It begins with the smallest of cracks in his armour, wearing him down day by day until he steps out of his shell by the teensiet bit, revealing a scar he's not shown anyone else, a rough piece of dead that all his forgetting just can't plane smooth.
It continues as she touches her lips to it, sealing over the rough edges with smooth new skin, leaving behind a patch as soft as her smile, as warm as her eyes, as painless as holding her hand.
It goes further with the removal of the plate covering his deepest dreams: small sparks of hope, pinpricks of light that he's never felt he deserved, that make him laugh them off to her as nothing more than phantoms produced by a mind too insistent in its search.
It continues as she takes them into her cupped hands and whispers in awe at their beauty, fanning them with her praise into flames as glorious as her laughter, as hopeful as her dancing, as beautiful as her soul.
It hits its height with the complete removal of armour, baring to her the unsteady beating of a prematurely decrepit heart, hiding no flaws and ashamed of all of them, ashamed of letting her see them, ashamed of being anything less than perfect for her.
It continues as she softens into a smile, laying gentle fingers on the decay and marvelling at the strength of the beating, the beauty of the clean parts; remarks how well that scar has healed; cries at the parts almost beyond repair, making him feel as resolute as her will, as big as her heart, as whole as her elegant frame.
It declines with a clatter when he returns greaves to calves, deciding for both of them that it's best for him to hide a little more, to only show her what he wants her to see, to keep her respect by witholding things of which she might disapprove.
It continues as she glimpses them missing from the pile of discarded armour in the corner and tests her knowledge, only to be repulsed; her hands curl into fists, her eyes fill with tears, and she commissions her own set of armour, as fierce as her passion, as unchangeable as her beliefs, as glittering as her anger.
It picks up speed with a sickening lurch when he retreats into himself, too proud to fix it, too proud to ask for her back, revealing nothing more to her than he does to his friends, pretending to forget everything she knew before.
It continues as she grasps at the straws he holds out to her, touching them to her lips, willing them to be more than they appear, willing them to make sense, willing them to mean something, anything, but they only form brittle splinters as sharp as her wit, as delicate as her hands, as pitiful as her entreaties.
It ends with a livid scar and a crack in his armour, purposely left open so that she can see that it was her fault all along.
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4 comments:
This...speaks to me.
Really speaks to me.
I don't really know what to say. Read it a few times, let it all sink in. I...I don't really know what to say.
It is just plain wonderful. Beginning middle and end. I don't really. Um.
This is a waste of a comment, I didn't start out with something to say, just thought I ought to say something.
Well done. Really well done.
I like it, Jess. It's beautifully well written, and lyrical in its composition--
but I still hate scars. I hate the ideas of loving coming as a kind of healing in a natural form of process and not a necessary eventuality. This is what makes the heartbreak--when we present ourselves as healers rather than accept the scars. The more you try to seal yourself, the more of you seeps out. Hence the armour. Hence the tears.
I'm sorry it took me so long to comment!! I read it the day you posted and loved it (but was too deliriously tired to give proper feedback) - and read it again just now and still love it. Every paragraph/sentence was perfect! I can't really decide which is my favorite, although I very much like:
"It declines with a clatter when he returns greaves to calves, deciding for both of them that it's best for him to hide a little more, to only show her what he wants her to see, to keep her respect by witholding things of which she might disapprove."
because it's so...it's very original. It breaks the mold of insisting on hiding and always keeping something back in the way that he DOES take off all his armor at one point, but then continues to feel insecure. I also liked that she notices that the greaves are missing from the pile - so she notices absence rather than their presence on his calves. I just thought that was interesting although I can't say why for sure.
It's so heartbreaking how quickly she gets angry though - I wish she'd just given him a chance! I understand that she feels betrayed by his wanting to hide himself and continue hiding even after they become so open with each other for that single, beautiful naked second...but it's tragic. And then she gets her own armor ahhhh no! So sad. Just the absolute placement of walls and isolation that comes from lack of trust and not allowing yourself to love. And knowing that you might be the one to cause someone else's armor because of your own...it's terrible. Not your writing or story - that's fantastic. But it's a terrible concept/reality to the situation.
Also - love the title. It works so well with the painstakingly careful dissection of his armor. Perfect.
And I just realized how long that comment was. Oh man. Most of it probably doesn't make sense :P
Oh well. It's my compensation for not giving feedback days ago.
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