[original] you can't have it once you had it
I haven't posted in a long time, so I figured that since I have actually sat down and written something, it would be nice to share.
Some original stuff, going with my general mythology shtick, focused now on Antigone & Ismene from Sophocles's works. Blame Classical Mythology.
And. it's a terrible, terrible draft. Of nothing. Who needs plot?
Sometimes it's not true. Or truth is difficult to measure in the way you'd figure out how much sugar goes into this batch of cupcakes.
The guitar player paused in her strumming, and Antigone's stride also hiccuped. Ismene looked over at her sister, cocking an eyebrow. Antigone ignored the glance, and continued walking, hand in her pockets and hair curling around her face where it stuck out of her beanie.
"Why are we out, again?" Ismene immediately regretted the comment, feeling it felt childish and whiny, something Antigone simply wouldn't approve of. Again, she was the one who didn't get it.
Antigone threw her a look, and tossed her hand about half-heartedly.
"This."
Ismene looked at their surroundings, the long brown streets drenched in the streetlights of the city. The people dressed in the dark hues of the fouled earth, as if acting as a mirror of the times. Ismene didn't see that as any decent reason to be outside in this deadening cold. Her fingers were that light purple of lilacs or irises behind glass. Ismene didn't trust the color, the weather or her sister. She considered turning back and walking home on her own, the train jingle jangling her path back to her apartment.
But then she thought of the way her sister would look at her, or not look at her, which might actually be worse. Her sister had a tendency to pretend she didn't exist, with exception being occasions like this one, namely, when Antigone would come into her room without warning and announce they were going out.
Technically, Ismene would say no. She could not follow her sister, but then Antigone might never invite her out again. And then, Ismene would become invisible. It sounded overly dramatic and silly to see herself only through her own sister's attention span, but it was hard to be Antigone's sister and not feel this way. She had this manner of making things real by turning eye to them. And Ismene seemed bigger, more alive and electric when she was with Antigone.
Like a city with its lights on.
So she was here, instead of at home, enjoying the flow of the artificial heat of oil and natural gas.
Antigone turned her suddenly, her lips curved into a faded smile. "Don't you love life sometimes? Not your life, in particular, but the glitter and spark of being alive."
Ismene looked at the people, at the sad state of the city, the people and their lives. And her life. Her own cowardly existence. So, no, she didn't. But once again, she held back, knowing full well Antigone wasn't waiting on her response. She could live herself, for herself, quite simply, Ismene often felt.
"I mean, look at how fundamentally alone everyone is, how alone they have to be, and yet we're all here, at this moment, next to these incredible buildings of our own invention. We're not alone."
Ismene nodded, but she didn't understand.
Antigone stopped to put some change into a musician's hat. Most people didn't. It was a bad spot for beggars. Too many natives, not enough thoughtful tourists.
Ismene fidgeted in her parka, hating the way her thighs would rub against the other when she walked. She tried not to talk very much, as the cold hair irritated the back of her throat.
Antigone liked to talk. She would go off about anything, be it philosophy, politics, religion, whatever. She had opinions (although she would often say that using the term 'opinions' was the coward's way, it was a way of lessening an exchange of ideas, and excusing stupidity and ignorance rather than furthering a search for knowledge. Antigone didn't believe in truth, only she paradoxically would preach it) and she enjoyed voicing them.
To Ismene, anyway.
What did that make her, then? A safebox for her theories, but not a real person.
Antigone was the one with ideas, with principles, with dedication and character. In high school she'd been the one that people remembered. You know Antigone? Yeah, that crazy chick who chained herself to the front door of the biology classroom to protest dissection? Uh huh.
Ismene was simply her sister.
It's just she didn't understand why it was so important. There were rules, and they were there for a reason. It was just kids learning about the way bodies work. Pinning dangerous words like murder and torture on it was painful and unnecessary.
Antigone had offered Ismene a chance to join her. Ismene had turned her down.
Ismene had tried to help Antigone once they'd cut the chains off. She'd told them that she'd helped Antigone, and as the older one, she figured they would turn their unforgiving gazes upon her.
Antigone had told them Ismene was full of shit, and that the entire thing had been her own idea, her own hands putting it into motion, and that she would take all of the punishment for it. She'd disdained Ismene for her help.
It was like this all the time. Ismene looked at the dark window of the clothes outlet they were passing, which was closed for the night. She was reflected hazily in it, her blond curls bouncing with every step. Her plump cheeks were disgustingly pink, which Ismene didn't have to see to know. She frowned, looked at her sister, who didn't seem to notice the cold through her thin fall jacket, and then back of her own mirror image.
She winked at it, and took her sister's hand. Antigone looked at her, surprised, and didn't smile back. But she didn't pull away, and her gloved fingers curled around Ismene's easily.
Behind them, the guitar player started playing Let It Be, and Ismene stopped looking at the fading, ugly streets, but instead up at the handful of stars that could be seen through the smokescreen.