burying song
[felicie solo.]
felicie doesn't like the rain.
the rain comes down in sheets, and felicie is panic-stricken by the window, clutching the arm of the couch and staring down the street in abject horror.
but she does not see the bronx. she does not see the couple running for cover and fumbling for keys; she does not hear her yell at him to open the damn door because she's getting fucking soaked.
she hears the water, roaring in her ears like the seashore from whence she came. she smells the rot and salt and the panic in the air, and she feels rooted to the spot. then the water rises around her ankles and the furniture starts floating
and she screams
but nothing changes. the water still roars and the rain still comes in sheets and the wind is howling -- oh, it howls like a banshee, and it moans.
ungodly sounds from the outside coming in through the cracks, pairing with felicie's howls and wails of abject terror as she climbs the stairs and follows her mother into the attic.
"we shouldn'ta stayed," her mother murmurs, clutching felicie close and rocking back and forth.
we shouldn't have. now we're going to drown.
and i never got to kiss a girl, not once.
bump.
bump.
the furniture is hitting the ceiling, and the water is still coming.
the water does not go down for days.
felicie remembers seeing her mother trying to climb on top of boxes and burst through the roof, only to fall and twist her ankle. she tried not to laugh, then; it would give away that she was awake, and she would be asked to help.
when the water goes down slightly, they are ferried away; taken to a shelter and given blankets and told to pick out cots. warm food fills their bellies, and the sounds of crowds fills their ears.
and when the airport is open, felicie is on the first flight out.
it is in new york that felicie finds herself, finds her dreams, finds her first girl to kiss; it is in the big apple -- and nobody calls it that, she soon finds out -- that she finds jordan and riots and a love of mouths to kiss, no matter who it belongs to.
but all of that is set aside for the memories, the memories that have felicie white-knuckled and tense and desperate to turn away from the window.
to remember where she is.
who she is.
felicie doesn't like the rain.
felicie doesn't like the rain.
the rain comes down in sheets, and felicie is panic-stricken by the window, clutching the arm of the couch and staring down the street in abject horror.
but she does not see the bronx. she does not see the couple running for cover and fumbling for keys; she does not hear her yell at him to open the damn door because she's getting fucking soaked.
she hears the water, roaring in her ears like the seashore from whence she came. she smells the rot and salt and the panic in the air, and she feels rooted to the spot. then the water rises around her ankles and the furniture starts floating
and she screams
but nothing changes. the water still roars and the rain still comes in sheets and the wind is howling -- oh, it howls like a banshee, and it moans.
ungodly sounds from the outside coming in through the cracks, pairing with felicie's howls and wails of abject terror as she climbs the stairs and follows her mother into the attic.
"we shouldn'ta stayed," her mother murmurs, clutching felicie close and rocking back and forth.
we shouldn't have. now we're going to drown.
and i never got to kiss a girl, not once.
bump.
bump.
the furniture is hitting the ceiling, and the water is still coming.
the water does not go down for days.
felicie remembers seeing her mother trying to climb on top of boxes and burst through the roof, only to fall and twist her ankle. she tried not to laugh, then; it would give away that she was awake, and she would be asked to help.
when the water goes down slightly, they are ferried away; taken to a shelter and given blankets and told to pick out cots. warm food fills their bellies, and the sounds of crowds fills their ears.
and when the airport is open, felicie is on the first flight out.
it is in new york that felicie finds herself, finds her dreams, finds her first girl to kiss; it is in the big apple -- and nobody calls it that, she soon finds out -- that she finds jordan and riots and a love of mouths to kiss, no matter who it belongs to.
but all of that is set aside for the memories, the memories that have felicie white-knuckled and tense and desperate to turn away from the window.
to remember where she is.
who she is.
felicie doesn't like the rain.