Broken Defender

Chapter Fourteen ~ Varied Heats

Before I knew it, a fire was raging in our fireplace; crackling and popping against engulfed logs that had lay lifeless for far too long. Technically that firewood was old enough that it was probable that I, or my mother could have made fire from their aging and dried remains... but we had never thought to. We had both justified ourselves as incapable of creating fire, and had sense lived with that understanding. It was like trying to write with my left hand. I'm sure if I actually tried to master the skill of ambidextria, I would be able to write with my left hand, but because I had rendered my left had to be worthless in most situations, so it remained; unpracticed, yet totally willing to oblige if I were only to give it a chance.

He sat on the extending brick of our fireplace, looking back at the furious flames in an esteemed manner. His skin seemed to glow warmly in the fire's luminesce, enhancing his charming features perfectly. I made my way toward him; full mugs in hand as I moved quietly, not wanting to disturb the admiration he seemed to find in the fire's blaze. "I've always been a bit of a pyromaniac." He joked, turning back toward me as I sat beside him. I laughed at the comment, handing him his mug, and slowly sipping from mine. The heat of the fire against my back seemed to accent nicely with the trickling warmth of hot chocolate that now slid down my throat and sloshed into my stomach. All in all, this was a perfect moment, something out of a movie. The fire crackled behind us, edging the two of us into relaxation as we looked back at each other. His eyes were fixated on mine, staring hopelessly at me as I leered back at him in equal consent. I took another sip from my cup, letting the sweeting taste of chocolate seep into my taste buds; my thoughts forcing childhood memories through my mind as its taste seemed to always trigger euphoric, and nostalgic emotions.

It was Christmas again. A seven-year-old version of myself danced around the living room happily, reveling in the gifts I had been given. I remember receiving a dolly, whom I had named Penny, no doubt after the babysitter that I had been so in love with at the time. I cherished that dolly very much, and I remember taking it everywhere with me for months following my reception of it. I took it to school, to church when we attended, and even to the grocery store. She was my best friend. Penny still sits in my room, permanently positioned in the chair next to my window, accompanied by a few blankets, and other small toys I held dearly as tokens of my childhood. I was bad about that... about holding onto things. Things that others would have discarded after years of play, or years of dormancy; I held dearly to. I wager that I do this out of fear of change. Since my dad left I'll admit I'd turned into quite the old lady. I felt like a grandmother, clinging to her grandchildren tightly as I'd already witnessed my own children grow apart from me... but these were childhood memories. Emblems of happier times; times when I thought everything would be okay as long as my daddy could keep me safe. And so I remained, grasping at any tangible form of my childhood, any part of my father that still remained, as I was too scared to let them go.

I was pulled back into the present by a loud pop. My shoulders drew up in surprise; my head snapped back at the blazing fire behind me. A log had fallen, rolling back over in agony as the fire raged on. Harry was still looking back at me; his hands wrapped around his mug tightly, comfortably. I wonder how he could do that. I had drawn the sleeves of my sweater over my palms, allowing them to act as a barrier from the scorching heat of hot porcelain. But his bare hands wrapped around his entire cup, securely holding it in perfect position as he sipped. "Don't your hands burn?" I asked, doing as he did, and taking a sip from my cup. He looked back at his mug in curiousness, then at my hands, which again were perfectly protected by the fabric of my sweater. "Eh." He mumbled, not really having an answer for me. There was probably no real reason, unless his hands were calloused. I'd held his hand. They weren't soft like a city boy's but they were definitely not uncomfortably calloused. "Nope." He eventually included, downing a bit more of his beverage. Maybe it was fickle, but I found that manly. He was pretty manly I guess. He could build a fire, he could do pushups, and he could hold hot cups in his hands without flinching... though I guess I could look at it from a different perspective. The obvious perspective that I was girly... wimpy. Even a puny and feminine man could make me look feeble.