A special edition of the World's End
Very, VERY special.
“It's small,” Violet says, turning the key to her new building over and over in her hands, “but I like it. It'll do.”
The first floor of the little corner hovel is cluttered with junk and debris, old furniture missing great chunks or entire limbs.
“The furniture was included,” Violet says, laughing and propping herself against the vertical angle of a overturned table, legless and half-formed. “I suppose you can see why.” She trails her fingers down through the accumulated dust, her fingers cast in sickly, ugly light . “I thought, since it's so close to winter - well, I thought it might work for firewood, some of it. This will never be a whole table again.”
These things; it's better to burn them.
Violet moves away from the upended furniture and towards the windows, crusted an inch thick with dust and grime from the inside and out, time and the city blanketing every pane with a layer of filth. “The whole building will need to be rewired. What's there now isn't safe.” Her leaves are scraping huge waves, pathways in the dust buildup on the floor beside her footprints - which is hardwood, and seems to be in good condition under all of the trash. There's a path closer to the stairwell already, left over from her pacing following the purchase of the building, a sharp, cleaner line through the murky grey sludge on the triangular window panes she forced her finger through to draw a c-curve.
Everywhere she's been before; the dirt holds little traces of Violet; her nervousness, her uncertainty, the awkward way she has pushed four broken chairs to huddle around a table with half a top.
Facing out the window, where the pale light makes all of her features ghoulish, shadowy like the pressed, pallid dried-out plant specimens in museums.
“Is it too much?” she asks, chewing on the place her fingernail would be if she still had fingernails. “There are so many things to do to make it right. I was just so happy to have found it...”
Jens makes a soft, huffing noise that becomes a snort into his beard and smiles with the pointed slant of his snout, his eyes glittering from the shadows of his face.
“No,” he says, the soft rumble of his voice shaking the dust on the floor. “It is neece-a. Yuoo deed a guud jub.”
Violet lights up, as though all of the grime has been miraculously scraped from the window, the veins in her face flashing a series of pale pinks.
“We could put some couches over there by the fireplace, make it a little place to do some reading in between teas. I've been shopping around, there's a nice set at the place off the corner from the nursery I've been checking in on. Do you want to see the kitchen? It doesn't need as much work, just some tidying, some new appliances. The pantry may have rats, but those we can get rid of.”
Jens huffs again. The younger woman is so eager from his encouragement, he has not the heart nor the want to let her down.
“Yes, thet vuoold be-a lufely. Bork bork bork!”
Violet smiles, in a wide way that should take up too much of her thin face, but he finds it very pretty, if too childish, and too naïve. He can indulge her this once, leaving his own wide-spaced footprints beside the trails from her leaves as he follows the Woodblood into the kitchen through a door he must turn sideways to enter, letting her lead him with the hand she insists on hooking into his elbow.
Jóhannes thinks she may be trying to keep him.
Violet knows she is trying to do exactly that. Once her friend, the man who saved her, the man by whom she cannot help but be so intrigued, wanders into territories foreign and forbidden to her, she has no method of following, no place to take up root.
Jens thinks to himself that he must be very careful when next he leaves, to make this fifth separation all the more gentle than the last.
If he notices the sudden inclusion of the word “we,” he doesn't say anything, or does not bother to correct her, at least.
“It's small,” Violet says, turning the key to her new building over and over in her hands, “but I like it. It'll do.”
The first floor of the little corner hovel is cluttered with junk and debris, old furniture missing great chunks or entire limbs.
“The furniture was included,” Violet says, laughing and propping herself against the vertical angle of a overturned table, legless and half-formed. “I suppose you can see why.” She trails her fingers down through the accumulated dust, her fingers cast in sickly, ugly light . “I thought, since it's so close to winter - well, I thought it might work for firewood, some of it. This will never be a whole table again.”
These things; it's better to burn them.
Violet moves away from the upended furniture and towards the windows, crusted an inch thick with dust and grime from the inside and out, time and the city blanketing every pane with a layer of filth. “The whole building will need to be rewired. What's there now isn't safe.” Her leaves are scraping huge waves, pathways in the dust buildup on the floor beside her footprints - which is hardwood, and seems to be in good condition under all of the trash. There's a path closer to the stairwell already, left over from her pacing following the purchase of the building, a sharp, cleaner line through the murky grey sludge on the triangular window panes she forced her finger through to draw a c-curve.
Everywhere she's been before; the dirt holds little traces of Violet; her nervousness, her uncertainty, the awkward way she has pushed four broken chairs to huddle around a table with half a top.
Facing out the window, where the pale light makes all of her features ghoulish, shadowy like the pressed, pallid dried-out plant specimens in museums.
“Is it too much?” she asks, chewing on the place her fingernail would be if she still had fingernails. “There are so many things to do to make it right. I was just so happy to have found it...”
Jens makes a soft, huffing noise that becomes a snort into his beard and smiles with the pointed slant of his snout, his eyes glittering from the shadows of his face.
“No,” he says, the soft rumble of his voice shaking the dust on the floor. “It is neece-a. Yuoo deed a guud jub.”
Violet lights up, as though all of the grime has been miraculously scraped from the window, the veins in her face flashing a series of pale pinks.
“We could put some couches over there by the fireplace, make it a little place to do some reading in between teas. I've been shopping around, there's a nice set at the place off the corner from the nursery I've been checking in on. Do you want to see the kitchen? It doesn't need as much work, just some tidying, some new appliances. The pantry may have rats, but those we can get rid of.”
Jens huffs again. The younger woman is so eager from his encouragement, he has not the heart nor the want to let her down.
“Yes, thet vuoold be-a lufely. Bork bork bork!”
Violet smiles, in a wide way that should take up too much of her thin face, but he finds it very pretty, if too childish, and too naïve. He can indulge her this once, leaving his own wide-spaced footprints beside the trails from her leaves as he follows the Woodblood into the kitchen through a door he must turn sideways to enter, letting her lead him with the hand she insists on hooking into his elbow.
Jóhannes thinks she may be trying to keep him.
Violet knows she is trying to do exactly that. Once her friend, the man who saved her, the man by whom she cannot help but be so intrigued, wanders into territories foreign and forbidden to her, she has no method of following, no place to take up root.
Jens thinks to himself that he must be very careful when next he leaves, to make this fifth separation all the more gentle than the last.
If he notices the sudden inclusion of the word “we,” he doesn't say anything, or does not bother to correct her, at least.