They're eighteen, if you didn't gather. Amnesia, whose life has already been retarded by emotional distress, and later (by way of her mother) strong sheltering, comes off as a very simple young woman. Immature. Cordelia, who is far more knowledgeable is Amnesia's idol.
Amnesia IS developed, except that she has neither had her first menstrual cycle, nor does she have the body hair typical to a young woman her age, though she is close on all counts.
I hope you enjoy reading.
*
I remember having developed
feelings
for her - for Cordelia - sometime around the middle of middle school. I wouldn't actually act on them until just after we were eighteen.
They didn't make sense to me, at the time, so I spent most of my days following her around in a state of confusion (confusion was something I would feel a lot in my youth).
Like anyone, we argued, and fought. Sometimes grudges, however short, were held for a time. I remember one such instance, coming to apologize to Cordelia.
This lead to a dark place, but it was the foundation of our story.
O O O
Amnesia peered around corner of the door frame, watching Cordelia in her room, her raven hair pulled back in a haphazard pony tail, spilling down her black like a blue-black ebony waterfall. She was painting on a small canvas, with some skill, the beginning of a portrait. Amnesia watched her for some time, each precision stroke, and every nuance of Cordelia's expression of concentration, as she hummed to herself.
"It's not polite to stare, you know." Cordelia's voice called from across her room in a smokey voice. Cordelia's voice had always had that smokey quality to it, the classic sound you expected to hear in well sung blues.
"I... I'm..." Amnesia stammered.
"What do you want?"
"...just to talk?" Amnesia asked meekly, still peering around the door as the ghost skinned girl continued coloring. Cordelia's gold tinted pallor, spectral, unblemished skin reflected the light from her desk lamp, as she painted at the small eisle. She looked over her shoulder, at Amnesia, with her deep set, honey eyes. Wolfish features that had become second nature to Amnesia. The slender jaw. The slightly protruded muzzle.
"You're still staring."
"I'm sorry." Amnesia stammered.
Cordelia her attention to the painting. "Would you like to paint?"
"Mother always considered it a terrible waste of time, painting."
Cordelia turned her head, and then in her chair, facing Amnesia. The shadow over her eyes contrasted against her pale skin, like burning amber gems. "How is anything fun a waste of time?"
"I'll paint if
you
want me to."
"No, it's okay. You have to want it for yourself." She said, and returned her attention to the painting, swiveling back around in her chair.
"I would probably just ruin it." Amnesia persisted creeping around the corner of Cordelia's door more. "I'm no good at such things."
"How do you know?" Cordelia asked, without looking up at her again.
"I—I don't. I just... I don't know what to say."
"Then be quiet, so I can paint."
Amnesia slowly stepped from behind her door, but Cordelia didn't respond. One step after the next precarious step led her gradually to Cordelia's side. She glanced a moment, but did not look up.
"I can see through your shirt."
Amnesia took a single step back.
"It's a black shirt."
"You should probably start wearing a bra."
Amnesia stepped back another step.
"Don't be shy." Cordelia rinsed her paintbrush in a glass of cloudy purple-gray water, and set it next to the eisle. She swiveled around, facing Amnesia, again. "Boys look. Everyone looks. It's probably better that its me telling you, you know?"
"I had no idea."
"Well, I do."
Amnesia watched Cordelia, and Cordelia, she. They locked eyes, and were silent a long time. Amnesia wished she had eyes - any features - like Cordelia's. They were very even, and soft, even the fierce color of her eyes was easy to get lost in. She was - "I told you, it's rude to stare. You should put on a bra." Cordelia looked over Amnesia. "I have some in my top drawer. They should fit you."
Amnesia nodded without question, a feeling of falling in her stomach. It felt like the sensation of a falling dream, except she was wide awake.
Cordelia glanced at her impatiently. "Well?"
"Well what?"
"I didn't mean ten minutes from now. If we're going to go swimming, you'll need something to wear."
"Are—are we allowed?" Amnesia choked.
"Does it matter? How many times do you get to live life?" Cordelia said with a smile that promised a thousand mischiefs. "Take a chance, or shut up and paint."
