Oneshot: One Facade for Twilight
"She prefers to just think about him and no one else, and in between that beautifully horrific dream in her head and the rumblings of a distant reality, she finds a place where she’d like to stay forever."
She’s alright until she sees his face.
She’s alright, completely fine, until she sees his face. When it’s just her in a lonely room, the moon’s satin wrinkles casting sheep eyes over the carpet, she doesn’t like to think about him because he makes her heart hurt. When it’s just her, she just stares out the window and imagines that she is one of those flocculent clouds in the sky, just drifting with a purpose to find. She imagines that she’s a cloud, and sometimes the wind, with a jesting smile, blows her away from her piece of sky and reminds her that, It’s not you moving, it’s just the world, spinning. There’s nothing you can do.
So things happen sooner than they should, sometimes, but she reminds herself that it would have ended up that way, anyway.
So she doesn’t like to think about him. But love works in funny ways -she hates it, actually- and she can’t help but think about him, when she’s drifting like one of those clouds about the world, he always manages to walk into her dream just like that, eyes riveted on the sky where she is, hands in his jean pockets and a weary basketball rolling about on a thunderstruck floor. And he’s the same as always, posture a little slouched, hair flitting, darting like pixies chained to a mortal world. And then her arms are flailing madly, her eyes are squeezed shut, and she waits for the wind to save her, to blow her away because she can’t bear seeing him.
The wind reminds her that it was her fault in the first place.
And she lets out a small sigh, slowly, at first, because she’s afraid, but like magic, a small draft takes over the land below. And he looks around and accusingly at the clouds above, but walks off anyway, his pride still intact and his smile a little annoyed, but radiant as ever.
And the wind glares at her acrimoniously and asks, “Why did you do that?”
And she has the same answer every time: “To protect him from the rain.”
And then, the ensorcelled rain begins, slowly at first, a sentient prelude to the disaster to come and the intemperate fire still burning inside of her. The poignant masterpiece is finally complete, now, and an artist would look on in delight at the enigmatic effluvia seeping in from surrendering corners, the greying clouds looking like old men in their senility, weeping for lost things and trinkets washed away by their own rain.
Enveloped in that exquisite quiescence, she notices that the farther away he is, the more pain she’s in, because, after all, she only wants to see him.
But it is too late, now, the rain has started, so he’s inside or far away, or preferably both.
And she hasn’t changed, at all, she’s still in pain, and she realizes what love is really about and it’s pain, pain, pain and unfairness. She wants to sit down beside the gorgeously dressed Lady Fate and talk to her about it, but she has not seen her, nor has she had any hint that she exists.
She’s waiting, anyway, so she keeps waiting, because it’s all she knows how to do.
She likes to think about him, sometimes, even though it causes her a lot of pain. Because there’s something about the things he does, the way he still wears one layer amidst the glacial gales of winter, the way his wry smile is a precursor for something more, always. She wonders if there is a way that she can’t think about him, though thoughts like that are always short-lived. She prefers to just think about him and no one else, and in between that beautifully horrific dream in her head and the rumblings of a distant reality, she finds a place where she’d like to stay forever.
There are nights when she can’t sleep, too. They come and go like the ragged breaths of the seasons, undeniably agile and unexplainable. Because it’s love, that’s why, Fate says with a gentle smile on her face, but then the girl reaches up and takes off that pleasing porcelain mask and discovers the sadistic grin underneath. Lady Fate’s aesthetics are always right on, and the girl then realizes a lot of things, what it means to be beautiful, what it means to be loved, and what it feels like to be deceived and thrown to the ground without an identity.
Because it’s love, that’s why, the Lady in Red repeats softly, like a broken record, this time the incriminating sneer on her face writing creases and wounds over the heart of innocence.
But love is supposed to be amazing, it’s supposed to sweep you off your feet-
When you look at him, how do you feel?
I feel… sad. A little bit of sadness, maybe some happiness when he smiles, a lot of happiness, but mostly there’s just this feeling rushing up my throat and it feels like I can’t breathe, and I think to myself, why, why, why? Which is the only question that’s in my head in these days, and I just can’t get him out of my head, and sometimes I just want to lie down and wait for something better to happen, or at least pretend it will ever happen, something like that, and, oh, please, why?
Because it’s love, that’s why, she says for the third time, her eyes glittering with jokes left unsaid and anemic hands splayed daintily in her lap. The girl likes to imagine Lady Fate this way because she cannot see her any other way. Lady Fate must be beautiful, and she must have a loathing somewhere in her heart, from all the people that she has maimed or wounded or sent into a flurry of anguished tears. And, she decides, Lady Fate might have had feelings somewhere along the road, but, eventually, she lost them because it was better that way (it always works that way) and she’d rather not be in pain.
Sometimes she pretends that she understands the Lady more than anyone, and, in some ways, she does.
These are all the thoughts running fervent circles in her head at the moment, Lady Fate, drifting clouds, and nights spent alone and submerged in want. If her head could take on a colour, some emotion or a sense, it would be that one final moment of a dying sunset, reaching out to the world blindly, with such a deep compassion that all those strong enough to admire it would crumple under the sadness seeping in from the west, like a mirror into a dying building, one façade still shining from the brilliance of twilight.
And then that bleeding sky, that crumpling building and those strong-but-fragile onlookers fade into one medley of emotions and all she can see is him, that man standing before her with those alluring, nightfall eyes boring a hole into her soul.
He says one thing, and it’s the only thing that rings in her head, now, a stained glass piece of so many different meanings and perspective and people broken before it was admired:
“It’s alright.”
And she wants to scream at him, she wants someone, anyone to get it into his head that, no, it’s not alright, because he isn’t with her and the saddest thing in the world is when he says something to you, something that you’ve been waiting for, and it was quite a long forever or maybe even more than that, and he walks away looking intact, not even charred from the blaze he’s ignited within you like a bonfire filled with pictures and memories and melting gold lockets shimmering in nostalgia.
And she wants to smile at him.
She wants to smile, to reach out, maybe turn him around or turn time around and start everything over, but she can’t.
She can’t.
And then she wonders what real love is like, the kind where there are two people that would do anything for each other, anything and everything, and all it takes is one kiss for everything to fall perfectly into its intended place.
And then she whispers to herself, a small whisper, so small that she herself can barely hear it, “Someday, yes, someday, for sure.”
But Fate works in eccentric ways, sometimes, and the wind blows, a little stronger, and the girl watches the words float up to the ear of her forgotten lover, the seraph from heaven she has coveted for as long as she can remember. And he stops dead in his tracks as the wind whips about the stone faced visage, and he calls out her name, a little softly, gently, sweetly, sounding uncannily like Fate herself. But he does not turn around.
“I believe you.” he laughs with that smile on his face and that wristwatch blinking teasingly at her tear streaked face as he lifts a hand in a statuesque salute.
And she wants nothing more than to stand up, whirl him around and kiss him full on the lips because it’s love, that’s why.
But she doesn’t, because it’s another one of those things she just can’t do, so she watches his head craning backwards towards the coral edged cotton drops in the canvas of the sky and those accentuated wrinkles in the back of his snow white sweater and tries, as hard as she has tried anything, not to cry.
But she knows that he’ll never see that same cloud again, and that’s what breaks her heart into a million blood-covered fragments, staining the marble dance floor of her heart- she is sure that she will never dance there, again, at least, not with him.
And this time there’s no happiness in that, there’s just a heavy sadness where there used to be other things, other beautiful things, like him.
She doesn’t like to admit it, but she ends up waking from that dream, anyway, because no one can dream forever.
So it starts with a small, insistent sigh, but it’s useless because she can’t even see him anymore, she can’t even feel the weight of the words -his goodbye, she thinks with a smile- so there’s no way he can get hurt. She likes to save that kind of hurt for herself, because breakable angels like him shouldn’t have to feel anything like that. She likes the idea of being a knight, protecting him, so for the second time after he’s left that empty dance floor, she smiles.
And it’s from the cloud that the rain comes.
She’s alright until she sees his face.
She’s alright, completely fine, until she sees his face. When it’s just her in a lonely room, the moon’s satin wrinkles casting sheep eyes over the carpet, she doesn’t like to think about him because he makes her heart hurt. When it’s just her, she just stares out the window and imagines that she is one of those flocculent clouds in the sky, just drifting with a purpose to find. She imagines that she’s a cloud, and sometimes the wind, with a jesting smile, blows her away from her piece of sky and reminds her that, It’s not you moving, it’s just the world, spinning. There’s nothing you can do.
So things happen sooner than they should, sometimes, but she reminds herself that it would have ended up that way, anyway.
So she doesn’t like to think about him. But love works in funny ways -she hates it, actually- and she can’t help but think about him, when she’s drifting like one of those clouds about the world, he always manages to walk into her dream just like that, eyes riveted on the sky where she is, hands in his jean pockets and a weary basketball rolling about on a thunderstruck floor. And he’s the same as always, posture a little slouched, hair flitting, darting like pixies chained to a mortal world. And then her arms are flailing madly, her eyes are squeezed shut, and she waits for the wind to save her, to blow her away because she can’t bear seeing him.
The wind reminds her that it was her fault in the first place.
And she lets out a small sigh, slowly, at first, because she’s afraid, but like magic, a small draft takes over the land below. And he looks around and accusingly at the clouds above, but walks off anyway, his pride still intact and his smile a little annoyed, but radiant as ever.
And the wind glares at her acrimoniously and asks, “Why did you do that?”
And she has the same answer every time: “To protect him from the rain.”
And then, the ensorcelled rain begins, slowly at first, a sentient prelude to the disaster to come and the intemperate fire still burning inside of her. The poignant masterpiece is finally complete, now, and an artist would look on in delight at the enigmatic effluvia seeping in from surrendering corners, the greying clouds looking like old men in their senility, weeping for lost things and trinkets washed away by their own rain.
Enveloped in that exquisite quiescence, she notices that the farther away he is, the more pain she’s in, because, after all, she only wants to see him.
But it is too late, now, the rain has started, so he’s inside or far away, or preferably both.
And she hasn’t changed, at all, she’s still in pain, and she realizes what love is really about and it’s pain, pain, pain and unfairness. She wants to sit down beside the gorgeously dressed Lady Fate and talk to her about it, but she has not seen her, nor has she had any hint that she exists.
She’s waiting, anyway, so she keeps waiting, because it’s all she knows how to do.
She likes to think about him, sometimes, even though it causes her a lot of pain. Because there’s something about the things he does, the way he still wears one layer amidst the glacial gales of winter, the way his wry smile is a precursor for something more, always. She wonders if there is a way that she can’t think about him, though thoughts like that are always short-lived. She prefers to just think about him and no one else, and in between that beautifully horrific dream in her head and the rumblings of a distant reality, she finds a place where she’d like to stay forever.
There are nights when she can’t sleep, too. They come and go like the ragged breaths of the seasons, undeniably agile and unexplainable. Because it’s love, that’s why, Fate says with a gentle smile on her face, but then the girl reaches up and takes off that pleasing porcelain mask and discovers the sadistic grin underneath. Lady Fate’s aesthetics are always right on, and the girl then realizes a lot of things, what it means to be beautiful, what it means to be loved, and what it feels like to be deceived and thrown to the ground without an identity.
Because it’s love, that’s why, the Lady in Red repeats softly, like a broken record, this time the incriminating sneer on her face writing creases and wounds over the heart of innocence.
But love is supposed to be amazing, it’s supposed to sweep you off your feet-
When you look at him, how do you feel?
I feel… sad. A little bit of sadness, maybe some happiness when he smiles, a lot of happiness, but mostly there’s just this feeling rushing up my throat and it feels like I can’t breathe, and I think to myself, why, why, why? Which is the only question that’s in my head in these days, and I just can’t get him out of my head, and sometimes I just want to lie down and wait for something better to happen, or at least pretend it will ever happen, something like that, and, oh, please, why?
Because it’s love, that’s why, she says for the third time, her eyes glittering with jokes left unsaid and anemic hands splayed daintily in her lap. The girl likes to imagine Lady Fate this way because she cannot see her any other way. Lady Fate must be beautiful, and she must have a loathing somewhere in her heart, from all the people that she has maimed or wounded or sent into a flurry of anguished tears. And, she decides, Lady Fate might have had feelings somewhere along the road, but, eventually, she lost them because it was better that way (it always works that way) and she’d rather not be in pain.
Sometimes she pretends that she understands the Lady more than anyone, and, in some ways, she does.
These are all the thoughts running fervent circles in her head at the moment, Lady Fate, drifting clouds, and nights spent alone and submerged in want. If her head could take on a colour, some emotion or a sense, it would be that one final moment of a dying sunset, reaching out to the world blindly, with such a deep compassion that all those strong enough to admire it would crumple under the sadness seeping in from the west, like a mirror into a dying building, one façade still shining from the brilliance of twilight.
And then that bleeding sky, that crumpling building and those strong-but-fragile onlookers fade into one medley of emotions and all she can see is him, that man standing before her with those alluring, nightfall eyes boring a hole into her soul.
He says one thing, and it’s the only thing that rings in her head, now, a stained glass piece of so many different meanings and perspective and people broken before it was admired:
“It’s alright.”
And she wants to scream at him, she wants someone, anyone to get it into his head that, no, it’s not alright, because he isn’t with her and the saddest thing in the world is when he says something to you, something that you’ve been waiting for, and it was quite a long forever or maybe even more than that, and he walks away looking intact, not even charred from the blaze he’s ignited within you like a bonfire filled with pictures and memories and melting gold lockets shimmering in nostalgia.
And she wants to smile at him.
She wants to smile, to reach out, maybe turn him around or turn time around and start everything over, but she can’t.
She can’t.
And then she wonders what real love is like, the kind where there are two people that would do anything for each other, anything and everything, and all it takes is one kiss for everything to fall perfectly into its intended place.
And then she whispers to herself, a small whisper, so small that she herself can barely hear it, “Someday, yes, someday, for sure.”
But Fate works in eccentric ways, sometimes, and the wind blows, a little stronger, and the girl watches the words float up to the ear of her forgotten lover, the seraph from heaven she has coveted for as long as she can remember. And he stops dead in his tracks as the wind whips about the stone faced visage, and he calls out her name, a little softly, gently, sweetly, sounding uncannily like Fate herself. But he does not turn around.
“I believe you.” he laughs with that smile on his face and that wristwatch blinking teasingly at her tear streaked face as he lifts a hand in a statuesque salute.
And she wants nothing more than to stand up, whirl him around and kiss him full on the lips because it’s love, that’s why.
But she doesn’t, because it’s another one of those things she just can’t do, so she watches his head craning backwards towards the coral edged cotton drops in the canvas of the sky and those accentuated wrinkles in the back of his snow white sweater and tries, as hard as she has tried anything, not to cry.
But she knows that he’ll never see that same cloud again, and that’s what breaks her heart into a million blood-covered fragments, staining the marble dance floor of her heart- she is sure that she will never dance there, again, at least, not with him.
And this time there’s no happiness in that, there’s just a heavy sadness where there used to be other things, other beautiful things, like him.
She doesn’t like to admit it, but she ends up waking from that dream, anyway, because no one can dream forever.
So it starts with a small, insistent sigh, but it’s useless because she can’t even see him anymore, she can’t even feel the weight of the words -his goodbye, she thinks with a smile- so there’s no way he can get hurt. She likes to save that kind of hurt for herself, because breakable angels like him shouldn’t have to feel anything like that. She likes the idea of being a knight, protecting him, so for the second time after he’s left that empty dance floor, she smiles.
And it’s from the cloud that the rain comes.