LJ Idol // Literary Prize Fight - Week 2
Oct. 14th, 2018 01:30 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
megatronixKate blew a breath out of the corner of her mouth to get her bangs out of her eyes as she steadied herself on the edge of her chair, one foot on the arm of the chair, and one foot on the seat. This is stupid, she thought to herself, but she didn’t get down.
Why? Because this was the spot. THIS was the spot where the morning light fell, casting a soft glow of hope itself across her wall. Plus, she didn't have a ladder, or even a stepstool, and by god, she was not going to let that stop her. She was done with letting anything stand in her way, including her absent stepladder, absent because it still resided with him, she thought bitterly, then nearly laughed at her outrage over her stepladder's "betrayal." She held the shelf and one nail firmly against the wall with her left hand, grabbed the hammer with the right, and pounded the nail on the head. Get. In. There!
“Aaaooowwwch!” she yelled as the hammer slipped and pounded her thumb. She groaned loudly, then sighed, and shook her hand a bit, the universal response to injuries for some reason. That, or sucking on them, which she almost did, before remembering the nail still balanced lightly between her lips. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath in through her nose, opened her eyes, and tried again. The nail went in. Ever so carefully, she grabbed the next nail, and repeated the process.
Her phone buzzed on the small table just a few feet away. For the slightest fraction of a second, she thought it must be Chris. How long until that stopped being her first expectation? Kate could see "Mom" at the top of her buzzing phone, and decided she could call her back later.
Chris. What an ass. I hope he's happy now, she thought with a scowl. Then, as she slid her hand across her newly installed shelf, she relaxed her brow and thought, maybe she really did hope he was happy..? No, she decided. But she wanted to feel that way. To think "I hope he's happy" in something other than a sarcastic, jaded tone. And that was progress in and of itself. Someday, she would get there... probably. Once the sands of time had a chance to pour into, and fill, bit by bit, grain by grain, the cavernous hole he had left in her heart, maybe then she could carve out a small space for forgiveness.
She climbed back down the chair, picked up a little plant that she’d named Sprout, a small leafy thing in a turquoise planter. She stepped back up, and set him gingerly on the shelf. Then she did the same thing three more times, adding each new peregrination, one more item: her favorite candle, her clay incense burner she'd crafted by hand, and a seashell she'd had since childhood. Finally, she stood with her feet planted firmly on the floor and admired her work, took in the sight of what she'd erected: her altar to what she loved, what she celebrated in life, her altar to herself.
She sighed again, this time with a smile and a nod.
Why? Because this was the spot. THIS was the spot where the morning light fell, casting a soft glow of hope itself across her wall. Plus, she didn't have a ladder, or even a stepstool, and by god, she was not going to let that stop her. She was done with letting anything stand in her way, including her absent stepladder, absent because it still resided with him, she thought bitterly, then nearly laughed at her outrage over her stepladder's "betrayal." She held the shelf and one nail firmly against the wall with her left hand, grabbed the hammer with the right, and pounded the nail on the head. Get. In. There!
“Aaaooowwwch!” she yelled as the hammer slipped and pounded her thumb. She groaned loudly, then sighed, and shook her hand a bit, the universal response to injuries for some reason. That, or sucking on them, which she almost did, before remembering the nail still balanced lightly between her lips. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath in through her nose, opened her eyes, and tried again. The nail went in. Ever so carefully, she grabbed the next nail, and repeated the process.
Her phone buzzed on the small table just a few feet away. For the slightest fraction of a second, she thought it must be Chris. How long until that stopped being her first expectation? Kate could see "Mom" at the top of her buzzing phone, and decided she could call her back later.
Chris. What an ass. I hope he's happy now, she thought with a scowl. Then, as she slid her hand across her newly installed shelf, she relaxed her brow and thought, maybe she really did hope he was happy..? No, she decided. But she wanted to feel that way. To think "I hope he's happy" in something other than a sarcastic, jaded tone. And that was progress in and of itself. Someday, she would get there... probably. Once the sands of time had a chance to pour into, and fill, bit by bit, grain by grain, the cavernous hole he had left in her heart, maybe then she could carve out a small space for forgiveness.
She climbed back down the chair, picked up a little plant that she’d named Sprout, a small leafy thing in a turquoise planter. She stepped back up, and set him gingerly on the shelf. Then she did the same thing three more times, adding each new peregrination, one more item: her favorite candle, her clay incense burner she'd crafted by hand, and a seashell she'd had since childhood. Finally, she stood with her feet planted firmly on the floor and admired her work, took in the sight of what she'd erected: her altar to what she loved, what she celebrated in life, her altar to herself.
She sighed again, this time with a smile and a nod.