samuraiprosecutor (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
samuraiprosecutor) wrote2008-01-22 05:52 pm
samuraiprosecutor) wrote2008-01-22 05:52 pm
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21: [Private; hackable] Touch-a Touch-a Touch-a Touch Me [Backdated]
((OOC: Backdated to 1-22-08, the day of the Eros virus, around 10pm. Overly sensitive skin made Edgeworth more irritable throughout the day, until he finally gave in to the need to touch. He spent about fifteen minutes on his balcony as the night's rain went from drizzle to downpour. When that didn't satisfy he ended up shirtless on the floor, his hair damp, curled up with Sigi. He spent almost an hour petting and hugging his dog (still not fully satisfied but Sigi's fur was warm and soft against his skin), until his muscles were aching from the floor and his thoughts had turned irrevocably to the last times he'd been able to allow himself something as familiar as human contact.))
My father had large hands. His fingers were long. There were callouses on the ring finger of his right hand and between his thumb and forefinger, where his pen would rest, but otherwise his skin was smooth.
Discipline, on the rare occasions when it was necessary, came in the form of words; contact was for...affection. For love. He was unreserved in all things, and touch was no exception.
I remember his hand, warm, squeezing my shoulder as he leaned over to see the 'A+' on my English paper: joy in learning made studying easy, but the A's were always for him. I remember the way he would ruffle my hair when he teased; the way I'd come into the living room to catch him standing by the mantle, pressing his fingertips to the frame of mother's photo; the quickness of his fingers as he pushed his glasses back up on his nose. Every habitual action, so clear in my mind. I have my father's hands.
Larry's hands were always dirty, back then. Sticky with food, paint, glue and glitter on our craft days. No matter how many times I pulled my hand out of his grip or shrugged him off my shoulder, it was never long before I'd receive a clap on the back (those stung, slightly) or a shove that I assume was meant to be playful.
Wright...his hands were soft. Gentle. Infrequent contact, meaningful and casual, like so many other aspects of his personality.
The last time I felt my father's touch was in the elevator. I was...frightened - the earthquake, the darkness, the close quarters. He was so reassuring at first, he...rubbed my back, laid his hand on my head so gently, his touch conveying the surety his face couldn't in the darkness. It was going to be fine, the power would be restored and the elevator would start to move again and...
Remembering is painful; forgetting, more so.
I think, perhaps, I might have preferred the symptoms that Wright was afflicted with.
My father had large hands. His fingers were long. There were callouses on the ring finger of his right hand and between his thumb and forefinger, where his pen would rest, but otherwise his skin was smooth.
Discipline, on the rare occasions when it was necessary, came in the form of words; contact was for...affection. For love. He was unreserved in all things, and touch was no exception.
I remember his hand, warm, squeezing my shoulder as he leaned over to see the 'A+' on my English paper: joy in learning made studying easy, but the A's were always for him. I remember the way he would ruffle my hair when he teased; the way I'd come into the living room to catch him standing by the mantle, pressing his fingertips to the frame of mother's photo; the quickness of his fingers as he pushed his glasses back up on his nose. Every habitual action, so clear in my mind. I have my father's hands.
Larry's hands were always dirty, back then. Sticky with food, paint, glue and glitter on our craft days. No matter how many times I pulled my hand out of his grip or shrugged him off my shoulder, it was never long before I'd receive a clap on the back (those stung, slightly) or a shove that I assume was meant to be playful.
Wright...his hands were soft. Gentle. Infrequent contact, meaningful and casual, like so many other aspects of his personality.
The last time I felt my father's touch was in the elevator. I was...frightened - the earthquake, the darkness, the close quarters. He was so reassuring at first, he...rubbed my back, laid his hand on my head so gently, his touch conveying the surety his face couldn't in the darkness. It was going to be fine, the power would be restored and the elevator would start to move again and...
Remembering is painful; forgetting, more so.
I think, perhaps, I might have preferred the symptoms that Wright was afflicted with.
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