"J'ai plus de souvenirs que si j'avais mille ans.
Un gros meuble ? tiroirs encombr? de bilans,
De vers, de billets doux, de proc?s, de romances,
Avec de lourds cheveux roul?s dans des quittances,
Cache moins de secrets que mon triste cerveau."
~Charles Baudelaire; Spleen II
"I have more memories than I would were I one thousand.
A grand chest of drawers encumbered with bills and
Verses, balance sheets, poems of romance,
With glorious locks of hair in bills of sale ensconced,
Yet hiding fewer secrets than my wretched head."
~Translation by the mun
The contents of his box are scattered across the red wool blanket covering his bed. The box itself, a plain thing perhaps the size of a cigar box and made of dark hardwood, sits open on his pillow. The former contents of that box are sitting out in front of him, waiting to be replaced in their home.
However, he has some new additions to the box, one of which, by nature of it's size, necessitated removing everything else so he could make best use of the storage space by placing it on the bottom. A PADD, deactivated so as not to permanently drain the battery, with clumsy engraving in Cyrillic letters on the back. He'd watched the former owner use a knife to carve his name on the back? and remembers that knife being used to carve something else entirely. He slips it inside a thin protective sleeve before nestling it in the bottom of his box.
Next, since he supposes working backwards is likely appropriate, comes a small yet perfect sand dollar kept in a transparent aluminium case. He opens the case to finger the shell lightly, remembering a warm beach and cool sea spray and the cries of birds in the sunset. Yet, the memory of bird calls fast fades into the sound of alarm klaxons blaring through his past, and so he snaps the case shut quickly and tucks it away.
After that (or before, depending on how you look at it) is a set of dogtags. Only one of them is his, the other belonged to someone else years ago. Where his other tag from that set is now, only an omniscient being would know. His grip tightens on it, edges pressing hard into the joints where fingers meet hand, imprinting the name into his palm. Then, with a deep breath, he loosens his grip on the tags, dropping them in next to the sand dollar.
He goes out of order for this one, but that is because the item he is holding for last always takes the longest for him to let go of. This is a cheap ring, sized for a child's hand and obviously the sort of costume jewelry a small child would be able to afford. The inside of the band is tarnished green from a few years of wear that took off the outer plating of metal; the edges and outer surface well scuffed from the sort of treatment a young lad would subject it to. This item makes him smile, and it is reverently placed with it's fellows. Perhaps not exactly the same as the rest of the objects, but he cannot think of a better place to keep it. He idly twirls the sturdy, inert metal ring he wears now, on the same finger that years ago wore that tiny ring.
Then he considers the small box.
It is unmistakeably a jewelry box? specifically, one for a ring. He picks it up and flips it open, revealing a gleaming white metal band and simple, sparkling star ruby set in it. The ring is carefully removed from the padding holding it in place, although, for once, he does not slip it onto his wedding finger. Instead, he holds it up to the last fading rays of light coming in through his window, watching the colour flash in the stone. He had tried, numerous times, to give this little treasure back. After all, considering the intent with which it had been given, etiquette demanded as much. Yet the giver had always refused, and even when he had attempted to hide it in the other man's house just before heading out to Delta Vega? it had found it's way to him when they had delivered the first round of supplies. He hated the reminder of what had been lost and had, for the longest time, felt it was his ex-fiance's way of rubbing salt into that particular wound.
Except, really, it was a lovely ring, and he could understand now that it was the sort of thing that, by keeping, would have perhaps hurt his ex-fiance even more than it hurt himself. He, at least, usually kept it tucked away in his box, with the other reminders he cared to not think about except usually on his birthday. Oddly, however, the urge had come sharp and early this year, to go through his box. This time, it had brought along a certain clarity with his old engagement ring, something he found himself grateful for as he carefully settled it back into the jeweler's presentation box and placed it with his other objects.
His box was still missing something, it seemed, because he could not quite bring himself to close it for the year yet. He held the lid up, thumbing the latch as he stared down at it, wondering what needed added other than the PADD.
Oh.
The lid was let to fall backwards, resting once more on the bedspread as he opened his nightstand drawer. Removed were two flowers, one of red tartan fabric, the other hand-made of transparent aluminium; roses both. He held them together, a slight frown etched on his features. It had been? a while, and he had the suspicion that, no matter what had been promised, there might not be any coming back for the latter rose. It hurt to think of that, made his heart ache and something catch in his throat, but even if there was a coming back, it was not possible for what the rose symbolised to come to pass, not anymore. He carefully twined the fabric flower around it's metal companion, and rested the little 'bouquet' amongst everything else in his box.
Then he closed the lid and secured the latch, before setting the box over on his dresser once more.
Un gros meuble ? tiroirs encombr? de bilans,
De vers, de billets doux, de proc?s, de romances,
Avec de lourds cheveux roul?s dans des quittances,
Cache moins de secrets que mon triste cerveau."
~Charles Baudelaire; Spleen II
"I have more memories than I would were I one thousand.
A grand chest of drawers encumbered with bills and
Verses, balance sheets, poems of romance,
With glorious locks of hair in bills of sale ensconced,
Yet hiding fewer secrets than my wretched head."
~Translation by the mun
The contents of his box are scattered across the red wool blanket covering his bed. The box itself, a plain thing perhaps the size of a cigar box and made of dark hardwood, sits open on his pillow. The former contents of that box are sitting out in front of him, waiting to be replaced in their home.
However, he has some new additions to the box, one of which, by nature of it's size, necessitated removing everything else so he could make best use of the storage space by placing it on the bottom. A PADD, deactivated so as not to permanently drain the battery, with clumsy engraving in Cyrillic letters on the back. He'd watched the former owner use a knife to carve his name on the back? and remembers that knife being used to carve something else entirely. He slips it inside a thin protective sleeve before nestling it in the bottom of his box.
Next, since he supposes working backwards is likely appropriate, comes a small yet perfect sand dollar kept in a transparent aluminium case. He opens the case to finger the shell lightly, remembering a warm beach and cool sea spray and the cries of birds in the sunset. Yet, the memory of bird calls fast fades into the sound of alarm klaxons blaring through his past, and so he snaps the case shut quickly and tucks it away.
After that (or before, depending on how you look at it) is a set of dogtags. Only one of them is his, the other belonged to someone else years ago. Where his other tag from that set is now, only an omniscient being would know. His grip tightens on it, edges pressing hard into the joints where fingers meet hand, imprinting the name into his palm. Then, with a deep breath, he loosens his grip on the tags, dropping them in next to the sand dollar.
He goes out of order for this one, but that is because the item he is holding for last always takes the longest for him to let go of. This is a cheap ring, sized for a child's hand and obviously the sort of costume jewelry a small child would be able to afford. The inside of the band is tarnished green from a few years of wear that took off the outer plating of metal; the edges and outer surface well scuffed from the sort of treatment a young lad would subject it to. This item makes him smile, and it is reverently placed with it's fellows. Perhaps not exactly the same as the rest of the objects, but he cannot think of a better place to keep it. He idly twirls the sturdy, inert metal ring he wears now, on the same finger that years ago wore that tiny ring.
Then he considers the small box.
It is unmistakeably a jewelry box? specifically, one for a ring. He picks it up and flips it open, revealing a gleaming white metal band and simple, sparkling star ruby set in it. The ring is carefully removed from the padding holding it in place, although, for once, he does not slip it onto his wedding finger. Instead, he holds it up to the last fading rays of light coming in through his window, watching the colour flash in the stone. He had tried, numerous times, to give this little treasure back. After all, considering the intent with which it had been given, etiquette demanded as much. Yet the giver had always refused, and even when he had attempted to hide it in the other man's house just before heading out to Delta Vega? it had found it's way to him when they had delivered the first round of supplies. He hated the reminder of what had been lost and had, for the longest time, felt it was his ex-fiance's way of rubbing salt into that particular wound.
Except, really, it was a lovely ring, and he could understand now that it was the sort of thing that, by keeping, would have perhaps hurt his ex-fiance even more than it hurt himself. He, at least, usually kept it tucked away in his box, with the other reminders he cared to not think about except usually on his birthday. Oddly, however, the urge had come sharp and early this year, to go through his box. This time, it had brought along a certain clarity with his old engagement ring, something he found himself grateful for as he carefully settled it back into the jeweler's presentation box and placed it with his other objects.
His box was still missing something, it seemed, because he could not quite bring himself to close it for the year yet. He held the lid up, thumbing the latch as he stared down at it, wondering what needed added other than the PADD.
Oh.
The lid was let to fall backwards, resting once more on the bedspread as he opened his nightstand drawer. Removed were two flowers, one of red tartan fabric, the other hand-made of transparent aluminium; roses both. He held them together, a slight frown etched on his features. It had been? a while, and he had the suspicion that, no matter what had been promised, there might not be any coming back for the latter rose. It hurt to think of that, made his heart ache and something catch in his throat, but even if there was a coming back, it was not possible for what the rose symbolised to come to pass, not anymore. He carefully twined the fabric flower around it's metal companion, and rested the little 'bouquet' amongst everything else in his box.
Then he closed the lid and secured the latch, before setting the box over on his dresser once more.