![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Write a Fan Letter
There hadn't been one in her room, so it had taken Fred four trips down the stairs, in the early hours of morning to find everything she needed. She'd tried late at night first, falling back of old habits that sent her scurrying through farms and shacks and homes with a desperate sense for survival. Of course, she'd stopped short, head barely clearing the stairwell at the sight of the activity bustling downstairs.
Didn't these people sleep at night? She might have forgotten a lot of things through the years. The smell of clean, the way whipped cream can tickle your tongue in that airs way, even her own name. But at least she still knew that nighttime was for sleeping. Or at least listening for the things that weren't, curled up in your bed all the same.
But no, they didn't sleep. At least not then. She waited and watched, and observed a sort of early morning exhaustion that struck them all. The hotel fell quiet, and that's when she took action. Pens, and more pens...because she didn't need paper but everything was so empty and she knew it would take a lot to fill it up. Her head was spinning and Fred needed to make sense of it. Desperately. There was food, and water, and even a weapon or three. The important things.
Finally, she had everything. And what followed was simple enough, at least to her.
The wall was blank, and then it wasn't.
The horse first, so many hands high. Big and strong, like his, to quantify the horse that way meant less than most of the rest. But who needed the rest when he was so much more than everyone else. Twelve of his hands to sixteen or seventeen of the ordinary weak and small. His back is straight, the line of his shoulders clear, and the arms have a definite sense of direction to them. There's somewhere to get going to, and he knows how to get there. There's the eyes that saw her, the skin that touched her, and the mouth that said her name. The pen's firm and the ink pliant in her hands, and somehow easier than it should be. She wanted to work for it, rather desperately. And in that second of desperation, she wants to be seen. It's fleeting, but it's there. Her arms around the back that's so straight and strong, and her lines are clean too. She feels clean, and part of the story.
If only because she's the one telling it.
For ten minutes at least, it's the only thing that graces her wall -- an open letter of adoration. Maybe one day she'll let someone actually read it.
Didn't these people sleep at night? She might have forgotten a lot of things through the years. The smell of clean, the way whipped cream can tickle your tongue in that airs way, even her own name. But at least she still knew that nighttime was for sleeping. Or at least listening for the things that weren't, curled up in your bed all the same.
But no, they didn't sleep. At least not then. She waited and watched, and observed a sort of early morning exhaustion that struck them all. The hotel fell quiet, and that's when she took action. Pens, and more pens...because she didn't need paper but everything was so empty and she knew it would take a lot to fill it up. Her head was spinning and Fred needed to make sense of it. Desperately. There was food, and water, and even a weapon or three. The important things.
Finally, she had everything. And what followed was simple enough, at least to her.
The wall was blank, and then it wasn't.
The horse first, so many hands high. Big and strong, like his, to quantify the horse that way meant less than most of the rest. But who needed the rest when he was so much more than everyone else. Twelve of his hands to sixteen or seventeen of the ordinary weak and small. His back is straight, the line of his shoulders clear, and the arms have a definite sense of direction to them. There's somewhere to get going to, and he knows how to get there. There's the eyes that saw her, the skin that touched her, and the mouth that said her name. The pen's firm and the ink pliant in her hands, and somehow easier than it should be. She wanted to work for it, rather desperately. And in that second of desperation, she wants to be seen. It's fleeting, but it's there. Her arms around the back that's so straight and strong, and her lines are clean too. She feels clean, and part of the story.
If only because she's the one telling it.
For ten minutes at least, it's the only thing that graces her wall -- an open letter of adoration. Maybe one day she'll let someone actually read it.