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Summary
There are cracks in Amélie’s conditioning.
She can visualize them when they happen: thin spiderwebs upon a frosted pane of glass. Sometimes the fog descends, covering them completely, sealing her in silent grey numbness. But other times? Other times, the web is all she can see. Its sharp, angled lines burn into her brain, cracks of white-hot sunlight shining through.
These cracks grow brightest whenever Amélie sees her.
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Bookmark Notes:
“I don’t think you wanna leather boot me.” Despite her precarious position, she can’t help grinning at her own joke. “Get it? Boot? ‘Cuz it’s a rhyme for shoot, but you also stomped on me?” A long silence follows. “No? Aw.”