flowers bloom in the rain
The wind snags at my braid and I glance at Flora’s warning not to be so hard on myself, but the frown still tugs. "Been throwing knives since I was little," I mutter, rolling a shoulder. "I just… feel like I lost most of it when I got older." I sigh and study the palm—scabbed with marks, none of them exactly where I meant them to be—and tuck another stubborn strand of hair behind my ear. A beat passes, and my mouth quirks despite myself. "The pineapple felt kinda cool, though."
I listen as she talks and watch her play the blade over her fingers like it’s weightless, like it belongs there. Muscle memory—that’s the part I still have. When I don’t see it coming, my body moves before my head can get in the way; the hit lands and only then do I realize I’ve already thrown, like with the pineapple.
Her next suggestion makes my eyes widen. "You mean actually hit him? With a knife?" I blink, baffled, glancing from her dagger to the tree and back again. "He really can’t feel it?"
I listen as she talks and watch her play the blade over her fingers like it’s weightless, like it belongs there. Muscle memory—that’s the part I still have. When I don’t see it coming, my body moves before my head can get in the way; the hit lands and only then do I realize I’ve already thrown, like with the pineapple.
Her next suggestion makes my eyes widen. "You mean actually hit him? With a knife?" I blink, baffled, glancing from her dagger to the tree and back again. "He really can’t feel it?"
Theea
growing up is a pain
