writing prompt: Yana's collection

Note: This prompt was also picked up from Blogger's just updated blog listing. I didn't manage to click on the link before it faded. I apologize to Yana and her true collection of whatevers for what I have warped them into. Here we go:


She leaned down by her bed and reached beneath it, groping in the dark for her memory box. Her knuckles brushed against the corner; she shifted slightly and gently pulled her treasure out from its darkness. She smiled, a wide grin bordering on the giggles, and plopped back down on her plush bed. She blew on the box lid and wiped the box with her sleeve before setting it down on her pink bed covers.

She lifted the lid with great reverence, in honour of the value of the box contents. Not only did they represent her dearest possessions, but they had also been that of their previous owners. Some may have said that all of these were stolen; she would be adamant that they had been willingly given and that, once given, it would have been rude for anyone to claim them back.

One by one, she pulled them out, and her thoughts went out to the boys - her boys - and the times they had shared. She enjoyed the feeling between her fingers, the lingering warmth, the slick surfaces as she turned each over with great care. She almost dropped one when a knock at her bedroom door shattered her reverie.

"Yana, honey? Dinner will be ready soon." Ever since they had that now-infamous conversation earlier this year, her mother knew better than to try to open the door. Besides, she knew full well it would be locked. Privacy was very important to a young lady, after all.

"All right, mom. I'll be down in a minute," she answered brightly. She paused, listening to her mother's footfall fade as she walked back down the hall, before turning her attentions back to her precious secrets.

For a moment, she thought the one she held still throbbed. For her, of course. Before packing them back away, she pulled them out and lined them up in succession on the edge of her bed. In her haste, she forgot to lay out a towel - oh well, she could always throw everything into the laundry after dinner. It always did please her mom to see her do chores unprompted, too.

Eight little hearts, all in a row. Many a teenaged girl aspires to amass so many, but most draw the line at a virtual collection. Yana was not your run-of-the-mill girl, however. Hearts that were declared hers could never, would never, be pledged to anyone else, ever. Yana made sure of that. She hummed to herself as she packed up her bounty and returned it to its shadows. She almost skipped down the hall to dinner; admiring her collection never failed to lift her spirits.

(444)