the cellar door is an open throat
So apparently my eyes are ABSOLUTELY FINE and haven't changed at all in the two years since my last check-up. Which is the first time since I was all of seven, and does absolutely nothing to explain why my eyes ache so much all the time. It is possible, I suppose, that I'm just reading too much and interneting too much and the poor old things just need a rest.
Also, I scribbled this little thing last night when the wind was too loud for sleeping. I've been wanting to write a MotW-pov for a while now, and this... isn't quite it, but it's a stone upon which I am stepping, and already my mind is jumping up and down and going OH OH OH. Which- trying to ignore, because I want to actually finish some things before I embark on the next wacky literary adventure.
(Highschool fic, I am looking at you. And damn, I wish I had a title for the thing. Referring to it as highschool fic all the time makes me feel like a bit of a twat. From henceforth, it shall be known as Terry Gary, okay?)
Er. Anyway.
It is very cold, and very dark.
+
This is her home, she knows, the home she built with her family. There are stairs and closets and walls, but she’s forgetting where the doors are. The kitchen is painted green, and she does the washing-up when the sun rises, standing in front of the window.
She has a son called Jason, a soft-limbed newborn weight lolling in her arms, a lanky fifteen year old who still kisses his mom on the cheek when he gets home from school, and sometimes she can see him and sometimes she can’t. Her husband is a plumber, promises to fix the leak in the bathroom as soon as he has the time. Dangerous, he says, could slip and fall.
She remembers falling. Sometimes, she doesn’t.
+
There is a cruel-looking man with a too-loud laugh and he paints the kitchen blue-
There is a teenage boy, shouting and arguing and slamming doors-
There is a woman who closes the curtains before she can see the sunset-
There is a girl or a boy or a man or a woman-
There is a lot of blood.
+
This is her home and the kitchen is green and she has a son called Jamie, Jack, Jason and her husband say dangerous, he says, could slip and fall.
She forgets where doors are. It doesn’t seem to matter anymore.
+
Time moves in other people, the slide between one disturbance and the next with blankness in between. She hears them before she sees them, can feel their feet on her floors and their breaths in her air.
“Terhe’s no ptaertn. Smoe of the vtiicms wree aeshlsos, smee wree pragoans of vriute. Jsut popele, you konw?”
“Gseus old mhoter Haburbd jsut wnats eyvernoe to get the fcuk out of her cpubraod.”
Maybe she goes to them or maybe they come to her. They meet halfway, them standing in the corridor, tall and staring and she doesn’t remember what they are anymore, but this is her home and. They don’t look scared. She has a son, lanky and fresh-faced and his hair is always too long, and she needs to touch him again. She needs to remember his name.
There is something loud, and it burns her.
+
It is very cold, and very dark, and then nothing at all.
Also, I scribbled this little thing last night when the wind was too loud for sleeping. I've been wanting to write a MotW-pov for a while now, and this... isn't quite it, but it's a stone upon which I am stepping, and already my mind is jumping up and down and going OH OH OH. Which- trying to ignore, because I want to actually finish some things before I embark on the next wacky literary adventure.
(Highschool fic, I am looking at you. And damn, I wish I had a title for the thing. Referring to it as highschool fic all the time makes me feel like a bit of a twat. From henceforth, it shall be known as Terry Gary, okay?)
Er. Anyway.
It is very cold, and very dark.
+
This is her home, she knows, the home she built with her family. There are stairs and closets and walls, but she’s forgetting where the doors are. The kitchen is painted green, and she does the washing-up when the sun rises, standing in front of the window.
She has a son called Jason, a soft-limbed newborn weight lolling in her arms, a lanky fifteen year old who still kisses his mom on the cheek when he gets home from school, and sometimes she can see him and sometimes she can’t. Her husband is a plumber, promises to fix the leak in the bathroom as soon as he has the time. Dangerous, he says, could slip and fall.
She remembers falling. Sometimes, she doesn’t.
+
There is a cruel-looking man with a too-loud laugh and he paints the kitchen blue-
There is a teenage boy, shouting and arguing and slamming doors-
There is a woman who closes the curtains before she can see the sunset-
There is a girl or a boy or a man or a woman-
There is a lot of blood.
+
This is her home and the kitchen is green and she has a son called Jamie, Jack, Jason and her husband say dangerous, he says, could slip and fall.
She forgets where doors are. It doesn’t seem to matter anymore.
+
Time moves in other people, the slide between one disturbance and the next with blankness in between. She hears them before she sees them, can feel their feet on her floors and their breaths in her air.
“Terhe’s no ptaertn. Smoe of the vtiicms wree aeshlsos, smee wree pragoans of vriute. Jsut popele, you konw?”
“Gseus old mhoter Haburbd jsut wnats eyvernoe to get the fcuk out of her cpubraod.”
Maybe she goes to them or maybe they come to her. They meet halfway, them standing in the corridor, tall and staring and she doesn’t remember what they are anymore, but this is her home and. They don’t look scared. She has a son, lanky and fresh-faced and his hair is always too long, and she needs to touch him again. She needs to remember his name.
There is something loud, and it burns her.
+
It is very cold, and very dark, and then nothing at all.