[ And there it was, and the world goes void-still and void-quiet and he's half awash in her blood all over again. Pooling out of her and in desperate words, because it doesn't go away, it never goes away and it has been months now, with enough battle and blood between then and now to dull the seconds between --
but it takes nothing at all to send it spiraling back in. He cannot remember her eyes when they smiled but he knows them with such fear, he cannot feel her hand except where it is cold. Every memory, every part, washed over and over in her death till there was nothing else but it. Consumed and spat out. The pain real and sharp and claws through his chest. Rips and bites like the rats he sets on others and maybe if he took as many as he was empty, it might hurt less.
( It doesn't, it never will, no day will get better because she will never be in them again )
-- and maybe it is because no one has asked him. Skirts around him and his grief and his loneliness like a wounded beast because he is, he has been from that day. All teeth and claws and desperation. But the word comes blunt and easy, cruel because it's too much. His hands sit flat, and in the end it's not in them, it's the way he hunches into himself with the memory, the over bright in his eyes, the shift of nails against the table like he means to claw something open.
It is not past, it is not gone, he is sure in the way of old things, that it will never be gone. He will be this empty, this hollow with the thick black taste of grief on his tongue until the day he died. ]
it is either that you know, or you do not. If you do -- then I do not need to explain, and your question is pointlessly cruel, and if not? The closest is to drive knives into your feet and then be asked to march.
[ And that's as much as he can say, and with his tea untouched, he stands, bristling with the need to run from this. There is never a time and place to discuss this, or ever a want to. ]
With respect, I ask my leave of you. Good day, Miss Amber.
no subject
but it takes nothing at all to send it spiraling back in. He cannot remember her eyes when they smiled but he knows them with such fear, he cannot feel her hand except where it is cold. Every memory, every part, washed over and over in her death till there was nothing else but it. Consumed and spat out. The pain real and sharp and claws through his chest. Rips and bites like the rats he sets on others and maybe if he took as many as he was empty, it might hurt less.
( It doesn't, it never will, no day will get better because she will never be in them again )
-- and maybe it is because no one has asked him. Skirts around him and his grief and his loneliness like a wounded beast because he is, he has been from that day. All teeth and claws and desperation. But the word comes blunt and easy, cruel because it's too much. His hands sit flat, and in the end it's not in them, it's the way he hunches into himself with the memory, the over bright in his eyes, the shift of nails against the table like he means to claw something open.
It is not past, it is not gone, he is sure in the way of old things, that it will never be gone. He will be this empty, this hollow with the thick black taste of grief on his tongue until the day he died. ]
it is either that you know, or you do not. If you do -- then I do not need to explain, and your question is pointlessly cruel, and if not? The closest is to drive knives into your feet and then be asked to march.
[ And that's as much as he can say, and with his tea untouched, he stands, bristling with the need to run from this. There is never a time and place to discuss this, or ever a want to. ]
With respect, I ask my leave of you. Good day, Miss Amber.