|Mourning for the Unspeakable
Author: Ryuko Ishida PM
It’s out of her control she may as well not have any where he’s concerned – the thoughts of him… Glen/MarketaRated: Fiction K - English - Romance - Words: 375 - Reviews: 4 - Favs: 3 - Published: 09-21-09 - Status: Complete - id: 5393478
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Mourning for the Unspeakable
Summary: It's out of her control (she may as well not have any where he's concerned) – the thoughts of him…
Disclaimer: I don't own the movie, only the plot bunny.
A/N: I want to rewatch the movie again, but school steals away my time. Damn school.
It's times like these when she misses him the most. The small apartment complex is eerily quiet for a Monday afternoon as she places her keys on the coffee table, sheds her bulky winter coat on the back of a chair, and wanders her way to the second-hand upright piano that she has purchased a few months ago – right after he has left for London, in fact.
'Five months,' she reminds herself almost unconsciously, caressing the black and white keys with her nimble fingers in an almost loving, delicate manner.
She knows, at this moment, that her mother is getting groceries in a nearby shop, her husband is working at the construction site a few blocks away, and her Ivancha is still at school.
It's almost unreal – this grave-like silence, as if the air itself is mourning for the unspeakable, heavy feeling within her lithe body.
She presses the white ivory a bit harder, and an echoing B note bells out from the instrument. Tentatively, she places both hands on the long stage and they dance, having a mind (memories from songs they have played together seemingly so long ago) of their own.
It's out of her control (she may as well not have any where he's concerned) – the thoughts of him: his low, husky but passionate voice singing so sorrowfully, his cynical smirks, the casual yet intense flair he holds when he's plucking and strumming his beloved guitar. Everything about him rushes to her head now whenever she's playing the piano.
These days, her head seems to be playing tricks with her as well, since the letters that have been locked up so safely in her desk drawer are singing for her attention more powerfully than ever.
It's annoying… frustrating… weakening… Defeated. And she admits (even if it's only to herself and no one else): she misses him.