and i pray, for a trapdoor
May. 12th, 2025 08:05 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
timetobuttonmashmark/cobel. in which harmony cobel takes a trip down memory lane.
Harmony Cobel is twelve years old when she sits at the foot of her mother's bed, the wheezing of the oxygen pump a shuddering, terrifying thing. She clutches to her ratty notebook like it's her lifeline, tears smudging the scrawled ink that permeates each page. Her eyelids droop, and holds onto that notebook like it's a precious stuffed toy.
She is only twelve years old when her whole world gets torn away from her hands, still soft with baby fat.
Kier loves her. Kier loves her as she prays till her knees ache and throb, loves her as she sits in the creaking pews, feet barely touching the ground. Kier, however, did not save her mother. Kier will not save her, either, but she will ask, because it is the only thing she knows how to do.
Harmony Cobel is fifty-five years old when she sets foot in that old house again. It’s cold, the windows shake just like they did forty years ago, and Sissy is still a bitch. Nothing has changed, really, yet everything has.
She sits next to Hampton and when her lips touch his again, it's like they’ve jumped back in time to when they were ten, hands dusty and calloused but bright eyed, hiding in dark corners and making pinky promises to stay together, no matter what the adults might do.
If she lets her mind slip for just a second, it's Mark whose face is centimeters away from hers. It's Mark she's with, on her mother's bed, the stale scent of unwashed mothbitten sheets all around. Mark has long lashes that flutter over his void-deep doe eyes, and she thinks if she saw him again, she’d tell him; they’re the same.
Mark drinks from the bottle like she inhales the remnants of her mother through her endotracheal tube. A lifeline, perhaps. Yet, he has a chance to tug on the strings of fate- and it might be little Harmony’s sentimentality, but she will aid in guiding the threads as she can.
Harmony Cobel is twelve years old when she sits at the foot of her mother's bed, the wheezing of the oxygen pump a shuddering, terrifying thing. She clutches to her ratty notebook like it's her lifeline, tears smudging the scrawled ink that permeates each page. Her eyelids droop, and holds onto that notebook like it's a precious stuffed toy.
She is only twelve years old when her whole world gets torn away from her hands, still soft with baby fat.
Kier loves her. Kier loves her as she prays till her knees ache and throb, loves her as she sits in the creaking pews, feet barely touching the ground. Kier, however, did not save her mother. Kier will not save her, either, but she will ask, because it is the only thing she knows how to do.
Harmony Cobel is fifty-five years old when she sets foot in that old house again. It’s cold, the windows shake just like they did forty years ago, and Sissy is still a bitch. Nothing has changed, really, yet everything has.
She sits next to Hampton and when her lips touch his again, it's like they’ve jumped back in time to when they were ten, hands dusty and calloused but bright eyed, hiding in dark corners and making pinky promises to stay together, no matter what the adults might do.
If she lets her mind slip for just a second, it's Mark whose face is centimeters away from hers. It's Mark she's with, on her mother's bed, the stale scent of unwashed mothbitten sheets all around. Mark has long lashes that flutter over his void-deep doe eyes, and she thinks if she saw him again, she’d tell him; they’re the same.
Mark drinks from the bottle like she inhales the remnants of her mother through her endotracheal tube. A lifeline, perhaps. Yet, he has a chance to tug on the strings of fate- and it might be little Harmony’s sentimentality, but she will aid in guiding the threads as she can.
