Status: Does she?
He Remembers
Skin
Gin couldn’t tell you when it started even if he tried.
And maybe that was just how a soldier’s mind worked– things not marred in blood and ugly, hideous beyond believe that left more than just nightmares in their wake – things – people, moments – that were the foundation of obscured doubts without a solid form, plausible and yet so far away the blood constantly soaking his hands could only be a dream, were unimportant (and though that realization was perhaps the most earth-shattering instant in his life – it wasn’t important).
So, Gin couldn’t remember – not when it started, and not when it end. But he remembers fire – pure liquid warmth soaking into his bones burring through his skin and trying against all odds to merge with his very being. He remembers tingles – soft touches leaving lighting residue among every inch of his skin. He remembers lips like a dream at the curve of his shoulder hunting along his jaw – and when he blinks, opens himself to the real word for just a second, like a whisper the lips are gone.
He sometimes catches himself, on the brink of madness, whispering a name without a face to match, and his lips burn, warming from whispered promises and overheating from the void vows. Yet, sometimes he’s better, and he can remember the feeling of his fingertips – tender and gingerly running through strands of soft silken ebony hair. Sometimes there’re flashes of toffee skin, milky and almost as marred as his war hardened physique with little blemishes here and there – and when he’s lucky, plastered out of his mind, bottle still in hand – he remembers alabaster and toffee mixing in a collide of unspoiled sweat soaked heat, and if he’s silent, sometimes he can hear a gasp (a quiet breath hitched and brisk like a swift gust of air), a faceless voice moaning his name; Gin. But those times are only sometimes, and other times – he’s cold. Trapped in a whirlwind of sensations that fixate to his skin like the deepest cut absorbed into his body from battles he can hardly remember but never forget.
Though mostly, he’ll think idly – quietly – without the taste of liquor staining the back of his throat, even when he can’t remember, his skin does.
And maybe that was just how a soldier’s mind worked– things not marred in blood and ugly, hideous beyond believe that left more than just nightmares in their wake – things – people, moments – that were the foundation of obscured doubts without a solid form, plausible and yet so far away the blood constantly soaking his hands could only be a dream, were unimportant (and though that realization was perhaps the most earth-shattering instant in his life – it wasn’t important).
So, Gin couldn’t remember – not when it started, and not when it end. But he remembers fire – pure liquid warmth soaking into his bones burring through his skin and trying against all odds to merge with his very being. He remembers tingles – soft touches leaving lighting residue among every inch of his skin. He remembers lips like a dream at the curve of his shoulder hunting along his jaw – and when he blinks, opens himself to the real word for just a second, like a whisper the lips are gone.
He sometimes catches himself, on the brink of madness, whispering a name without a face to match, and his lips burn, warming from whispered promises and overheating from the void vows. Yet, sometimes he’s better, and he can remember the feeling of his fingertips – tender and gingerly running through strands of soft silken ebony hair. Sometimes there’re flashes of toffee skin, milky and almost as marred as his war hardened physique with little blemishes here and there – and when he’s lucky, plastered out of his mind, bottle still in hand – he remembers alabaster and toffee mixing in a collide of unspoiled sweat soaked heat, and if he’s silent, sometimes he can hear a gasp (a quiet breath hitched and brisk like a swift gust of air), a faceless voice moaning his name; Gin. But those times are only sometimes, and other times – he’s cold. Trapped in a whirlwind of sensations that fixate to his skin like the deepest cut absorbed into his body from battles he can hardly remember but never forget.
Though mostly, he’ll think idly – quietly – without the taste of liquor staining the back of his throat, even when he can’t remember, his skin does.
♠ ♠ ♠
376 words