It’s late, but I can’t sleep yet (I really hate you, clock-springer-forward) and I’m glad I couldn’t, because I found a cool prompt! Wasn’t sure where I was going with it to be honest, but as always it ended on the slightly strange. Which I love. Thanks http://icameforthesoup.com/ for the prompt! I suggest any of you guys check it out as well, it was fun. =) Hope you enjoy!
She snatched the wad of crumpled paper from the waste basket and, with trembling hands, smoothed it as flat as she could. How could he have just thrown it away like that? It had taken her hours of meticulous work to get the wings just right, the individual feathers of folded edges nearly perfect.
He was supposed to love it.
She smoothed it out further, pressing hard against the soft paper. The wrinkles wouldn’t come out. How could she make something beautiful if the wrinkles wouldn’t come out? Harder. Her small fists pounded on the paper one second, then she worked individual creases with her scarred fingers. One wound—which would be another scar—was fresh, a cut from this particular piece of paper. She’d bled into the dark wood of his desk, but she hadn’t cared.
“You were supposed to love it,” she muttered, rubbing the paper. It had been so elegant. A bird trapped in flight, just on the verge of taking to the sky—free. The way he made her feel. And she’d found it in the waste basket, crumpled and tossed away like it was nothing more than trash. She almost hadn’t known what it was, and wouldn’t have found it at all if his wife hadn’t told her to empty the bin.
She turned the paper over and attacked it from that side, pressing it into the polished surface of his desk. Almost like the way he’d pressed her into that same desktop not twenty-four hours ago, with whispers of his love and promises that were no more than her deluded dreams, apparently.
Very well. He would treat her gift as garbage? He would treat her as garbage?
Isabel sank down into his soft leather chair and bent over the paper. It was beyond repairing. Nothing beautiful could ever be crafted from something so flawed. That’s fine, though. There are other things to Craft. She began to hum as her cross-hatched fingers went to work. A fold here, a drop of her own blood from the new paper cut there—thank the gods for that one sharp edge she’d found—and a few strands of his hair kept wound about her ring finger, kept for remembrance when he was away.
She held one strand of the blonde hair back to re-wrap around her finger, for remembrance, as he was going to be away for a very, very long time.