(Untitled)
A girl in false skins could sit at the Bar all day and no-one would know the difference. She could sit and brood in her silent hate; imagining a scene of pale fingers tangled in red curls, silver hair trailing around a beautiful face as they kissed. She could just sit. Sit and let the self-pity overtake her.
Just for now.
Just for now.
Now there is something she recognizes - breathes deeply, eyes closing to pleased slits - something completely familiar about it, curling red and sugar-sweet.
A slow slide of that dark gaze, lips curving into something of a (wicked) pleasant smile.
"Looks like you could use something yourself, dear."
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"Gram said never to talk to strangers." There's a hint of quiet mocking in the voice, the brash boldness that might have been there if only Kaye could summon the energy.
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Easily, an amused twist to her smile - voice low and slow, honeyed.
She sits as well and perhaps it's darker where she is, long legs and an elegant tilt of her head - silence and shadows and people who don't quite fit their shapes. And still she offers no name. Just breathes in steam and clawingdesperatehate, simply lovely.
"But you've seen stranger, I'm sure."
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No way, not this time.
This false sense of control, was in fact, what got Kaye into more trouble than anything else. She stays where she should walk away. Speaks when she should be quiet.
"She was right. Leads to heartbreak." A short laugh. "So which one are you. Desire or Pain, or some other being who can make me quiver in my boots?"
Kaye was quivering. From anger more than fear. A false high thrumming through her veins, pixie senses twitching.
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"Hatred," simply, eyes black over the rim of her mug. "You taste good dear - goes well with my coffee."
Brash, foolish little girl - almost asks for trouble.
"Wasn't going for quivering, but I suppose I'm just lazy that way."
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Other girls would run, not her. She had always been foolish.
"Is that what I should call you?" A bland statement, the girl orders her own coffee, raising it in a 'Cheers' gesture.
"Bit early in the relationship to be talking that way." She whispers, hairs on the back of her neck rising in retaliation.
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"Well, you seemed to be going for job descriptions dear. Though Styx will do just fine if you need a name."
She's never been particularly fond of them herself.
A lazy smirk, mug tilting in return, "You're projecting, dear. Can hardly help it."
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She doesn't further the explanation of the word, lost in thoughts of undeserved bruises and veiled threats. Hadn't she hated Styx?
Now she hated Lethe more; blamed her. It was easy. To blame Roiben was as impossible as hating him - something her heart wouldn't allow and that left only one.
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She leans her chin on her palm - elbow on the Bar-top and eyes curious.
"So my little nymph has been causing trouble, has she?"
There's something there that would be almost proud if it wasn't so intrigued.
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"I wish I'd never met her." I wish she would suffer like I have. Brown eyes darken, fixing on a stain - a spill, an imperfection - on the Bar's surface.
Twisted thoughts spewed forth, crawling from her mind like spiders on the windowsill. Kaye doesn't know how they got there, doesn't like them, doesn't want to be that girl... (help me)
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"Nothing is that simple, dear. I don't deal in wishes, I'm afraid."
The darkness is gone just as quick - fleeting, idly dismissed in favor of a (bargains, promises) slow blink.
"Now my sweet little nymph is causing you trouble. Voice like a siren if she knew how to use it - and you must know those stories at least."
A grin, "There is a boy, I am supposing? You would like it if she could not speak to him any longer, yes?"
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Easy to believe, when his words - she wasn't bright enough for him, didn't shine not like her - still stung like thorns in her fake flesh.
"There is a boy." She finally says and adds a nod. She can't quite look away from Styx, tangled threads of connection.
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"There always is, dear. "
Lets the whispers go - what you want, what you will give - quiet things, the kind that watch and see everything. That wait and know every last inch of you, all the things you want to hide.
"Love is blindness - or so I'm told."
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And still they shuffle forward; a grotesque army of faults and bad things you never wanted to believe about yourself. The things you would do for love. For hate.
"I hate her." Styx knows. Kaye knows that she knows. But speaking the words, she hopes they'll lose their power.
They don't. In fact speaking them (words are a spell sometimes) aloud turns them real, blazing along her nerves like a rocket.
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"And what would you give, dear?"
Doesn't blink - doesn't leave any quarter. You want this, do you not? There is no time for refusal, this is a pledge - a promise.
"What would you give - for her not to say, not a word?"
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Drowning. Sinking. Fading out. Becoming something to detest.
(When will it end?)
"I'm nothing. I have nothing." Her words stumble over one another in a jumbled mess. She swallows and can't help but think of ebony black eyes.
(You think like a mortal.)
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