iuiuiulia:

The Ritual

She owned a bottle of red nail polish. It was an impossible shade, the type of red one only saw behind closed eyelids while staring at the sun. The nail polish, like all makeup, wasn’t even a luxury anymore. It was sheer stupidity, a waste of priceless time when one could be cleaning their weapons or tending to wounds. 

He always sat in front of her, folded up on the ground as she hummed and dragged acrylic over her nails. Her hands were only steady when gripping the metal of a gun. Now, they swept shakily, spreading accidental red over her skin. 

He couldn’t remember when it had begun. One day, before they had to head out to look for food, she had flourished the small bottle and dropped to the floor. He’d scoffed then, as he did every time since, and turned away to grab a needle and floss. Within seconds he was forced to turn back, glaring at her as he fought back a cough from the miasma the small bottle was producing. She’d sat on the floor of the dingy cellar, in the center of the only spill of light that came through, oblivious to everything.

She did this again and again, always before they had to shoulder their rifles and bags. Eventually, he would join her. Would drop in front of her, always in front, propped upright by the smell of polish and the insanity around him. She never talked, but he’d mutter about movies and books and things long since killed. When they were lucky, he’d forget about the crumbling buildings and bodies. He never forgot to tell her she was impossible, watching her eyes flash bright and happy for two entire milliseconds every time. Some days it was the most she would say.

He sits alone in the dusty air, twisting the empty bottle shut. He places it on the floor. He stares at the empty space in front of him.

“You’re impossible, you know?”

He grabs his possessions, tucks his life into a backpack, and pads outside to the outrage of sunshine and a clear sky.

What do you guys think? What should I change or make clearer?