|marie d'ancanto | rogue (dropthemagnolia) wrote in the100,|
@ 2016-03-29 22:41:00
i. myrtle beach
Marie was suddenly five years old, on one of her rare family vacations, with the windows down and the Byrds blaring. Scrub pine and wisteria gave way to salt grass and slate seas rocking gently against the white powder beaches. It was the first time she fell in love with a place, the first time she truly thought of herself as Marie. And the sun, warm on her back as her father held her aloft on his shoulders, beat a straight and golden shot to the horizon.
Then it was fireflies. Coquettish, their luminosity pulled her from the family back porch into the wet, dark summer night. All around her children gathered, pulling these insects from the air to smear joy across their chubby little faces, uncaring of the life snuffed out to bring their brief shine. But Marie, careful and quiet as ever, held a small colony in her hand and when her fingers finally flattened, palm up to the mottled sky, they took flight in tandem toward the sickle moon. Then, no one's face beamed brighter.
Mama told her to keep her knees and her mouth shut. Good girls didn't chase boys and good girls didn't let them touch their secret places. But Marie didn't want to be a good girl like that. She wanted to know herself and be known. And besides, she wasn't in a bedroom. His cold, clammy hand wormed its way up her shirt and fumbled at the band of her bra as, with a deep breath, she clamped her mouth round his. For her, there were no tentative touches. Instead, she teased his mouth open with her tongue and swept it along the inside of his cheek.
But why was she scared, all of a sudden? Why was she worrying about the growing erection in his pants? Why ... The boy fell in a crumpled heap at her feet and Marie looked down for a moment, took a deep breath, and screamed.
Logan's truck was dry and dark. It smelled like pine trees and tobacco and for the first time in what felt like a million years, she was ready to set out. You can't be hurt. And Marie, with her stupid heart beating a mile a minute,
v. westchester county
Bobby's hands were always warm, even through her gloves. She didn't know if it was frustration or desire that compelled him to radiate heat despite his abilities. And it was a question she didn't want the answer to. Didn't want it in her head or messing with her heart. Especially not when there were so many other complexities to think about.
She looked at the bus ticket in her hand and sighed. She'd find a solution for the mess of her own heart. Her and nobody else.