sharp enough to cut (tom)

[gem]

— ♔ — pippa arden tags: Tom —————

Simply put: Phillipa was not in the mood. She groaned into her pillow, her eyelids burning every time she blinked. A small part of her wished she could just stay cocooned in her blankets for the rest of the day while another wished for the crash of waves against her feet, even with the chilled weather. But for all she wished, she knew that at least a couple hours of training awaited her, and she might as well get to it. One last time, she dug her fingers into her flat pillow and ungracefully threw herself out of bed. James was already awake, per usual, and he signed her, "good morning", despite both of them knowing that it was at least noon. Phillipa still signed a "good morning" in response, albeit much sleepier and sloppier. He shot her an exasperated but good-natured look before disappearing into his own room. She ate her breakfast (or was it more of a lunch?) in solitude, the sounds of life forming around her ears. The soft shuffle of activity outside, her mother humming to herself, timidly out of fear that she was off key. Phillipa almost wanted to tell her she wasn't, but decided better of it, and decided to leave her mother to her work as she scurried around the house, doing chores Phillipa was glad were relieved because of her training. By the time she had made her way to the training center and peeled off her four (yes, four) layers of jackets, her mood had slightly improved. There was something about the chaotic order of the center that fascinated her. Everyone had their own means, but they all worked for the same thing. Phillipa let herself fall into the constant buzz of the atmosphere. Even with the place less full than usual, probably due to it being around lunchtime, she could still feel the intensity pricking at her skin. She pulled up the mess of hair on her head into a hasty bun and strode to her favorite station. Phillipa weighed the knife in her fingers, a small smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. It was a good day. She felt it in her bones. She cast a quick glance up at the targets before her, simply the sight of the bullseye beating a surge of confidence into her mind. After tossing the blade back in forth between her hands a few times, she was ready. It was these days that she loved the most: when the knife was not an alien object. When it felt like an extension of herself, every bit as much as finger or leg. She let her shoulders relax and her posture straighten as she squared herself up to the target. One breath in, one breath out. On the third exhale, she hurled it forward. Good day, indeed. The metal of the blade glinted off the lights as the vibrated to a stop in the target. Not exactly at the center, no, but decent enough, especially for a warm-up throw. She almost wanted to glance around, to see if anyone had seen, but she didn’t have the nerve. Besides, the odds were few: everyone was taking advantage of the less crowded center and using their time wisely. Phlillipa should do the same. She didn’t even have to share the station with anyone, a precious luxury in case she made any of her inevitable mistakes. Better use it while she could before it started filling up again. Every knife hit home, sticking into the poor target with a dull thud. Breathe, throw, breathe, throw. By the time she ran out of knives to let loose, the motion felt robotic. She lost herself in the art of it all, unable to remember the last time she had done this well. The blades stuck out of the target in their own little herd. A wide grin spread across her face as she admired her work, resting her hands on her hips. She nearly flinched at the sound of the door hissing as it swung open, then closed. Her face melted seamlessly into a scowl. Open and close. Open and close. The afternoon crowd must be coming in, often rowdier and louder than those in the morning. She felt her sour mood that she thought she had left behind that morning return. As she collected her knives from the target, the center was already considerably more crowded. Several kids were now keeping her company at the knife throwing station, much to her dismay. She felt her confidence ebb away as she once again lined herself up with her target. It’s a good day, she tried to tell herself. No one’s watching. Despite her self-consoling, she still couldn’t help but feel as if everyone were watching with a disdainful sneer, just waiting for her to make her mistakes. She let her eyes close slowly, then opened them again. Breathe, throw.