Work Text:
Your hands hit the rough floorboards a split second before your knees, and in this moment you feel—
— Small.
Lost.
Wrong.
. . . No.
The warmth of the sunbeams through the trees at your back is fading, its fleeting touch gone as though it has never been, and you flip your (gangly, coltish) body over, fingers outstretched above your sister’s head.
The wardrobe glares back at you, door swinging wide.
Coats.
Mothballs.
Empty, in all the ways that matter.
Empty, like the deep pit burrowing in your stomach, swallowing everything and leaving only an aching and gutted loss in its path.
There is a sob in your throat, yet your eyes are dry; almost as if it hasn’t hit you, yet— as if what is real is in actuality only a terrible dream. But the world is muted now, the vibrance of life and beauty and home snatched away, and you are shoved back into a body that can no longer be yours (you stood tall, broad; with self assurance and a strong hand that knew the weight of your sword and the greater weight of your words).
But it is yours, and your world is crumbling around you.
Not burning, not drowning—
Blown away in silence, like dust from a bookshelf.
As if it— you— have never truly been.