Fragments of "The Blood of Me"
[I FINALLY got started on this one! the fic is in the works dri =) It is now crawling around my hard drive in skeletal outline form]
Fragments of “The Blood of Me”
By C.V.P.
(The shitty on purpose draft-it feels very FLB right now-but I’m going to try to throw in some unexpected curve balls. God, I want this to be GOOD, she came close to doing it right, very close. I'm not really concerned about punctuation or anything right now, just content and of course correct grammar--did I even spell that right =)
1.
We used to fly when we were younger but you never knew it. And now you don’t seem to remember.
I’d come into your room at night just to look at you, I’d always been fascinated by how people looked while sleeping-and out of all the people I’d ever watched sleep, you were the most interesting-not necessarily beautiful, but intense. It seemed as though you were continually being strung along some nightmare-strewn glass path. Sometimes though you’d seem at peace and you’d reach for things--maybe butterflies or falling plastic bubbles glittering in silence--I never asked. This strange “ritual” of mine like so many things was deeply personal and incredibly, intensely private. I could watch you without being seen. I could touch you softly on the fore head; tuck wisps of your hair behind your ears without fear of reproach. It had to happen in private, away from everything. All that was acceptable in public was the impish hair pulling and constant nudging and hitting that we felt compelled to engage in, maybe it was an outlet, I don’t know.
I don’t really “know” much about that time either then or now, even in retrospect that time is all feeling. It is all touch, taste, smell, all roses falling upon concrete. The only thing that I did was completely aware of at that time was that something was changing about me--and that the change had already come upon you in bits and pieces, although it was so different then mine. I was reaching toward something, you were falling away. Shadows had carved themselves behind your eyes and your tears stayed trapped there as bits of rain pressed behind glass, tiny fragments of sadness encased in cold marble that was somehow full of softness, full of light, somehow transparent. When you turned over there were loose strands of hair all over the pillow, stuck there sometimes by bits of spit congealed like wet sugar. I was never brave enough to reach out and grab a strand-I didn’t want to wake you. I didn’t want to be caught. Worse yet, I didn’t want to have to explain this to anyone-whatever this was. I didn't even know why I wanted to do it.
I should’ve taken some, I should’ve…. There were a lot of things I should’ve done, many more that I shouldn’t have. But I guess that’s a pretty stale, clichéd thing to say isn’t it? Everyone gathers “should have's” and “shouldn’t have’s for their boxes or their pockets or their story attempts. But I can’t help remembering your disdain for the conventional, especially when it came to language-I remember mine as well, but it doesn’t seem all that important right now. What does is that I tell this. What does is seem to matter is that I give this a place. No one has to know that this is mine or that this is us…Jess. I’ll call you Jess it seems appropriate. Your real name always seemed to me like it didn’t belong to you anyway. I want to set down our flights over the buildings and cracked, lonely sidewalks-I would close my eyes Jess, I would grip your hand tight Jess, and I would lean back and imagine that you were flying-and of course, if were doing it, somehow I was too. That was always the way with us. The connection was not as tenuous as we thought.
PERSONAL NOTE: I AM ONE OF THE WORLD'S BIGGEST EXTERNAL VALIDATION JUNKIES--YOU DON'T HAVE TO TELL ME IT'S GOOD UNLESS YOU THINK IT IS--I WANT HONESTY, I RESPECT HONESTY. THANKS. PLEASE TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK. TELL ME SOMETHING, DAMMIT.
Fragments of “The Blood of Me”
By C.V.P.
(The shitty on purpose draft-it feels very FLB right now-but I’m going to try to throw in some unexpected curve balls. God, I want this to be GOOD, she came close to doing it right, very close. I'm not really concerned about punctuation or anything right now, just content and of course correct grammar--did I even spell that right =)
1.
We used to fly when we were younger but you never knew it. And now you don’t seem to remember.
I’d come into your room at night just to look at you, I’d always been fascinated by how people looked while sleeping-and out of all the people I’d ever watched sleep, you were the most interesting-not necessarily beautiful, but intense. It seemed as though you were continually being strung along some nightmare-strewn glass path. Sometimes though you’d seem at peace and you’d reach for things--maybe butterflies or falling plastic bubbles glittering in silence--I never asked. This strange “ritual” of mine like so many things was deeply personal and incredibly, intensely private. I could watch you without being seen. I could touch you softly on the fore head; tuck wisps of your hair behind your ears without fear of reproach. It had to happen in private, away from everything. All that was acceptable in public was the impish hair pulling and constant nudging and hitting that we felt compelled to engage in, maybe it was an outlet, I don’t know.
I don’t really “know” much about that time either then or now, even in retrospect that time is all feeling. It is all touch, taste, smell, all roses falling upon concrete. The only thing that I did was completely aware of at that time was that something was changing about me--and that the change had already come upon you in bits and pieces, although it was so different then mine. I was reaching toward something, you were falling away. Shadows had carved themselves behind your eyes and your tears stayed trapped there as bits of rain pressed behind glass, tiny fragments of sadness encased in cold marble that was somehow full of softness, full of light, somehow transparent. When you turned over there were loose strands of hair all over the pillow, stuck there sometimes by bits of spit congealed like wet sugar. I was never brave enough to reach out and grab a strand-I didn’t want to wake you. I didn’t want to be caught. Worse yet, I didn’t want to have to explain this to anyone-whatever this was. I didn't even know why I wanted to do it.
I should’ve taken some, I should’ve…. There were a lot of things I should’ve done, many more that I shouldn’t have. But I guess that’s a pretty stale, clichéd thing to say isn’t it? Everyone gathers “should have's” and “shouldn’t have’s for their boxes or their pockets or their story attempts. But I can’t help remembering your disdain for the conventional, especially when it came to language-I remember mine as well, but it doesn’t seem all that important right now. What does is that I tell this. What does is seem to matter is that I give this a place. No one has to know that this is mine or that this is us…Jess. I’ll call you Jess it seems appropriate. Your real name always seemed to me like it didn’t belong to you anyway. I want to set down our flights over the buildings and cracked, lonely sidewalks-I would close my eyes Jess, I would grip your hand tight Jess, and I would lean back and imagine that you were flying-and of course, if were doing it, somehow I was too. That was always the way with us. The connection was not as tenuous as we thought.
PERSONAL NOTE: I AM ONE OF THE WORLD'S BIGGEST EXTERNAL VALIDATION JUNKIES--YOU DON'T HAVE TO TELL ME IT'S GOOD UNLESS YOU THINK IT IS--I WANT HONESTY, I RESPECT HONESTY. THANKS. PLEASE TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK. TELL ME SOMETHING, DAMMIT.