26AN: My fifth one-shot, inspired by a delightful new game on the Stealthy Stories message board. It's a modification of the classic Truth or Dare, and these were the two options presented to me:
Truth: What is April hiding behind the old, moldy pillows in the farthest corner of her wardrobe?
Dare: Bebop and Rocksteady are arguing.
A plot bunny immediately latched onto my ankle and wouldn't let go, leaving me with little choice but to write out my interpretation of Truth. It's a bit short, but I liked it well enough that I thought y'all might, too. (Crosses fingers)
She told Casey she kept the pillows there for sentimental reasons, and that was both a lie and the absolute truth. It was true that the pillows had belonged to her grandmother, and that she kept them as a tangible reminder of a woman whose absence was still keenly felt, but there was also no logical reason for her to insist that they be kept in her wardrobe. Casey had told her this more than once, pointing out quite sensibly that the old cloth would preserve better if wrapped in plastic and stored away, and yet every time he had been rebuffed with an affectionate but firm hint to mind his own business. It had soon become clear that April was not to be swayed in this matter, and so Casey had dropped the subject entirely, content to label it as another one of his fiancé's harmless eccentricities.
April had cause to be thankful for Casey's trusting nature and short attention span, for she didn't think she could have sidestepped his well-meaning prying much longer. The pillows were important, yes, but amongst their soft contours resided something even more precious to her. Something that must be hidden away, despite its worth, for fear of the pain it would cause.
Looking for it now, April swung open the antique wardrobe door and sank to her knees, before pausing to lift up a throw pillow embroidered with light blue flowers. She pressed her face against the tiny, precise stitching and inhaled the fading scent of her grandmother's perfume, her burgeoning smile effectively concealed by cloth. Although she loved him dearly, Casey had a tendency to fill their apartment to bursting with his childish antics and larger-than-life personality; a fact that sometimes grated on the quieter, more scholarly-minded woman. So she made sure to savor these rare times that he was away, taking pleasure in the quiet that enveloped her like the soft folds of a cloak… and occasionally indulging in a secret.
It had been weeks since Casey's last business trip, and the itching, needle-prick sensation of a compulsion long denied suddenly bristled across her skin. She hurriedly set aside the throw pillow and shoved both hands through the remaining mass, feeling around blindly until her left hand encountered something much harder than the cushioning that surrounded it. Pulling out the tiny jewelry case with an audible sigh of relief, April sat back on her heels and cradled the wooden box in her hands. She still harbored a private fear that it would be discovered and taken from her during some clandestine raid in the night, despite the sure knowledge that her wardrobe was the one place that was truly safe. Casey at his most suspicious would never even consider looking in there. Not there, amongst the pillows; the only legacy that Helen O'Neil's much-loved granddaughter would ever receive.
April opened the case and carefully hooked a nail around the miniscule golden chain, lifting up her hand until the pendant was freed from its cedar prison. The delicate oval disk spun for a frantic moment, revealing in quick bursts of golden light the stylized rose etched into one side. With a smile that was simultaneously beatific and tragic, she looped her fingers around the chain and captured the pendant between her thumb and forefinger. Lifting it to her cheek, she brushed the pendant lightly against her skin, imaging that she could feel the words that were engraved into the adjacent side in Donatello's exquisite, exacting script:
To my beloved April,
for all the nights.