June sat, her body still, spine straight and away from the back of the seat, in her train compartment. The trees shot past as a small circle of fog formed on the window. Her breath was measured, slow, but forceful, tamed. Suppression came easy to June, and often. One is not born with an ease so skillful. It comes with practice, with opportunity. One must earn it. Her eyes stared back at her, floating translucent over the blurred hills, shaking in unison with the roughly laid track. A few hours and she would arrive. She wondered about Lawrence. She remembered his hand, the rough skin and the faint scratch against her cheek from the hangnail on his thumb, his fingers resting firm at the back of her neck. It would be a caress, were it not for the pressure, his palm against her throat, warm with the tightening. She remembered his left eye, the only thing in focus. It was strangely sad. He knew. He knew it was wrong, that it was without point, that he was helpless against it.
Her gloved finger crossed the widening patch of condensation on the glass. She felt the cold through the window and wetness on her fingertip. Autumn had been their season, their era alone. Her eyes watched her in the compartment, drifting through the yelloworange and brown, noting her thick, tweed jacket, blinking in the crisp sunlight. As the glass grew darker, June felt the weight in her jacket pocket, knew the shape and color, the energy. As she slipped her hand in, the moist tip of her finger felt the dull warmth of the revolver's handle, the worn texture familiar as the first smoldering shades of autumn. The eyes outside the window grew sharp and solid in relief against the slow seep of evening. They did not blink.
Archiving all of these memories
2 years ago