08-01-2016, 02:10 PM
Roma. I have a baby sister, and she matches my hair. Same blue, something that is hers and mine. She looks...like family. Smells like family. Something...new is happening. There is a strange...fullness in my chest, and I need to be close to her. My skin wants to be touching the soft blue of her baby coat. My lungs want to be drowning in her scent. Sister. Mine.
My name is the first she speaks, and it steals away my breath. Her staggering steps almost draw me forward, almost coax me to meet her halfway, but I already know her somehow. She will make it to my side on her own. I will not deprive her of that accomplishment. When she does, she curls up against me, and I hold her close. She nips my shoulder and the word Mine is truth falling from her lips as she takes the heart from my chest. Yours.
I nip her back, gently, so gently, just lips without teeth for fear of hurting her. “Mine,” I agree. There will be blood later. A scrape, a cut, some small wound born of her excitement and enthusiasm and learning the shape of herself and the world around her. Not at my hand, though. Never at my hand. I would die before causing her any harm. But I will be there to ease the pain, and this bond needs no sealing in blood, not today.
She staggers back to our mother, and I follow, helpless to do anything but be close to her, to all of them. Mine. When Roma has fed, I press against Mother’s side, touching the soft of my nose to her shoulder before reaching out to nuzzle my sister’s tiny ribs. Was I ever that small? That delicate? So fragile, so breakable, and yet I cannot imagine--well. Yes. Yes I can imagine. All too vividly. So I look to Father, my eyes solemn and dark. We will keep her safe. And we will destroy anything that threatens that safety. Ours.
My name is the first she speaks, and it steals away my breath. Her staggering steps almost draw me forward, almost coax me to meet her halfway, but I already know her somehow. She will make it to my side on her own. I will not deprive her of that accomplishment. When she does, she curls up against me, and I hold her close. She nips my shoulder and the word Mine is truth falling from her lips as she takes the heart from my chest. Yours.
I nip her back, gently, so gently, just lips without teeth for fear of hurting her. “Mine,” I agree. There will be blood later. A scrape, a cut, some small wound born of her excitement and enthusiasm and learning the shape of herself and the world around her. Not at my hand, though. Never at my hand. I would die before causing her any harm. But I will be there to ease the pain, and this bond needs no sealing in blood, not today.
She staggers back to our mother, and I follow, helpless to do anything but be close to her, to all of them. Mine. When Roma has fed, I press against Mother’s side, touching the soft of my nose to her shoulder before reaching out to nuzzle my sister’s tiny ribs. Was I ever that small? That delicate? So fragile, so breakable, and yet I cannot imagine--well. Yes. Yes I can imagine. All too vividly. So I look to Father, my eyes solemn and dark. We will keep her safe. And we will destroy anything that threatens that safety. Ours.