Drabble me?

[deathpixie]

Since I'm finding myself rather bored, needing to keep myself awake, and wanting to flex the writing brain a little... Grabbed from [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com], who got it from [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com].

Make a drabble request in comments and maybe I'll write something for you. Any of my normal fandoms/shows or if you just want to give me a prompt - anything!

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[nute.livejournal.com]

Yvette + bicycle.

[deathpixie]

Ivan had a new bicycle, bright red and shiny. It made him the most popular boy in school, and when he had asked her if she wanted a ride home, her, little quiet Yvette with her distinctly un-Albanian name and doubtful history, she thought her chest with burst from the way her heart had pounded excitedly. With her arms wrapped around his waist as they whizzed down the hill from the schoolhouse, she laughed aloud with the joy of it, the wind in her hair, the effortless swoop of the bicyle, the rough feel of wool under her hands from Ivan's sweater... everything imprinting on her memory so she'd never lose it.

The crash wasn't Ivan's fault. A stray dog, thin and mangy-looking, bolted out in front of them, and he swerved to avoid hitting it. The bicycle wobbled, then overturned, spilling them onto the cracked road. Pain flared as she scraped tender flesh along the rough surface. Sliding to a stop, she slowly sat up, trying to reconcile the sudden shift in circumstances.

"Are you all right?" asked Ivan, approaching her. He had scraped holes in both elbows of his sweater and there was a cut on his chin, dribbling blood. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, but rather than use it himself, he crouched down beside her, looking at her anxiously. "Are you bleeding?"

"I don't know..." Yvette looked at her hands, noting the grazes on the heels of her palms and then pulled up the legs of her pants - her knees were stinging - but instead of the expected bleeding gashes, instead there was a covering of skin, dull red in the sunlight. She frowned and poked at one place. It was hard, like the shell of a tortoise or lobster. "What is this...?"

"I don't know." When she looked up, Ivan was already standing, backing away. "Maybe it's a sickness."

"I don't feel sick," she pointed out, then bit her lip. Maybe she was?

"Or maybe you're one of them. The unclean ones. They are on the news, more every day." Ivan backed away further. "Maybe that's what you are."

"I'm not!" she protested, but it was too late, Ivan was already picking up his bicycle and wheeling it away at a half-run, casting scared looks over his shoulder at her. It was just as her mother's stories had told her, she realised. Different was dangerous. Would he tell? Would they take her away? Was she some kind of monster, like they saw on the television sometimes? Yanking her pants legs back down, she glanced at her hands. More dull red skin, where the grazes had been. Looking around guiltily, she pulled her winter gloves out of her coat pocket, where they'd remained since the previous year, and pulled them on. It'd look strange, but not as strange as the hard red skin. Not so strange as to make her a target.

Yvette turned and ran for home, as fast as she could.