Write about something you or a character made by hand

The windowpane is frosted. Ice crystals form an intricate pattern across the glass surface. I press my face against it. The coolness eases the fever that has my body sweating like the summer's sun, with hair sticking to my face, and clothes moist against my skin.
Evening light casts rainbows through the window, making the room feel magical. I close my eyes. If only it were so.
The hardwood floor is warm beneath my feet. I curl my toes in my wool socks and press them to the solid surface. I must keep my feet planted beneath me. I cannot let this agony in my chest rip my world apart.
My pulse beats a steady rhythm against my temples. My body, though limp, feels like I've been lifting fifty pound bags of wheat all day. The aches drown out the chills that run down my spine. I am so hot, yet can't seem to get warm enough.
I open my eyes and snuggle deeper into the patchwork quilt my mother has tucked around me as I rest on the sofa. I'm thankful my father moved the sofa next to the window so I can at least see out of the house. The walls are closing in on me. After a week of solitary confinement, I can understand why people in jail lose their whits.
My fingers curl around the yarn in my lap. Softness encircles them. I press harder. The lumpy pile resembles my sister's hair when she fell into a mud puddle. Long strings of messiness that I had to unravel. Took me hours. And both our patience wore thin by the time the last strand was straightened.
I wonder how long I've been sitting here, staring at nothing. Has it been days? Hours? Seconds? I've lost track.
The crackling of a fire pulls my attention to the kitchen. It must be time to prepare dinner. Who will mother feed tonight? With me sick, brother married and staying at his in-laws for a couple days, and sister getting chaperoned by father to the local youth dance where she's pining over the attention of Gabe Marcam, there aren't many mouths around. I wonder why she's bothering. Surely we could rewarm some bread on the already warm potbelly stove in the bedroom and call it good.
I return my attention to the mess in my hands. The yarn must be rewound into a neat bundle so I can crochet myself a scarf. My old one is splitting at the ends. And the neighbor girls are laughing at me from my apparent state of distress. No better time than now to get started on the project. I've got time on my hands.
A few minutes later, the smell of vegetable soup wafts into the room. It reminds me of cold winter nights, not unlike the one we're experiencing. But I cannot feel the biting cold since I'm burning alive. I turn the mess over in my hands, finding the end and pulling it out. I begin to wrap it around two of my fingers, in hopes of keeping it small and tight.
It's mindless work, and my thoughts wander. How did this yarn become such a mess in the first place? I bought it from the mercantile not two weeks ago. It was the rich, burgundy color that called my name all the way from the front door. I saved my meager compensation from organizing Mr. Parrot's storage cellar the last week and bought the yarn. It was wrapped in a perfect oval, the ends tucked neatly away, ready to be woven into a masterpiece. Yet I found it this way this afternoon, almost beyond repair.
I get to a knot and begin to tug it loose. I will have to be creative in getting it undone without unraveling what I've gotten done. My fingers caress the fibers, coaxing them to obey my demands.
A knock startles me. It's firm. Strong. Demanding attention. It's gotten mine.
My mother rushes out of the kitchen, through the sitting room, and into the foyer to answer the door.
A deep voice resounds through the house. It's not entirely unfamiliar, but also not familiar. I push myself straight, lift my head from the windowpane and try to seem relaxed, even when that's the furthest from the truth.
My mother rushes back into the room, an astonished look on her face. "He's here."
"Who's here?" I struggled to comprehend her statement.
"Gabe Marcam!" She exclaims as he steps into the room.
I deadpan. Isn't he supposed to be at the dance? The dance my sister begged my father to take her to? The one where she was supposed to dance the night away with her one, true love? Although, why she has her heart set on someone so much older than her is beyond me. He's five years older than her, three older than me. And when you're only seventeen, five years makes a big difference.
I've heard the gossip about Gabe, since my sister is obsessed. She collects it, like pearls on a necklace, lining up the latest next the last. But I can't quite seem to understand what all the rave is about. Sure, he's good looking, with a chiseled square jaw and tousled black hair. His eyes are what set him apart, so says my sister. They're blue, like the sky. So clear that the color cannot be matched. But as I look up into his face, I see that his eyes are also kind, and even though the color may be clear, there's a cloud to his features, pulling his lips down at the sides and casting shadows under his cheekbones.
His lips pull up at my mother's gasped introduction, then fall.
"I...uh...um...want...wanted...to um..." He pauses, takes a deep breath, keeping his eyes locked on mine. "Stop by."
"Well, Mary has already gone to the dance with her father. You're too late if you wanted to walk with them to the hall."
A twinkle sparks his eyes, like a star appearing in the midday sky, subtle, yet impossible. The anomaly of it keeps my attention. "I...uh...well...I...um..." His stuttering betrays the surety of his deep voice. "Wanted to see...uh...Lizzy."
The shock of him using my nickname pops my mouth open. I shut it with an audible snap.
A smile softens the planes of his face and he looks boyish, much younger than his twenty two years.
"Well!" My mother exclaims, her voice having risen an octave. "This is a surprise." She casts me a nervous smile, filled with the million questions that are bouncing around in my head. "I'll just be in the kitchen. Would you like a bowl of soup? It's just finishing up. Elizabeth and I were about to eat."
The thought of eating cramps my stomach. It must show on my face, because Gabe grimaces for me. "Um...no thank you...Mrs. Sterling. I...uh...I ate...before I left home."
"Of course you did." My mother nods her reply before leaving the room like a whirlwind.
Now that my mother's gone, Gabe looks even more nervous than I feel. He bounces on his toes a couple times before coming to a rest on his heels. His hands are thrust into his pockets. His shoulders slumped forward. His tall, lean frame beckons to be reassured, but I have no words for him. I've hardly talked to him, let alone asked for his attention all these years we've known each other. It's always been the other girls in town fighting over him. Why would I want to join in when I know there's not even a tiny chance of winning?
I realize my fingers are bound so tight in the yarn that they're cramping. To distract myself, I begin to open my hands finger by finger. They tingle as the circulation restarts.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Marcam?" My voice is strong, much more steady than I feel.
His eyes betray his emotions and for a moment he looks dumbstruck. "What...what do you mean?"
I blink a couple times to clear my head. "You said you came to see me. Well, here I am. You see me. Now what can I do for you?"
"What can you do for me?" He shakes his head, his words finally coming out in a coherent sentence. Of all the things my sister raved about him, she didn't mention stuttering or incoherency as an issue. I guess girls her age don't notice things like that. There are other things to focus on. Like his full lips and the way they form a perfect heart when closed. Or his broad shoulders. Or those long legs that seem to eat up the ground as he crosses the room.
He shocks me by plopping down on the sofa, right next to where my legs rest. My body freezes, my hands gridlocked in the yarn. I feel like I couldn't move, even if I wanted to.
"I came over here tonight to see what I could do for you." His eyes dart back and forth across my face, searching for something. "Your sister mentioned you've been feverish all week. And that you would be put in the grave before the month was out if you didn't start to improve soon."
"And why would this concern you?" My voice is sharp. I rein in my surprise of his worry, soften my voice. "I mean, you're not exactly my friend. Why would you care if I go to an early grave or not?"
He looks like I've slapped him. A deep flush filling the shadows of his cheeks. He ducks his head. His hands are out of his pockets. He fidgets with a ring on his right middle finger, twisting it around and around. "Guess I haven't been much of a friend. But I want to be...a friend..." He clears his throat. "I just don't know how." His Adam's apple moves as he swallows. "It's just that...there's always so many people around...and I never know how...how to approach you...you're so...so...I don't know...unapproachable..."
"Unapproachable?" I scoff. "Wow. You sure know how to make friends."
A laugh escapes, and his shoulders shake with his amusement. "Guess I'm not very good at it...yet...but what I meant to say was...that you're...that you're...intimidating...to me...I guess...I don't know how to explain it...I don't have this issue with anyone else...just...you." His voice falls as he says the last word, like it's all my fault. He takes a deep breath. "I can talk to anyone...even old Mr. Finch, who bites everyone's head off...but with you...with you...it's like...like...my mind freezes up...it's all I can do to put together sentences."
I make him freeze up? What does that even mean? And likening me to a mean man? Not exactly scoring many bonus points right now. I raise an eyebrow, questioning.
"See?" He's lifted his head again, his eyes squinted, searching for something in mine. "You don't even realize what you're doing. But even that...that thing you're doing with your eyebrow...you do it when you're confused...or skeptical...or want someone to get one of your jokes..." He shakes his head. "You don't even realize it, but you captivate me, even with the smallest of gestures. I don't know how to act or what to do around you. But one thing I do know, is that I do want to be around you. That is...if you'll have me...as a friend..."
I stare at him. His words circle my mind. Captivate? Is that what friends do? That's a word that belongs more in a relationship than a friendship. But what do I know about relationships? I've never been in one. Never needed one. Never wanted one. At twenty, I'm an old maid, but I've never needed anyone else to make me happy. Never. Why would I want to risk that kind of dependence when I do perfectly fine on my own?
"Before you make any decisions about us being friends...just think about it...but first...what can I do for you? Is there any medicine or oils or remedies I can help with? Do you need company?" He glances down at my hands. "Do you need help with that? I'm really good with knots."
I follow his gaze and notice I've lost my hold. The mess is even worse than before. "Sure. You can help me rewind this." I smile and almost throw the pile into his lap. "If you can unravel that and wind it into a ball, then I'll consider being your friend."
He looks like he's won all his hopes and dreams. His smile is so bright, it makes me shy away like I do from the sun. "You got it."
A few weeks later, fever gone, I weave the last strands of burgundy yarn into an intricate pattern. It's something I thought I'd never do. Achieve the stitch my mother has tried to teach me since I was beginning to hold needles.
The scarf's color is perfect. It sets off the sky as I hold it above my head. It will be like sunset raging war on the noonday sun as I give it to Gabe. It will start a war with my heart. One that I'm not so sure I will win.
He's been attentive and kind. More than any other friendship of mine. I wonder if he really wants to be friends...or if he wants to be more. There's a flame growing in my heart. One that I'd always put out. But this time, I don't want it to go out. I want it to grow, become an inferno.
I've taken on a new journey. One where I'm not afraid of putting myself out there, trying new, hard, and vulnerable things. Gabe has opened my eyes to the possibilities the world holds. Who knew that someone seeing me for the first time would make me realize I was someone worth seeing? Even at my worst moment of illness.
Just as this scarf has taken shape, so have I. When I wrap it around Gabe's neck, I will open my heart. Allow him to be my friend, or maybe even more. It might just bring more warmth than even the finest woven scarf could.