[Fic] Original. G. Shadows
Sequel to Passive.
Shadows
by monitor screen
The potted plant on the windowsill casts a shadow on the floor. It dances across the space depending on the time of day, but the one constant is that it is never the same as the real thing.
You watch the shadows stretch along the span of the hall, until they fade into occasional flickers of whenever there is a vehicle rounding the corner. The sounds from upstairs have long since stopped, and you shift, the silence hanging heavy in the air.
Eventually a door cracks, and light spills down the narrow staircase. Her hair is mussed, and She sighs when She sees you. But after a moment She flicks on the hall light, and pats you on her way down to resume evening business.
Two days later, He comes back.
They have long, tense conversations behind closed doors you are not allowed through. And then everything more or less returns to normal. They spend amicable times around the table, in the kitchen and on the couch; Their bedroom upstairs is quiet through the night.
The place settles, gradually, into a comfortable lull.
But you start to notice something different. They do not seem to go out together anymore. And in the evening when He takes you for a stroll, the two of you walk long and far, through fields and woods unrecognisable in the dark. And He would sit on some rock or stub of wall, staring into the night. And you wait, but He only speaks to you in gentle tones and trace slow fingers over your head. When you return, the house would be dark and silent.
In the morning, you watch from outside the doorway how They avoid each other's eyes as they talk softly over breakfast. You try to be good and walk him around the room; He pats you distractedly before taking his coat and heading out the door. You sit, listening to the engine roars and moves away, and remember another time.
You watch the potted plant's shadow dances with the breeze, and you know.
It is never the same.
Shadows
by monitor screen
The potted plant on the windowsill casts a shadow on the floor. It dances across the space depending on the time of day, but the one constant is that it is never the same as the real thing.
You watch the shadows stretch along the span of the hall, until they fade into occasional flickers of whenever there is a vehicle rounding the corner. The sounds from upstairs have long since stopped, and you shift, the silence hanging heavy in the air.
Eventually a door cracks, and light spills down the narrow staircase. Her hair is mussed, and She sighs when She sees you. But after a moment She flicks on the hall light, and pats you on her way down to resume evening business.
Two days later, He comes back.
They have long, tense conversations behind closed doors you are not allowed through. And then everything more or less returns to normal. They spend amicable times around the table, in the kitchen and on the couch; Their bedroom upstairs is quiet through the night.
The place settles, gradually, into a comfortable lull.
But you start to notice something different. They do not seem to go out together anymore. And in the evening when He takes you for a stroll, the two of you walk long and far, through fields and woods unrecognisable in the dark. And He would sit on some rock or stub of wall, staring into the night. And you wait, but He only speaks to you in gentle tones and trace slow fingers over your head. When you return, the house would be dark and silent.
In the morning, you watch from outside the doorway how They avoid each other's eyes as they talk softly over breakfast. You try to be good and walk him around the room; He pats you distractedly before taking his coat and heading out the door. You sit, listening to the engine roars and moves away, and remember another time.
You watch the potted plant's shadow dances with the breeze, and you know.
It is never the same.