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i.
she's plucking apples from the highest of trees, twisting them around and placing them in her handmade basket.
her grandmother has allowed her to borrow the ladder on which she's standing on.
her cloak is swaying in the summer breeze, winding through her golden locks and warm against her rouge cheeks.
the basket is almost full, but she still reaches out for one last apple, one redder than blood and bigger than any other.
her efforts are in vain, for the apple has grown on the one branch which she cannot grasp.
huffing an irritated sigh, she rises carefully on her tiptoes, her fingertips merely inches away from the fruit, when she hears a bush rustle from somewhere near her.
freezing for a moment, praying it not to be a bear or a wolf, she let's her forest greens slide down to the ground beneath her.
amidst the lively green of the bushes, there's an odd contrast of blue glistening in the sunlight.
she let's her arm fall limply by her side, fear having no control over her now, so she musters up the courage to ask, "who are you?"
she watches, content and unafraid, as from behind the bush appears a boy, looking no older than her, fixating his dark blues solely on her physique.
"are you lost?"
the boy shakes his head at her question.
"no," he answers, and she can only describe his voice as modulated and silvery, something she has rarely heard in boys.
she nods, scrutinizing the rake in one of his hands, wondering how such a fine young boy has gotten his hands on it.
with as much politeness as her mother has taught her, she asks, "may I borrow your rake?"
"i suppose," the boy replies while stepping closer, handing over the rake.
wording her gratitude, she takes it and soars it up in the air. when the rake is just above the desired apple, she reels back her elbows and pulls hard at it, successfully managing to have the apple fall to the ground, where it rolls until it hits the boy's leather shoes.
climbing off the ladder with a pant, she takes it under her arm and turns to fully face the boy standing with the apple in one hand.
she gives him back the rake and he says it has been a pleasure to help her, which she smiles at while he places the apple in her basket.
as they bid their goodbyes and part ways, it dawns upon her that she's forgotten to ask for his name, in case their paths may intersect once more.
they didn't.
ii.
she is changing the bed sheets, straightening the new ones with her palms and fluffies the pillows for at least two minutes.
she throws out the wilted flowers gifted by one of her suitors, replacing them instead with the ones she, herself, has cut from the garden.
upon dusting the room, she hears footsteps approaching, so she makes sure not to let it interfere with her work.
she is new to this, after all.
there's a gentle knock on the door, one resembling her mother's, so without thinking twice, she whips around to greet a young boy in ragged clothing instead.
she drops her broom quicker than lightning, questioning him over and over again about his sudden appearance.
she stops only when he smiles.
the way his lips stretch stop her in her tracks.
"why did you stop?"
a mocking laugh erupts from the person's throat as she realizes that a commoner would never behave in such a way toward other people, so she tantalizingly cocks her head.
the boy facing her cannot be a mere commoner. his eyes are a dark blue, his clothes are worn out and he walks barefoot around the room she has just tidied.
enraged at the street rat who believes he can make himself at home among rare gemstones and fine china and lustrous silk, she chases after him.
not before long, the two of them are fiercely engaging in a cat-and-mouse game, desiring only to kick his buttocks out of the room.
blushing furiously at the thought of a common thief barging uninvited in her home, feeling her blood boil beneath her creamy skin, the only word she shrieks is her father's name.
fear and incredulity reflect themselves on the rat's face and, in the blink of an eye, he throws himself underneath the bed.
she is confident father will certainly catch him.
standing by the window sill when father informs her about the small tunnel dug underneath the bed, frowning, she finds herself whishing they could have a rematch someday.
they didn't.
iii.
she gets up and starts moving her hips.
there is no one to accompany her, only the strong but flexible rhythmic understructure with solo and ensemble improvisations of the jazz band.
her heels tap aggressively on the floor, her feet dancing and her arms swaying on their own accord.
she feels freer than ever before, visiting the local bar each time intrusive thoughts plague her mind, and the pain subdues with every tap of her heels.
this is why she is here today, on the dance floor of a bar, dancing her heart out.
because here, she doesn't think, she doesn't feel, she doesn't smell.
most importantly, she doesn't exist.
barely having had time to warm up, the music stops altogether and she dies a little inside when the owner informs the patrons that the bar must, unfortunately, close due to over-leveraging.
sulking in the back of her mind, she snatches her purse off the table and exits the building, taking her time to memorize the sign on top of it; "jazzy jazz".
shaking her head, her feet direct her to her apartment.
feeling someone's gaze upon her back, she has a feeling it's the same pair of eyes that have followed her the previous day.
her instincts warn her to walk faster, to never look back and to not stop at any cost until she is safely inside the block.
right as she's about to enter, a calloussed hand emerges from the darkness and wraps its fingers around her throat.
she opens her mouth as many times as it will take for sweet air to meet her lips again, but it never does, and she is dragged into a back alley, staring only into a pair of indescribable dark blue eyes.
this is not how she has wanted to spend her saturday night, not like this; her fingers cruelly scratching at the rough skin about her throat while her legs kick helplessly at thin air.
her back collides with the bricked wall, harshly and coldly.
she wishes to scream into the man's face, wishes to claw his eyes out, wishes she could force his clammy fingers down his throat, wishes they'd switch places.
they didn't.
iv.
she is busy treating a patient's wounds when they barge inside the hospital room, carrying another soldier.
rushing to his aid, she drapes his arm around her shoulder and gently lays him on one of the few available beds.
he's been shot just above his heart, blood gushing out as he grits his teeth to restrain himself from shouting.
"hang on, everything will be okay," she soothes, brushing his greasy hair out of his eyes, a mesmerizing shade of blue.
he responds with a pained moan, and the moment she is brought the tools required for surgical removal, she begins working.
the other male doctors are busy attending dozens of fatally-wounded soldiers, so the only staff present is the nurses and a few volunteers without medical knowledge.
the soldier keeps wailing as she extracts the bullet, his entire body writhing, and at the revelation that he may not stop, she makes sure to call for two volunteers to hold him down.
flinging the bullet into a bowl of boiled water, she soaks a shredded piece of material into ice cold water and taps his forehead with it.
she tilts her head as she wonders about what he must have gone through.
his mouth trembles, faint sounds reaching her ears, resembling a name.
setting aside her curiosity, all she can do is pray for his health, and maybe, if he'll wake up, they might introduce themselves.
they didn't.
v.
she's waiting patiently on the bed, her delicate skin wrapped around a transparent gown, one of her legs tucked neatly underneath her while she swings the other in anticipation.
her boss has told her of the vitality of this new customer, that if everything goes according to plan, she will be freed from her debt.
at first, she's been skeptical, but eventually learned that he isn't the type to play around.
the door opens with a creak, revealing rather an older man, the grey strands among dark blue hair pinpointing early stages of aging.
he is dressed nicely, with polished shoes and a dress shirt, styled-back hair and twinkling eyes.
knowing what must be done, she rises to her feet and helps him get out of his shirt first.
wordlessly, she traces her fingertips from his clean cut features down to his nicely shaped abdomen, eliciting a moan from him.
smiling to herself, she unbuckles his belt and strips him of his boxers, then leads him to the bed, tenderly pushing him onto his back.
she has never been the type to submit that easily to customers, so she lifts the hem of her gown enough to make it clear that she hasn't intended on wearing panties.
it's those elderly prostitutes whom have taught her how to do her job properly; no sex toys, no experimenting, and most importantly, no emotional attachment.
just fucking. nothing more, nothing less.
much like what she is doing right now, riding him and he helps by thrusting his hips upward to meet hers in a delicious friction that causes her to moan.
words have eluded them both, letting their bodies do the talking instead.
once they're done, she pushes herself off him in order to let him gather his discarded clothes and pull them on.
before existing the room, he peers over his shoulder, commenting, "i hope we'll do it again."
they didn't.
vi.
she taps her pen on the white sheet of paper.
the little tongue ticks and ticks and ticks until it drives her mad.
because she's never heard silence quite this loud.
her forest greens dart to the test laying before her.
they've never been taught this before, so she circles her guess.
she might at least score some points for trying, who knows.
their professor informs them it's time to put down their pens, so she does.
taking a look around her, she notices how a man looks at them from behind the transparent glass of the homeroom door.
their professor opens the door and greets the man in janitor jumpsuit, wearing a nametag she cannot quite decipher.
she sits in the farthest of rows from the catheter, so the words are too blurred for her to assume anything just yet.
from what she can see, it appears that he's tall and lean, unswerving hair falling into his right eye, leaving the other uncovered.
tilting her head, blonde locks sweeping across her bare shoulder-blades, she raises a hand.
using the infamous excuse of having to use the ladies restroom, she feeds her curiosity by passing the janitor on her way out.
his eye bears an uncanny similarity to forget-me-nots, as if unintentionally begging her not to forget him.
taking out a tiny mirror from her back pocket, she studies her eyes, whom mimic the picture of a freshly rained-upon forest, each rustle and creak of the branches being a silent imploration to not be forgotten.
they did.