Thread: Boundary Lines (Father & Nym)

Innocence. It was one of the words that less than a handful of the people on the Earth could use without a bad conscience. It was used without much thought, people making themselves out to be something that they were most certainly not, flattering themselves, rationalizing their actions. After all, the lie in itself was innocent, and no one would question it. If one was to parse the what it truly meant to be innocent, perhaps fewer people would dare to sugarcoat their little sins when they wanted to avoid being looked down upon, but the truth of the matter was that the word had come to lose its meaning. It had been misused for so long that the definition had been broken down, and no one minded. As long as it helped people make things justifiable, no one would mind. For her, it was used to justify her own shameful indulgence. It had started off as an innocent hobby... sweet novels, stories hidden under her pillow or in secret folders, little products of boredom that she kept to herself. It was not until the day when she discovered collaborations that she saw the beauty of it, her stories finding their own heartbeat, taking unexpected turns and challenging her to follow. And she followed them, let them carry her away, not realizing that she went down the rabbit hole until it was too late. No, she did not feel any shame until the harmless little pastime had become so dark and immoral that she could never let anyone find out about it... not unless they were as guilty as she was herself. All things truly wicked started from innocence, no matter how one defined the word. It had come to the point where she was pushing the limits that separated fantasy from reality, beckoned over to the other side by the impact of words. Never had she thought that she would find herself wanting to realize what was meant to be a story, but his words had brought her away from the safety of her imagination, and those words only kept bringing her closer to him. There were so many reasons for her to stop and turn back, but she didn't dare to pay them any attention, not after all the hours she had spent preparing herself to face her desires. She was very well aware that a little doubt could make her fragile courage shatter into pieces, denying her the touch of the hands she had been craving for far too long...the hands of the Father she needed. She knew she would rather take the risk of making a mistake, than to forever have to wonder what it would have been like to finally meet him. At last, her steps came to a halt as she reached the border, high and solid, impossible to cross without the intention of doing so. Carefully she pressed her ear to the hard wood of the door, breathing the name she knew him by and listening for a sign that he was still there - perhaps hoping that he would not be, unsure of how she would handle his presence. The hem of the skirt she had put on for him was in folds, messed up from habits of her nervous hands, that were now brought up to tear down the barrier. Hesitant hands, knocking four silent words. Father, are you there...? Then she quickly stepped back, hiding that she had been listening so very closely to hear his footsteps. Would he still want her as she was, much smaller than her words, she wondered... Was she still good enough when she was vulnerable, without anything to hide behind but thin fabric, put on display for him at last?