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aperture
the aperture of a can is far different from the aperture of a funeral hole both do fill with liquid eventually just a different sort a different type one with carbonation one with dead skin and leaves and soil rotting one s w e e t and another s i c k
aperture
Amara doesn't really like huge openings. It's a small fear, maybe. She's not really sure where it came from or why it happened. Why such a simple little thing such as staring down into a dark, seemingly neverending hole freaked her out. Even if it was just the hole of the sink's drain, or the opening of a soft drink can. Of course, as with all things, she grew out of it. The terrible fear. The intense apprehension. That didn't mind her anxiety didn't skyrocket whenever she spotted them; she simply didn't react as heavily as she had when she was a kid. She didn't run away, or choke up, or feel salty tears well up in amethyst eyes. As a teenager -- and eventually, adult -- all she really felt was an intensely uncomfortable feeling. Amara never knew why. Anthony didn't, either, and he wasn't much of a help. It wasn't like any trauma had occurred to Amara to make such a tiny thing such a fearful experience, to make her want to close her eyes and have to breath in and control her suddenly hammering heart, her suddenly clammy hands, skin breaking out into a cold sweat. It isn't until one night where Amara Meanders wakes up in her bed, mind full of the thought of her mother's casket being put into a hole so deep in the earth it looked like it continued forever. And that, Amara realizes, must be where it all came from.