A tad different from what originally went on because it literally takes an hour or so to scroll to the beginning. From memory- Part two of Burning Lungs. The morning after that night-
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The pin glinted in the dim light the bathroom had provided Sparrow. It was easy to say that she didn't recognize her own reflection, it being her yes, but nowhere near the girl she had been before. This Sparrow was without sleep, because what kind of monster slept after killing another person? One who lived and breathed and had a life of their own. The regret and guilt had finally settled into her.
Sparrow had killed a woman.
Last night was the peak of all of the quiet moments Sparrow had ever seem to experience. Right after those words had left her lips it was done. She packed up what little possessions she and Alex had and threw their bags in the back of Eric's truck. Alex, sweet Alex, was still asleep in the room they now shared in Eric's home. It bothered her to know that there was still one unused room that Eric had so willingly offered up.
Four people, three rooms, him without a bed.
Sparrow hadn't had any of it, insisting that Alex and herself could share, and so they had. It only lead to a restless night dealing with the agonizing pain in her back and the mere thought that she really had to go back to work that next morning. How did anyone cope with daily tasks after experiencing a hell of their own? It seemed more than impossible in her own eyes but there was one thing that seemed to linger.
Lavender.
The smell was on Eric's skin, as plain as daylight and she couldn't seem to get the thought of it out of her head. For some reason she had expected everything described in any cliche novel. The ceder wood smell, musk, or whatever the hell they called it. Lavender? The last thing on her mind. It hadn't lingered in the house, and she couldn't find anything flowery scented in her little hunt to make sure there was nothing In Alex's reach that he shouldn't have.
There was nothing other than him.
Sparrow picked up another pin with her nimble fingers, swiftly going to pin back that one stubborn curl of hers that always seemed to linger in her face when it was more than not wanted.
Taking one final glance she took a deep breath to steady herself and her growing exhaustion with every step. She had to make it through the workday at any costs, and yet she couldn't bring herself to so much as walk out of the bathroom. Gathering what little she had left, Sparrow had finally left to find Alex already waiting for her outside the door. Alex looked like his older sister sure, dark curls atop his head with round, nearly black eyes. He was shorter than the average eleven year old and much quieter. He hadn't been much of a talker after their parents' deaths. The boy raised an eyebrow at her as she only forced her smile and gestured for him to go ahead of her.
"Go on, I'll try and find you some breakfast. Might make the other two something as well," she told Alex, who seemed to happily accept this as he went ahead of her in short and careful steps. What she wasn't prepared for was to hear voices drifting in from the kitchen. She recognized Eric's immediately, the soft pull of that thick accent. The other voice was similar, but not quite the same. Sadder even if it was feigning happiness with every spoken word. At the sight of the two, Sparrow had stopped cold in her tracks and pulled Alex back to her deftly.
There was Eric, trying his best to keep up a conversation with whom Sparrow could safely assume to be his brother. His twin. Given different circumstances she wasn't even sure she could tell both of them apart, though there was a defining factor she couldn't bring herself to ignore. The man in front of Eric was confined to his wheelchair with very limited use of seemingly everything below his neck. Eric was having to feed him as they talked in between his brother's bites of food. Now she knew why Eric was so desperate for funds. His own brother was left a quadriplegic, and it took a good thump to Alex's ear to get him to stop staring at him.
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A Writer's Aesthetic || Short Stories
Short StoryTidbits of stories and one-shots from a very tired and whimsical author. Some stories may be sad, some may be happy, and some just might be utterly confusing. But writing is truly an aesthetic I hope to strengthen. So here I am.