(no subject)
Daisy occasionally likes to balk at tradition. Take, for instance, the fact that now that the club is closed, she could drink herself to a nice little mood at night because she doesn't have to wait on tables anymore. Instead, though, she's got a bottle of liquor that she's smuggled away from the club (she'll make it up to Helen somehow) and is lying flat on her back on the stage. It's long past rehearsals and meetings and the stars are up there in the sky looking down at her.
December is quickly coming and Daisy feels like every once in a while, she can smell ash and fire and smoke.
On her back with platinum hair splayed around her head like a halo, she traces each star with a finger, her movements tipsy even though she isn't walking at all. "Twinkle, twinkle," she sings, brazen and loud, letting her words carry into the distance because if there are three-hundred people around her, maybe one of them will understand what to do with a problem like Daisy. Rube had known, in his own way, but there is no more Rube. And heavens know that Georgia's been gone for so long and Roxy in all her loving and tough act isn't here to tell Daisy that she's being a ninny.
And Mason, dear sweet stupid Mason.
She'd never figured herself for the survivor. After all, all reapers are failures in that field. They all lost out on life. They all died and they all were forced to keep going on and on and on.
"How I wonder what you are," she finishes, softer than before and pokes one of the brighter stars in the sky as she sits up and cradles the bottle of vodka to her chest lovingly and reverently, refusing to let go of it. "Why has no one ever loved me?" she voices aloud, tone warbling slightly as it seems to bump over the alcohol she's consumed to get out. Here comes December and another Death-Day.
December is quickly coming and Daisy feels like every once in a while, she can smell ash and fire and smoke.
On her back with platinum hair splayed around her head like a halo, she traces each star with a finger, her movements tipsy even though she isn't walking at all. "Twinkle, twinkle," she sings, brazen and loud, letting her words carry into the distance because if there are three-hundred people around her, maybe one of them will understand what to do with a problem like Daisy. Rube had known, in his own way, but there is no more Rube. And heavens know that Georgia's been gone for so long and Roxy in all her loving and tough act isn't here to tell Daisy that she's being a ninny.
And Mason, dear sweet stupid Mason.
She'd never figured herself for the survivor. After all, all reapers are failures in that field. They all lost out on life. They all died and they all were forced to keep going on and on and on.
"How I wonder what you are," she finishes, softer than before and pokes one of the brighter stars in the sky as she sits up and cradles the bottle of vodka to her chest lovingly and reverently, refusing to let go of it. "Why has no one ever loved me?" she voices aloud, tone warbling slightly as it seems to bump over the alcohol she's consumed to get out. Here comes December and another Death-Day.