(no subject)
She doesn't remember how she got here-- or, for a moment, where she is.
But it comes to her in bits and pieces: She is lying on the ground; her cheek is damp with dew; long, soft grass and long, scratchy weeds are all around her.
It's cold.
Antigone shivers, shutting her eyes against the morning.
It's too fine a day for everything to be wrong.
(she must have been beautiful, in the end)
She won't let herself think it. Won't say the words even into the silence of her head. The pain is lurking there like a beast, razor-sharp and wordless, voiceless; she will not give it a name.
Her fingers dig into soft, cold earth-- beautiful earth, dark and rich, she would love it on another day--
They cling there, and she doesn't care about the dirt beneath her fingernails.
But it comes to her in bits and pieces: She is lying on the ground; her cheek is damp with dew; long, soft grass and long, scratchy weeds are all around her.
It's cold.
Antigone shivers, shutting her eyes against the morning.
It's too fine a day for everything to be wrong.
(she must have been beautiful, in the end)
She won't let herself think it. Won't say the words even into the silence of her head. The pain is lurking there like a beast, razor-sharp and wordless, voiceless; she will not give it a name.
Her fingers dig into soft, cold earth-- beautiful earth, dark and rich, she would love it on another day--
They cling there, and she doesn't care about the dirt beneath her fingernails.