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Thread: [M] The Part You Throw Away [Gothy & Ashen]

  1. #11
    The Ashen One
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    It all happened in a hellish blur, a mixture of a screaming feline, shedding fur, an apologizing Myrna rushing him away. Matteo had done something wrong with his very presence. His wings contained the souls of countless birds; of course the cat would take issue to that. Did the small animal know what horrors his holy relics held? The angel-boy stood awkwardly, waiting for Myrna to rush away the yowling animal, all the while wondering if he should go. He was just a nuisance, an inconvenience to a kind lady, but what choice did he have? Go back out there, all alone, helpless, feared, avoided? He was stuck with Myrna as long as her generosity lasted.

    When she returned, Mateo instantly noticed the bright red on her cheek. He moved to wipe at it but hesitated and decided against it, an apology muttered under his breath. He looked to the bathroom she'd motioned towards and paused. Did he know how to use a shower? He got in and pressed the buttons--or were there knobs? And then he'd take the soap and lather it in... a towel? Or what was that puffy thing Momma used in the showers? Did Myrna have one of those? In his struggle to remember bathing etiquette, Matteo didn't realize Myrna was staring at him, waiting for an answer. "A drink?" he repeated quietly. "Um, yeah, some soda would be--er." Soda was perhaps more than his stomach would be able to handle. "Water, yes," he decided on again. "Thank you."

    With that, he waddled towards the bathroom, wings brushing against the hall walls. He left the door ajar behind him, in case Myrna had to come in and help with something. She seemed like she wouldn't mind that... right? His eyes scanned the toilet, the sink, the bathtub, all white. He pulled back the shower curtain, and there they were, knobs that controlled this contraption. Hesitating, he turned one, and water came rushing out of the faucet below him. He looked up at the shower head, and turned and pulled the knob until water came out of there, instead.

    It took a few minutes of messing around, but eventually he got the shower to work how he wanted it to. He peeled off his clothes, his shirt wet with blood and sweat, his pinkened white shorts, the torn sandals. He stood before the tub, stark naked, tracing the splotches of blood on his body. Shaking his thoughts, he was about to get into the shower when he caught a glimpse of the mirror.

    He looked so old, he thought, tracing the line of his law. There was hair there, or small echoes of a beard he couldn't remember shaving. His eyes were deeper set than he remembered, narrower. His lips were full, and was that--did he have a moustache? He poked at it, the tiny hairs, barely noticeable, too blond, too fine. He had bulging shoulders, muscles he didn't remember working towards, a physique of an athlete. He looked... like a man. If he needed further confirmation that he wasn't the child he had been, this was it here, staring into his own eyes.

    Matteo stared blankly at his reflection for a long while. Finally, he pulled himself from that stranger and stepped into the shower. It took some scrubbing for the water to wash the red from his skin. Pink swirled at the drain, blurry rosy rivers that he struggled to make out. A feather or two fell softly to land on the drain, soaking up the dyes of his blood. He tried not to notice, not to pay attention to things like blood and feathers, things with no place in the shower. Distracting himself, Matteo grabbed for Myrna's bottles. The words shampoo and conditioner stuck out to him from his memory, but he didn't remember which did what, and he didn't know the difference. Illiterate, he couldn't make out the symbols on these bottles, so he took a guess and hoped it didn't matter.

    After he finished scrubbing his hair and body, Matteo shut off the water and stepped out of the shower. The mirror now was glossed over with fog, shielding him from his own eyes. He grabbed a towel and tried to wrap it around himself, but his wings twitched under its texture, and it ended up falling to the floor. He glanced towards the clothes he'd abandoned, wondering what he was to do with them. He didn't want to put them back on, but he couldn't just walk out there naked, could he?

    "Myrna?" his voice was small, a child asking permission. "Do you... have something for me to wear?" Matteo poked his head into the hallway. "Just, like, pants?" He doubted any shirt she'd have would accommodate his wings. Now, cleaned up, his skin looked pinker, healthier, and his hair fell in brown-blond curls to his collar. He looked more like a man and less like a murderer, if not for the wings dripping down his back.

  2. #12
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    The nurse smiled at him at his suggestion – then hesitation at – wanting soda. This man, though she couldn't help but feel he was more boy than man: someone who couldn't remember his age, or the year, but could remember video games and soda. Naive, almost, like a child that needed to be led and yet something about him – the blood, the bleary-eyes and anxiety- suggested a darkness that didn't suit with such innocence. There was nothing about this in the bible, nothing at all, about a postmodern angel with bloody clothes and an affectation for Cloud Strife.

    But, at his request for water, she couldn't help but agree. Especially considering the violent reaction he'd had to the sandwich earlier; the bright, and stench, of his prior sick still stuck, a worry, in her mind.
    “We'll try you on water and broth first, OK? Then we'll get onto the pizza and soda.” she said, pushing her hair behind her ear as mentally she checked through what foods were in her fridge. Enough for a thin broth, for sure. Cooking wasn't, and had never been, her forte, but she figured she could throw together hot water and a few stock cubes – probably enough to satiate this angel, for the time-being. Shopping could come later, if there was to be one.

    Myrna watched him leave the room and walked through, or rather towards, her kitchen -the thin section of room that denoted “kitchen”, adjacent to the cube of room that was her living space - and whilst throwing herself together a steam of coffee, she listened for the familiar hush of the shower. After a few moments of having heard nothing, she told herself to relax and let him work it out. She couldn't, and indeed shouldn't, help him with everything. That much, she knew. He had to work some things out for himself. But still she found herself listening anxiously for the showers' familiar pitter-patter; worrying for his capabilities, and for whether he might hurt himself. Her worry and inaction paid off after a moment, for she heard the showers' hiss and with it, she let out the breath she hadn't even realised she'd been holding in, and took a sip of her coffee.

    Myrna had always found the sound of a shower relaxing, in that same way that soft rains' hush was relaxing; in this hectic, kinetic mess that had become her morning she took a small moment for herself and listened. In that time, where everything seemed to slow, she found her thoughts sliding towards the last time someone had been in her shower. It had been a long time ago, and entirely different circumstances. Then, there had been more guilt. Of course, she still felt that strong guilt, that distinct voice of her mother's in the back of her head that said “no unmarried woman should have a man in her room”. A small tendril of guilt snaking around her throat and into her chest, before it became instead, a flush of almost youthful glee. What would Ma think of Myrna now, with a man – a stranger at that – in her flat, no matter the fact he was some sort of angel. Did that double the sin? She took another sip of her coffee and mulled over the tangle of thoughts occupying her mind.

    She was, however, shaken out of them by the appearance of Matteo, curled around the door ever bashful, meek, shy. For a moment, she wondered whether someone had hurt him, and whether he thought that perhaps, she could do the same. A frown furrowed its way into her brow, one which unfurled as he spoke and she reminded herself that, whatever he had been through – well, it would be a lot to get past, that she should be nothing but kind. It was as the good book said and ironically it had been the antithesis of what her Mother had done.

    Again, her thoughts flung towards the last time someone had been in her shower. That soft flush of skin against skin, of teeth and mouths and hair: of one last goodbye fuck that always left the promise of more. But that had been some six months ago, and he hadn't come back for the clothes he'd left, nor for the woman besides. Myrna nodded and wordlessly walked through to her bedroom, swallowing back the urge to usher Matteo in like some child: Mr Snuggles, who was not living up to his namesake, was in there and she had no idea how he would react. Instead, she shifted through bundles of clothes on the floor till she found what she was looking for; an overly large, green sweatshirt and a pair of baggy boxers in that familiar shade of overwashed grey. Tucking them under her arm she stepped back out and passed them to Matteo, with a smile that was teetering on sad. The clothes held memories she didn't particularly want to recall, though perhaps she could form new ones in helping this … man.

    As she passed the clothes over, she pointed a thumb back to the kitchen.
    “I was just gonna make you a quick broth, it's probably whats best for your stomach right now. Uh, come through when you're done OK?” and she turned, and made her way back to the kitchen.

  3. #13
    The Ashen One
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    From her expression as she handed him the clothes, Matteo felt that he had done something wrong. Were these the clothes of a boyfriend, a husband? Would he come home to this stranger in his house and turn on Myrna for inviting him in? Just how much of an inconvenience was he? He mumbled a thanks as he took the clothes, wondering if Myrna had even heard him. She looked too deep in thought now, too elsewhere.

    Matteo turned back into the bathroom and unfolded the clothes he was holding. He first took to the shorts, toyed with the waistline. They were easy to get on and a lot softer than his own shorts had been, but also a bit tighter. Would Myrna blush at him now? He tried to stand in a way that wouldn't be so revealing, tucking his parts between his legs and trying not to look awkward, but he failed. Myrna's boyfriend definitely wouldn't be okay with this, would he? Matteo figured the sweatshirt would hide it, would be long enough to not flash her. He pulled it over his head and struggled to fit his wings into it. It was small enough without the swoops of hell behind him, but he managed to get it covering his body, right to his waistline. Myrna would be getting a show, after all.

    His steps were awkward out of the bathroom, and he wandered to the kitchen, trying too hard to hide what she would so obviously see. It wasn't helping that thinking about it was sending blood pumping, and his cheeks colored at the thought. Would Myrna think--? He shook his head and coughed. "Myrna?" he called, poking his head around the hall wall. "I, um." He was about to ask for something else, some more clothes, but decided against it. If he didn't bring attention to it, to the boxers now getting tighter, to the sleek legs of a runner, speckled with the finest brown hairs, would she even notice? "Um, yes, broth," he said instead. He walked over to her, trying to summon the confidence to not cower back to the bathroom. He was a man now, not a child, and he had to stop acting like an embarrassed schoolboy.

    Matteo came up behind Myrna, then took a cautious step away from her. "I, uh, I don't know what to do with my clothes," he started, motioning towards the bathroom, to the bloodstained, tattered clothes he'd near destroyed. "I can clean the bathroom later, yeah? Like, the blood, I know it's bad, I'm sorry." His words were hesitant, as if any second he'd say the wrong thing. He listened for a moment, then asked, "Is it okay if I wear these? Your... boyfriend won't mind? Does he live here?"

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