Elena closes her eyes, and presses one knuckle against the other, bending her wrists until she hears a satisfying pop.
When she opens her eyes, nothing has changed; the scenery in front of her looping through her vision like a discarded pop song she’s never quite learned the words to. There’s still the stale air being pumped in through rickety piping, and there’s still the bland yellowed fabric of the motel room’s cheap curtains filtering out the rest of the world - the real world, or maybe not, maybe not anymore; everything is so fluid and melded she can’t be sure, she’ll never be sure again - from the one she’s created for herself here, in this makeshift, half-alive existence.
Elena unfolds her fingers, one joint untwining from the next, and pulls the ratty duvet off her legs. She lifts herself from the bed, which gives a halfhearted squeak in reply, and pads across the carpet to the window.
It’s funny, she had always pictured Toronto to be something grayed and dusty, to be constrictive like a fist around her lungs; like most cities that are too big and too busy to notice or care. But instead, it’s clean and it’s peaceful, and she wishes she could revel in the fact.
The door opens, and she turns, barely registering the presence of Damon, who barely registers much of anything anymore; so really, their added silences are nothing but half-felt meters in this symposium of a guilt they’re not quite sure if they’re allowed to feel.
“Brought you some dinner.” He tells her, setting a grease-stained paper bag on the small table that’s listing heavily to the right.
“Thanks.” Elena responds, but doesn’t turn her attention from anything other than all the lives people are living outside of this room.
She sets her fingers to the cool glass and swallows. There’s a park down the street, she knows. She ventured there once when she couldn’t sleep. (She can’t ever sleep anymore, and there are too many streets leading to too many places she doesn’t know, and never will.) It had been quiet and crisp and she had lain in the grass and said nothing, until Damon had found her and said nothing, and they had came back to the motel with bruises ringing around everything they couldn’t say.
Elena feels Damon come up behind her and she closes her eyes again, and wishes once more for a reverence she never thought she’d lose hold of.
“When I was out, I ran into…someone.” He says, hesitancy filling in the gaps of the name they both know she won’t ask for.
I'm sorry bb, I hope you like it, though. <3
gnaw on your bones so white (1/2)
Elena closes her eyes, and presses one knuckle against the other, bending her wrists until she hears a satisfying pop.
When she opens her eyes, nothing has changed; the scenery in front of her looping through her vision like a discarded pop song she’s never quite learned the words to. There’s still the stale air being pumped in through rickety piping, and there’s still the bland yellowed fabric of the motel room’s cheap curtains filtering out the rest of the world - the real world, or maybe not, maybe not anymore; everything is so fluid and melded she can’t be sure, she’ll never be sure again - from the one she’s created for herself here, in this makeshift, half-alive existence.
Elena unfolds her fingers, one joint untwining from the next, and pulls the ratty duvet off her legs. She lifts herself from the bed, which gives a halfhearted squeak in reply, and pads across the carpet to the window.
It’s funny, she had always pictured Toronto to be something grayed and dusty, to be constrictive like a fist around her lungs; like most cities that are too big and too busy to notice or care. But instead, it’s clean and it’s peaceful, and she wishes she could revel in the fact.
The door opens, and she turns, barely registering the presence of Damon, who barely registers much of anything anymore; so really, their added silences are nothing but half-felt meters in this symposium of a guilt they’re not quite sure if they’re allowed to feel.
“Brought you some dinner.” He tells her, setting a grease-stained paper bag on the small table that’s listing heavily to the right.
“Thanks.” Elena responds, but doesn’t turn her attention from anything other than all the lives people are living outside of this room.
She sets her fingers to the cool glass and swallows. There’s a park down the street, she knows. She ventured there once when she couldn’t sleep. (She can’t ever sleep anymore, and there are too many streets leading to too many places she doesn’t know, and never will.) It had been quiet and crisp and she had lain in the grass and said nothing, until Damon had found her and said nothing, and they had came back to the motel with bruises ringing around everything they couldn’t say.
Elena feels Damon come up behind her and she closes her eyes again, and wishes once more for a reverence she never thought she’d lose hold of.
“When I was out, I ran into…someone.” He says, hesitancy filling in the gaps of the name they both know she won’t ask for.
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