(no subject)
It would appear my characters know their own stories before I do. One of them has managed to kill himself. This is really quite impressive. Beware the weirdness that lurks behind the cut. (And no, I won't tell you who has ended up dead.)
He sits half in shadow, arms folded; legs on the table, watching the other take a long drink from the bottle.
“You need to stop that,” he says sadly. “It’s not good for you.”
“Of course it’s not.” Brown eyes try to focus, and fail miserably. “That’s the whole point, isn’t it?”
There is a long pause, during which only the gentle sound of water dripping from the window sill can be heard. It is raining outside, wet and damp and cold, and the man with his arms folded shivers slightly, tilting his head to one side. He looks as he always did, eyes slightly shadowed, small lines spreading out from their corners; lips set firmly, not because he is trying to be inscrutable, just because that is the way he always is.
“You never change,” says the other man, putting the near empty bottle down on the table with a thud. “Never. It’s killing me.”
“No, the alcohol’s probably killing you, I’m not.”
“Don’t be absurd, of course you’re killing me. You always…” There is a slight hitch in his breathing - a hiccup or a sob, neither can tell. “It’s all your fault anyway.”
“I can’t deny that. Maybe I shouldn’t have done what I did.”
“Of course you shouldn’t!” There is an explosion of movement as the man lurches drunkenly to his feet then sways before sitting down again heavily, face buried in his hands. “You know, you knew, what it would do to me. You knew and you did it anyway. Why couldn’t you just have let me die? Why?”
“Because of what it would have done to me.” The man opposite watches, eyes sad as the other refuses to look up. “I thought you might have had a chance at life, even if I was gone.”
“And you were wrong.” His voice is bitter.
There is a long pause, then, softly spoken: “I love you.”
“Ah.” Brown eyes lift to look at the other and soft lips quirk in a smile that is not one at all. “Now I know I am drunk. Or mad. You would never say that to me when you were alive. I am hallucinating, and you are not here.”
“I am always here,” he says patiently.
“Yes, yes I know,” says the brown eyed man, and he is talking to no one but himself. “You are always here, and I am never sane. That is why.”
Only the moonlight and shadows reply.
In other news, TP finally seems to be coming together, albeit simply in my head at the moment. This is a good sign - it means I might actually be able to finish the damn chapter now. The bad news is, of course, that I am ill and thus do not really feel up to doing much at the moment. *Headdesk*
He sits half in shadow, arms folded; legs on the table, watching the other take a long drink from the bottle.
“You need to stop that,” he says sadly. “It’s not good for you.”
“Of course it’s not.” Brown eyes try to focus, and fail miserably. “That’s the whole point, isn’t it?”
There is a long pause, during which only the gentle sound of water dripping from the window sill can be heard. It is raining outside, wet and damp and cold, and the man with his arms folded shivers slightly, tilting his head to one side. He looks as he always did, eyes slightly shadowed, small lines spreading out from their corners; lips set firmly, not because he is trying to be inscrutable, just because that is the way he always is.
“You never change,” says the other man, putting the near empty bottle down on the table with a thud. “Never. It’s killing me.”
“No, the alcohol’s probably killing you, I’m not.”
“Don’t be absurd, of course you’re killing me. You always…” There is a slight hitch in his breathing - a hiccup or a sob, neither can tell. “It’s all your fault anyway.”
“I can’t deny that. Maybe I shouldn’t have done what I did.”
“Of course you shouldn’t!” There is an explosion of movement as the man lurches drunkenly to his feet then sways before sitting down again heavily, face buried in his hands. “You know, you knew, what it would do to me. You knew and you did it anyway. Why couldn’t you just have let me die? Why?”
“Because of what it would have done to me.” The man opposite watches, eyes sad as the other refuses to look up. “I thought you might have had a chance at life, even if I was gone.”
“And you were wrong.” His voice is bitter.
There is a long pause, then, softly spoken: “I love you.”
“Ah.” Brown eyes lift to look at the other and soft lips quirk in a smile that is not one at all. “Now I know I am drunk. Or mad. You would never say that to me when you were alive. I am hallucinating, and you are not here.”
“I am always here,” he says patiently.
“Yes, yes I know,” says the brown eyed man, and he is talking to no one but himself. “You are always here, and I am never sane. That is why.”
Only the moonlight and shadows reply.
In other news, TP finally seems to be coming together, albeit simply in my head at the moment. This is a good sign - it means I might actually be able to finish the damn chapter now. The bad news is, of course, that I am ill and thus do not really feel up to doing much at the moment. *Headdesk*