The Pacifist [COMPLETED]

Soft Bits

Rachel

The house was so quiet when Rachel arrived home that she wondered if anyone was even there. Of course her parents would be sleeping, but a person's presence in a space, not matter how large, always seemed to disturb the air in some subtle way, announcing their proximity. She crept up to her room and prayed no one noticed she had been gone. Rachel didn't breathe until she was safely in her room with the door closed.

She waited a few heartbeats before relaxing and the thrill of her night with Mr. Maxwell overtook her. Even the shadow of their parting mood couldn't quell her excitement. Rachel went to her bathroom and stripped to look at herself in the mirror. Her delicate skin had already developed even deeper colors than earlier. She committed the image to her mind and promised herself that the next time she picked up a paintbrush, she would paint this.

Her skin felt tight, tempting her to press each place touched with color within her reach. The spots were tender and her touch awakened her nerve endings, causing an unbearable itch. She rubbed the spots instead of scratching until the tingling stopped.

"Mr. Maxwell," she whispered, remembering the look on his face, so stoic, so unreadable, even for an empath like her. It had frustrated her in the moment, but it had also been so nice to not have someone else's feelings shoved into her. She wondered how long it had taken Mr. Maxwell to master masking his emotions and wondered if she could learn. Rachel was not only a bleeding heart, but a very obvious one. It's what had made her so sensitive to people's pity.

Rachel grabbed a robe and wrapped herself in it, appreciating its softness, then laid in bed on top of the covers. She closed her eyes and replayed the night in her head until she fell asleep.