(no subject)
I'm going to kill the maids, you say. I'll turn them all into fish.
Oh, says the voice behind you (in your head). But you did that last week . . . and isn't it dull.
Your fingertip ghosts in spirals around the fat column of wax, drifting down. Candles. What's the use of candles? you don't need them to see by.
You look up, turn around; complain childishly, But they've let the fire go out.
Nothing but dust and lies in the grate.
But of course then he says come here, boy and you don't even think once about it. You've learned to exist without thinking, how to get by on coffee and nerves and a grin that says yes of course yes I know what I'm doing (and wine).
It's the easiest thing.
As he reaches for your shirt's hanging laces, he inquires politely, Thomling, dear boy. Whatever has happened to you?
Almost as if he cared.
Well, I . . . you start, but the scene shifts before you can get to your happy ending.
I don't know, you tell her. I haven't seen him.
(The voice in your head whispers bullshit and so does she.)
No, and your own voice is rising, I haven't, I haven't.
Haven't you? she asks with a mouth full of blood like your own. Haven't you, brother? I can see that you'd pick him first. I suppose that he . . . you . . . but I did love you most.
Did? You make a grab for her hand, desperate. Did, Alanna, did, surely you don't mean you did love me?
But it's with his hand in yours, it's with the memory of his skin beneath your lips that you raise your head to say, I made you a promise once -- yes, I remember.
I'll keep it.
(It's so dark when you open your eyes.)
Oh, says the voice behind you (in your head). But you did that last week . . . and isn't it dull.
Your fingertip ghosts in spirals around the fat column of wax, drifting down. Candles. What's the use of candles? you don't need them to see by.
You look up, turn around; complain childishly, But they've let the fire go out.
Nothing but dust and lies in the grate.
But of course then he says come here, boy and you don't even think once about it. You've learned to exist without thinking, how to get by on coffee and nerves and a grin that says yes of course yes I know what I'm doing (and wine).
It's the easiest thing.
As he reaches for your shirt's hanging laces, he inquires politely, Thomling, dear boy. Whatever has happened to you?
Almost as if he cared.
Well, I . . . you start, but the scene shifts before you can get to your happy ending.
I don't know, you tell her. I haven't seen him.
(The voice in your head whispers bullshit and so does she.)
No, and your own voice is rising, I haven't, I haven't.
Haven't you? she asks with a mouth full of blood like your own. Haven't you, brother? I can see that you'd pick him first. I suppose that he . . . you . . . but I did love you most.
Did? You make a grab for her hand, desperate. Did, Alanna, did, surely you don't mean you did love me?
But it's with his hand in yours, it's with the memory of his skin beneath your lips that you raise your head to say, I made you a promise once -- yes, I remember.
I'll keep it.
(It's so dark when you open your eyes.)