[ic] dream every dream on your own
...seems like you end up alone...
It took one cough to throw off her balance and one misstep to ruin the moment. Elbow hit wood and the table jostled. She winced, backed off as quickly as she could in the perceived aeons of slow motion that followed, but it was all for naught. The inevitable scratch. The song was over, the feeling gone.
Sigh. She lifted the needle and pulled the record away from the gramophone to inspect the damage.
Damage. Hah.
...papa says he'd love to be with you / if he had the time...
Between lamenting the loss of her mother and slaughtering Rotti Largo's masses? Instead, she put her focus into the soon-to-be bruise. On the outside of her arm. A nice change, really, from the purples-and-yellows-and-greens that used to pepper the backs of her hands, the crooks of her elbows. Nothing but scratches, scars, and memories, now.
...when no one else would come...
The baby book she found in the attic claimed the song as a mutual favourite of Nathan and Marni Wallace née Rimbauer. It felt like a joke, the same way seeing her intended full name spelled out, in her mother's script - Shilo Magdalene Wallace - did. A cruel trick her father had played, first on...who? His beloved wife? His ailing daughter? Himself?
Shilo broke the record on the balcony fence. Half of it cracked and fell, unceremoniously to the pile of junk that rested below her spire. She snapped the other half in thirds before also allowing it to join the equipment graveyard on her front lawn.
...come today...
Deep breaths. Another cough. But it didn't stop her. No masks, no medicine, no excuses. Another deep breath.
...something said she understood.
It took one cough to throw off her balance and one misstep to ruin the moment. Elbow hit wood and the table jostled. She winced, backed off as quickly as she could in the perceived aeons of slow motion that followed, but it was all for naught. The inevitable scratch. The song was over, the feeling gone.
Sigh. She lifted the needle and pulled the record away from the gramophone to inspect the damage.
Damage. Hah.
...papa says he'd love to be with you / if he had the time...
Between lamenting the loss of her mother and slaughtering Rotti Largo's masses? Instead, she put her focus into the soon-to-be bruise. On the outside of her arm. A nice change, really, from the purples-and-yellows-and-greens that used to pepper the backs of her hands, the crooks of her elbows. Nothing but scratches, scars, and memories, now.
...when no one else would come...
The baby book she found in the attic claimed the song as a mutual favourite of Nathan and Marni Wallace née Rimbauer. It felt like a joke, the same way seeing her intended full name spelled out, in her mother's script - Shilo Magdalene Wallace - did. A cruel trick her father had played, first on...who? His beloved wife? His ailing daughter? Himself?
Shilo broke the record on the balcony fence. Half of it cracked and fell, unceremoniously to the pile of junk that rested below her spire. She snapped the other half in thirds before also allowing it to join the equipment graveyard on her front lawn.
...come today...
Deep breaths. Another cough. But it didn't stop her. No masks, no medicine, no excuses. Another deep breath.
...something said she understood.