From the prompt: "In my hands I hold..."
In My Hands I Hold (The Letter)
In my hands I hold your pain.
She could remember those nights so vividly, huddled beneath the blankets on her cot,
watching the shadows dance across the ceiling and trying to ignore the darkness around her, thick
and cloying. And listening to the heartbroken sobs through the wall.
In my hands I hold your sadness.
He'd always been something of a forlorn figure, curled into the chair in the corner of the
common room, looking pitifully small with his bony, lanky frame against the backdrop of the
massive wing-backed chair. Something in her tugged when she remembered his eyes, the dull blue
of dusty sapphires, bruised and bleak. He never smiled, young face set with eyes far too old.
In my hands I hold your song.
She'd wondered what he was doing while he was hunched over the piano, constantly
sneaking glances at her and making unintelligible marks in a tattered spiral notebook. Was there
something on her face? Perhaps he was drawing...? But then he would straighten up and rub his
hands together a few times before testing the ebony and ivory keys. And the music he played was
heartbreakingly beautiful.
In my hands I hold your words.
His handwriting was neat, controlled black print twisted with the almost childish mix of
small case and capital letters, a sharp contrast to the words the letters formed, words that
held the writer's emotion as he touched his pen to the paper. He was a little forgetful,
leaving around scraps of paper with snatches and phrases on them, tiny pieces of passionate
prose each bearing a little bit more of the soul that created them.
In my hands I hold your voice.
She loved listening to him when he thought no one heard, because he sang so beautifully.
His singing was a paradox - he bared his soul, his voice rendered by emotion, so clear and pure
that everyone listening felt what he felt. But his soul was oftentimes hidden. He could mimic
emotion so well that while he sang a happy song his audience felt his joy even as he was dying
inside. She'd wondered where he'd learnt to do that.
In my hands I hold your love.
He was begging to be loved with his eyes, but most times fear won over need, and
he'd run for safety if someone came too close. It was the way his eyes flickered darkly for a
moment when parents came to visit their children, the way he bit his lip and turned away whenever
someone said that forbidden four-letter word. What he craved he could not and would not name.
In my hands I hold your life.
Hands shaking, she scanned the contents of the letter, the words blurred by teardrops
painfully noticeable. Terror rose in a lump in her throat and she let the letter flutter to the
floor, dashing up the stairs at full speed. Heart pounding, hands trembling, she scrambled up
the ladder to the attic.
There he was, a stark silhouette against the light streaming in through the window. He
spun around, and she saw the haunted pain of his blue eyes, his long graceful fingers curved
around hard black metal.
"Put the gun down," she whispered, edging toward him.
He stared at her, body tense, face wary but eyes blank.
"Come on, put the gun down ," she insisted. She was four-and-a-half feet away.
Two.
He lifted it slowly, eyes locked with hers, business end against his temple.
"Joshua, please ," she whispered.
His finger tightened. She lunged. The cracking explosion was deafening in her ears even as
her arms wrapped around him. The gun clattered across the floorboards, and as he sank against
her, crying, they both lowered themselves to their knees. Stroking his hair and whispering, she
tried to comfort him.
In my arms, I hold you.
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©2004 Agent Duo