written for writing 101, day nine challenge: changing moccasins — point of view. this is meant to be innuendo story, but i don’t know why it turns out into a sappy, drama one. alright, blame me for write this at midnight. /yawns/

He was done. Utterly, completely, absolutely, done. He couldn’t—obviously was never able to hold her and walking in a quiet but lovely park. After what he had done, he never imagined to still be loved by the woman he loved the most. The woman who still laid her heart to him, even though she had heard that he committed a crime. Committed a freaking crime. Who in hell still wanted to be with a bastard man who had done such a heartless, merciless, sinful activity? It hadn’t been over. She had to wait for ten freaking years. Normal woman would ended her relationship with that man. Obviously. Yet, here he was. Walking, or exactly, shuffling with the person he had been dating for approximately five years.

They passed an old woman, sitting on one of park benches. Her curly white hair was arranged neatly, despite it was so thin. Was she stressing about someone—daughter-in-law, her children, her grandchildren, her family?

His attention from the old woman’s hair was caught by rolls of red yarn. Red, too much red—blood, the rope that would have been used for his execution but because of God’s mercy he ended not to be executed but imprisoned for years—ten freakingly fucking years. Still, why?

She was enjoying the content sensasion she got by just holding the hand of the man she loved, when he suddenly broke into tears—crying quietly. His eyes were full of sorrow—and it made her heart ached by just seeing it. Tears rolled on his face, glistened caused by the light of the sunset. She had no idea what he thought till he cried. But she knew it had to be something that hurt him so damn deeply. He didn’t cry easily, though.

She reached her handkerchief and wiped the tears away gently. “What did you think earlier?” She asked softly, as he was going to hurt if she asked any louder.

What she got as an answer was a quite not-assuring shake of the head. “Nothing.” He said, reaching for her hand that held the handkerchief she used earlier to wipe her lover’s tears. “Just, how lucky I am to have you.”

Instantly, she blushed and looked away, trying not to show the deep red color on her face. And it made him laugh, despite of redrimmed.

She huffed. Really, young men nowadays, were really such a crybaby. This marked her tenth time to see a man broke down in tears when saw her knitting. What was wrong with her knitting anyways? She was here just to knit a nice red sweater for her grandchildren who would come next week. Was her red yarn frightened them? Or they started to hallucinate or imagine about those kinds that couples nowadays were always talking about—what was it? Red string of hate or fate? Oh. Whatever.

Like hell she would care anything about it.

because everyone needs a good amount of humour at the end of sappy scene! but really, this is the sappiest thing i had ever written. damn. not to forget those unholy vocabularies i used. well, excuse me— /runs for dear life from angry people/






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