suspect you had scissors. If you had scissors they wouldn't be happy. Never happy, not with scissors.
Man. Man might not have been the right word, but boy wasn't either, the same way she hadn't been a woman back then and hadn't been a girl either. But words never sound right, when they come from your own mouth, your ears never fully accept them as your own. And then you come to think maybe they're not your own, maybe they never were. Your voice, your words, your hands, not yours, never yours. And they don't like hands, so it must be true.
It was during that time in between where nothing was sure and everything was possible. Yes, with scissors, anything is possible. And she had scissors then. Large ones, but different to the scissors some people think are scissors. You wielded it with one hand, for it had only one handle, and you danced with it as you fought with it. It's one sharp edge glinting as you raised it high above your head.
Nobody knew about the picture. Not her five children- was it five?- not her nine grandchildren (or maybe it was ten) and certainly not her husband. This was all that was left and it hurt to think it had to be hidden clandestinely this way. But she couldn't show them, they wouldn't understand. They would take him away.
Oh, there were pictures of him elsewhere, in their house. He was on many walls. He was even in her bedroom. But he wasn't hers in those pictures the way he was on the one tucked in the drawer. It was her in his eyes, he had said, and even after all these years, after everything, she still believed him.
That picture was all that was left, yes, and it was hidden, but it was better like this because she didn't, couldn't share this was anyone else, share this part of him, this small reminder. They wouldn't understand. And they couldn't take him away; that was all she had left. On that picture, he was hers, and strangely enough, she was his.
A tentacle of smoke snaked from the corner of the room to dance and dither in front of her eyes. She lifted her head from the picture to stare more fully at the whirling wisp. She knew where it had come from; the blue caterpillar sat with the same contemplative and somewhat languid look about his features that he always had. A smile curved the papery skin of her lips as she looked over.
'Alice.' His voice was a warm rasp against her ears. Smooth and yet hoarse, and deep, that hummed within her ears long after he had finished speaking.
Her body unconsciously inched forward, almost hypnotised by the tone. The pungent stench of nicotine hung in the air and clung to her throat, burnt its way up her nose as she pulled in breath after breath. Nobody knew about the picture.