Old Rejected Thing
May 2, 2014 0:26:45 GMT -5
Post by Ashley Engel on May 2, 2014 0:26:45 GMT -5
“What’s this?”
“Going away present.”
Cain sat down at the table and set the small box down before her.
Ash straightened, staring. The box was nondescript. About the size of small book. Not a novel. Shorter. Maybe three hundred pages, if it was a paperback. She picked the plain brown box up and shook it slightly side to side. The sounds of the gift inside knocked flatly against the box’s edges. Its shape matched the box. The weight wasn’t much to speak of though. Definitely a thing book.
“Are you gonna shake it or open it?” Cain piped up as he sank back in his chair. Ash could feel him prop one foot up on the edge of her own seat under the table. The proximity wasn’t terribly, but the touch even through her jeans was pushing it. Cain kept a lid on himself fairly well. She suspected even before she manifested his thoughts were always tightly bound up inside him. Even uncontrolled she had trouble hearing him sometimes. It was what made him good company these days.
Remind me to never get you a puppy.
His voice, loud but still sort of muffled, hummed in her head. It felt like it filled the space between her skull and her brain, racketing around behind her ears. It wasn’t so much a painful sensation with Cain as it was consuming. In the empty penthouse all that existed in her senses was the kitchen chair she sat in, the box in her hands, and the rich fullness of Cain’s existence all around her.
Slowly she sat the box down, prying under the single long strip of tape with a nail. It was slow goings, but Cain never once moved to help her. He didn’t even think about it. He knew how important she felt it was for her to do things on her own. She’d grown up catered to. She was tired of it. So they sat in silence as she fussed and struggled, until eventually all her fighting free the lips of the box enough for a crude, messy opening.
Inside the box was a single, slender book.
Well, calling it a book was sort of unfair. It was a journal. Bound in worn, scuffed brown leather with browned pages. She flipped it open, stirring the aged paper and inspecting the clearly ancient spine.
“Antique.” She murmured.
Just your style. Cain retorted mentally.
Ash leveled a flat look at him over the journal in front of her. She didn’t like the insinuation, even if it was true. She liked older books. Original printings, on the very rare occasions she could get her hands on them. This journal, while all the pages were blank, was clearly old. Not the made-to-look old junk in the shops now. But honestly worn, scuffed and bent and imperfect.
Damn. She really liked it.
“What am I supposed to do with this?”
“Write in it.”
She pursed her lips. While she liked the aged little artifact in her hands, it was still functionally useless. Cain had to have gone through trouble to get it, but the idea of his struggle for it didn’t quite settle in. All Ash could think about was how it was essentially a decoration piece for her desk.
When she stood up it was to seek out a pen.
She would at least write a line. Something to give the thing purpose. Just so it wouldn’t remain empty and aggravating in her sparse collection of belongings.
When she sat back down, Cain watched her slanted scrawling handwriting glide over the worn paper. There was a moment as she sat the pen down that he just looked at the upside down writing, before his hand came reaching out for the surrendered pen.
His own handwriting was normally atrocious. But leaned across the table, hastily written upside down, it was worse. Ash has to turn the journal over and squint to make it out. As soon as she did, the pen was reclaimed.
Their back and forth was somewhat brief.
In the end the pen was tossed, less than gently, at Cain.
When he laughed it was loud and warm and it filled the whole kitchen. Ashley smiled despite herself and the journal was shut, left on the table as her interests and Cain’s company migrated to another room.
As days passed and bags were packed, the journal was carefully tucked away in her coat pocket before heading out the door.
Cain. Why did you get me a journal?
This thing is stupid.
We have phones.
You like books, though.
If you write in it it ceases to be a private journal, idiot.
Then it's not private. It's our journal.
Then you can keep it with you.
Nope. It's a gift. I'll take it in the summer when you're back from school.
You're stupid.
You're better.
Why are we writing in this when you're literally right in front of me?
You started it.
No I di
“Going away present.”
Cain sat down at the table and set the small box down before her.
Ash straightened, staring. The box was nondescript. About the size of small book. Not a novel. Shorter. Maybe three hundred pages, if it was a paperback. She picked the plain brown box up and shook it slightly side to side. The sounds of the gift inside knocked flatly against the box’s edges. Its shape matched the box. The weight wasn’t much to speak of though. Definitely a thing book.
“Are you gonna shake it or open it?” Cain piped up as he sank back in his chair. Ash could feel him prop one foot up on the edge of her own seat under the table. The proximity wasn’t terribly, but the touch even through her jeans was pushing it. Cain kept a lid on himself fairly well. She suspected even before she manifested his thoughts were always tightly bound up inside him. Even uncontrolled she had trouble hearing him sometimes. It was what made him good company these days.
Remind me to never get you a puppy.
His voice, loud but still sort of muffled, hummed in her head. It felt like it filled the space between her skull and her brain, racketing around behind her ears. It wasn’t so much a painful sensation with Cain as it was consuming. In the empty penthouse all that existed in her senses was the kitchen chair she sat in, the box in her hands, and the rich fullness of Cain’s existence all around her.
Slowly she sat the box down, prying under the single long strip of tape with a nail. It was slow goings, but Cain never once moved to help her. He didn’t even think about it. He knew how important she felt it was for her to do things on her own. She’d grown up catered to. She was tired of it. So they sat in silence as she fussed and struggled, until eventually all her fighting free the lips of the box enough for a crude, messy opening.
Inside the box was a single, slender book.
Well, calling it a book was sort of unfair. It was a journal. Bound in worn, scuffed brown leather with browned pages. She flipped it open, stirring the aged paper and inspecting the clearly ancient spine.
“Antique.” She murmured.
Just your style. Cain retorted mentally.
Ash leveled a flat look at him over the journal in front of her. She didn’t like the insinuation, even if it was true. She liked older books. Original printings, on the very rare occasions she could get her hands on them. This journal, while all the pages were blank, was clearly old. Not the made-to-look old junk in the shops now. But honestly worn, scuffed and bent and imperfect.
Damn. She really liked it.
“What am I supposed to do with this?”
“Write in it.”
She pursed her lips. While she liked the aged little artifact in her hands, it was still functionally useless. Cain had to have gone through trouble to get it, but the idea of his struggle for it didn’t quite settle in. All Ash could think about was how it was essentially a decoration piece for her desk.
When she stood up it was to seek out a pen.
She would at least write a line. Something to give the thing purpose. Just so it wouldn’t remain empty and aggravating in her sparse collection of belongings.
When she sat back down, Cain watched her slanted scrawling handwriting glide over the worn paper. There was a moment as she sat the pen down that he just looked at the upside down writing, before his hand came reaching out for the surrendered pen.
His own handwriting was normally atrocious. But leaned across the table, hastily written upside down, it was worse. Ash has to turn the journal over and squint to make it out. As soon as she did, the pen was reclaimed.
Their back and forth was somewhat brief.
In the end the pen was tossed, less than gently, at Cain.
When he laughed it was loud and warm and it filled the whole kitchen. Ashley smiled despite herself and the journal was shut, left on the table as her interests and Cain’s company migrated to another room.
As days passed and bags were packed, the journal was carefully tucked away in her coat pocket before heading out the door.
Cain. Why did you get me a journal?
This thing is stupid.
We have phones.
You like books, though.
If you write in it it ceases to be a private journal, idiot.
Then it's not private. It's our journal.
Then you can keep it with you.
Nope. It's a gift. I'll take it in the summer when you're back from school.
You're stupid.
You're better.
Why are we writing in this when you're literally right in front of me?
You started it.
No I di
