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Deep within a lab in Iceland, a new virtual reality project has been launched. The participants, however, were kidnapped. Welcome to the world of Project Aubade.
 
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 Halfie

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Jay
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Posts : 315
Bits : 173
Join date : 2017-03-14
Age : 19

PostSubject: Halfie    Sun Apr 30, 2017 1:35 am

She licked her lips against the air, the cold air. It was the kind of air that closed elementary school doors, the kind that made the tips of your cheeks blue. She coughed and spit into the gutter. Her short hair bobbed above the crease of her scarf, and she stalked up the school bus with a nod to the driver. Firm-lipped. Dark under the eyes.
You eloped with this girl and made yourself a halfie, so forgive me if I don’t come around anymore!
Get the fuck out, dad!
Her mom was Japanese, silver skinned and beautiful. She was a silent woman, something her dad told her was his favorite feature of her. She didn’t say much, but when she talked, it was like a gold coin plopping into his fountain. He yearned after her words like treats. She always used them wisely.
But when she wouldn’t talk, she would instead hum. That was her time-passer, the thing that glided her from task to task. She never knew what her mother was humming; where the notes came from was always a mystery to her.
Her mother’s eyes were always calm. Even that night, when grandpa visited and she watched from beyond the stairs, she saw it. Her gaze was stoic. She stood with a spoon in her hand, at the bottom of the stairs, her back to her daughter.
The old man left, trailed by the sloshing of his bottle, the veering of his Oldsmobile as he swerved onto the street, leaving tracks in their driveway. But if he left, then why did he come back?
“What are you drawing, Rory?”
Her mother walked over from the open door, much to the young girl’s alarm. She pushed together her knees and tried to cover parts of the art with her palms, but the woman grabbed it from under her hands. Rory looked down. Her hair always fell, covering her eyes, and that's how she liked it. It was the perfect length. Her bangs were long.
Her mother scanned the page with a ponderous hmph, drawings of cartoon animal characters across the looseleaf in sketch. A turtle and a porcupine and various little mice were crammed from margin to margin. From afar, the sound of an oven beeping sounded, and the woman put it down. She began to walk away, and there was a sinking in Rory's heart. It was skydiving, freefalling thousands of feet, until a parachute slowed its descent.
Her mother lingered in the doorway.
“You should really find something in that,” she told her. She can feel her mom’s gaze in her bangs, the ocean’s vastness contained in centimeters. Rory smiled at her page. The cartoon turtle smiled back.
That night, she practiced how to make her dark eyes look darker in the mirror, lifting her bangs and focusing her irises. How did her mother do it again?
Can I come in? I want to make it up to you?
What about Rory?
Her too, I do love her, I really do. I was a hard time for me, for all of us. I said some things I shouldn’t have.
Her dad was always one for family. He had a tough life as a child, and lived by the build, by dysfunction and dismay. He was a Kennedy, however, an all-American. He met his wife at a military station in Kyoto, and sought to make things right with her. He craved stability, obsessed over it. Family drama was always his to amend. Somehow. Someway.
It was the same man that made his life hard that stood before him that day, a levity in his eyes and a bottle of iced tea in his hand. It had been years.
I got a job.
A pause.
What is it?
Her grandfather took her through the office he worked, an electronics company off the suburbs of Milwaukee. He held her hand through the crowd of technicians and labrats. His hand was coarse and rugged, etched with scars and scratches long paved with skin. They weaved their way to his server bay, where he grinned, his smoker-heavy voice telling her of his job. She feigned interest. Her father told her to.
“What are you working on?”
His voice crackled like a dessert packet.
“It’s a secret.” He looked her in the eyes, and put his nailless finger to his mustache. She looked at him with little thought, her mind having already wandered to the pen in her case, the notebook in her binder.
When she walked onto the school bus that day, did she know it would be the last time?
She bit her lip as she exited the schoolbus, wincing at the chill of the air that still clung to the afternoon. The light was a misnomer of the day’s temperature. It suffocated it, squeezed the warmth out of it, until the sunrays were nothing but a decoy. A remainder of what had been. She walked down the sidewalk to her house, keeping her bare knees close together. It was only a block away, but the walkway seemed to stretch, cycling like a treadmill. She walked a grassblade a second.
The girl walked up to her steps.
His truck was parked out back, but she didn’t notice.
She tucked a sideburn behind her ear.
He was behind the door.
She opened it and kicked her shoes off onto the carpet.
The cloth was cold.

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