Aimee Finecky (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
spectacularly) wrote2014-06-23 07:05 pm
spectacularly) wrote2014-06-23 07:05 pm
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The stables are beautiful. That alone makes me figure this is probably a bad idea. I'm not cut out for this sort of elegance, for the stiff way the people I pass stand. I've always slumped.
But I need a way to fill my time. The closer I get to eighteen, the more terrified I get that I'll lose myself in the bottle when it's even easier to grasp. T.J.'s promised to take me to one of his meetings if I want to go, but I don't want this to be his burden. He's doing so well. He deserves to get better. What I need is a distraction. I could get a job, I could go back to delivering papers – I've even asked about it once or twice – but something draws me to the stables, to the heavy scent of hay and horse hair.
I'm not wearing my cast anymore, so I can keep my arms wrapped around my front, careful to stay out of everybody's way. Not that anyone's unkind as they pass me. I even garner a few smiles. I'm just used to being on the sidelines, to veering out of the way before anyone has the chance to step on my toes.
There's a mare, I think, with a deep red coat just outside the office and she's beautiful. I don't know where her rider is, I look around, and hesitate only for a few seconds before I let my hands ghost over her neck. She's so strong. And so much more stunning than my sketches of horses and ponies, all over my bedroom wall back home, could ever do justice. "Aren't you pretty?" I say, unable to deny myself a smile. Hearing footsteps, I force myself to pull away, flushing red. The last thing I want to do is make anyone here mad. The last thing I want to do is make anyone mad, period.
But I need a way to fill my time. The closer I get to eighteen, the more terrified I get that I'll lose myself in the bottle when it's even easier to grasp. T.J.'s promised to take me to one of his meetings if I want to go, but I don't want this to be his burden. He's doing so well. He deserves to get better. What I need is a distraction. I could get a job, I could go back to delivering papers – I've even asked about it once or twice – but something draws me to the stables, to the heavy scent of hay and horse hair.
I'm not wearing my cast anymore, so I can keep my arms wrapped around my front, careful to stay out of everybody's way. Not that anyone's unkind as they pass me. I even garner a few smiles. I'm just used to being on the sidelines, to veering out of the way before anyone has the chance to step on my toes.
There's a mare, I think, with a deep red coat just outside the office and she's beautiful. I don't know where her rider is, I look around, and hesitate only for a few seconds before I let my hands ghost over her neck. She's so strong. And so much more stunning than my sketches of horses and ponies, all over my bedroom wall back home, could ever do justice. "Aren't you pretty?" I say, unable to deny myself a smile. Hearing footsteps, I force myself to pull away, flushing red. The last thing I want to do is make anyone here mad. The last thing I want to do is make anyone mad, period.