[original] discordial.
Series: original.
Characters/Pairings: OC.
Notes: written in a spur of the moment depressive state, finished in similar states following. choppy, unedited and raw. the usual dysfunctional, broken relationships i usually find myself writing - don't look for anything new. just the everyday kind of pain.
i'll probably look on this in a month or so and go 'what was i thinking, posting this!?' but oh well.
Summary: they think that someday, maybe, this will be enough. but today isn't that day. (i don't know how much longer i can do this.)
discordial
i.
they know, just looking at each other: they are not perfect for each other. they are not now, and they will probably never be. but sometimes, you can live with just being ‘okay’. sometimes you can be happy with the people you weren’t meant to be with.
then, remembering you can’t be with That Person hurts and sometimes you think it might tear you apart. and even though it hurts, sometimes that in of itself is bearable, too.
they think, maybe this will be okay. maybe we can learn to love each other.
and even though they might never, that’s still enough for now.
ii.
he holds her face with his fingertips like he’s holding something that’s been broken and badly put back together. like she’s still missing pieces.
his hands are dry and callused and she closes her eyes. he’s not sure if she’s pretending he’s someone else or not, but it almost doesn’t matter. her eyelids are lined with small veins and she has dark circles under her eyes despite how much she sleeps. he disregards them and kisses her.
her lips move like she’s murmuring someone’s name, but he doesn’t listen.
iii.
once, she asks, who was she? and he pretends not to understand. she looks at him for a long time with her almost orange eyes, and then looks out the window again.
he thinks she’s done. then: he was my friend.
he says: that’s nice. but only because he can’t think of what else he would say.
she doesn’t say anything else, and when she rubs under her eyes, he still says nothing.
iv.
what she tells him: it’s okay. this is fine. everything is alright and I’m okay.
what she doesn’t tell him: he’s still the only thing I see when I go to sleep and I don’t know how much longer I can do this.
v.
he’s not entirely certain when he falls in love with her. the realization is silent, and not as painful as he would have thought.
she stays in the window seat all day and he thinks that her skin is almost the same color as the cloudy skies outside. her bones are sharp and defined and he can’t remember the last time she ate or brushed her hair, but she’s still beautiful.
he doesn’t tell her anything but he holds her differently - takes her face in his hands, cups her cheeks in his palms and holds her like he’s keeping her together. if she notices anything, she doesn’t comment.
vi.
he keeps himself together through attacking things on the outside.
she attacks herself, and when he asks, what’s wrong, she keeps it in, saying, nothing, nothing.
and he never believes her, but he doesn’t know what to do. there is a way to fall apart internally that she understands all too well, and he can’t see it happening.
vii.
when she finds out she’s pregnant, it feels like a slap in the face. her clothes hang off her like dying leaves and no one’s sure she’ll make it through the pregnancy.
he pins her to the floor and forces food down her mouth. she doesn’t struggle, but she chokes, and with the gagging comes hot and bitter tears, and a sobbing that tears through her like ripping fabric.
(I can’t do this anymore I can‘t)
he holds her tightly, every tremor in her body absorbed into his, and she sobs out broken names, stitched back together into some kind of monster. his, and the name of the man she can’t let go, all sewn together like a quilt, and she falls asleep after crying herself hoarse.
(it’s not just for you anymore)
viii.
the baby is born, and she names him jack. the first time she holds him, it feels a bit like moving on.
jack wails, a sound that brings something soft to her face for the first time in years, and it feels like, maybe, eventually, this will be enough.
he presses his lips to her forehead and she touches jack’s cheek, trails her finger over the round curve without a sound. the baby quiets a little, hiccupping, and he can see her shoulders loosen.
someday, this will be enough.
fin.
Characters/Pairings: OC.
Notes: written in a spur of the moment depressive state, finished in similar states following. choppy, unedited and raw. the usual dysfunctional, broken relationships i usually find myself writing - don't look for anything new. just the everyday kind of pain.
i'll probably look on this in a month or so and go 'what was i thinking, posting this!?' but oh well.
Summary: they think that someday, maybe, this will be enough. but today isn't that day. (i don't know how much longer i can do this.)
discordial
i.
they know, just looking at each other: they are not perfect for each other. they are not now, and they will probably never be. but sometimes, you can live with just being ‘okay’. sometimes you can be happy with the people you weren’t meant to be with.
then, remembering you can’t be with That Person hurts and sometimes you think it might tear you apart. and even though it hurts, sometimes that in of itself is bearable, too.
they think, maybe this will be okay. maybe we can learn to love each other.
and even though they might never, that’s still enough for now.
ii.
he holds her face with his fingertips like he’s holding something that’s been broken and badly put back together. like she’s still missing pieces.
his hands are dry and callused and she closes her eyes. he’s not sure if she’s pretending he’s someone else or not, but it almost doesn’t matter. her eyelids are lined with small veins and she has dark circles under her eyes despite how much she sleeps. he disregards them and kisses her.
her lips move like she’s murmuring someone’s name, but he doesn’t listen.
iii.
once, she asks, who was she? and he pretends not to understand. she looks at him for a long time with her almost orange eyes, and then looks out the window again.
he thinks she’s done. then: he was my friend.
he says: that’s nice. but only because he can’t think of what else he would say.
she doesn’t say anything else, and when she rubs under her eyes, he still says nothing.
iv.
what she tells him: it’s okay. this is fine. everything is alright and I’m okay.
what she doesn’t tell him: he’s still the only thing I see when I go to sleep and I don’t know how much longer I can do this.
v.
he’s not entirely certain when he falls in love with her. the realization is silent, and not as painful as he would have thought.
she stays in the window seat all day and he thinks that her skin is almost the same color as the cloudy skies outside. her bones are sharp and defined and he can’t remember the last time she ate or brushed her hair, but she’s still beautiful.
he doesn’t tell her anything but he holds her differently - takes her face in his hands, cups her cheeks in his palms and holds her like he’s keeping her together. if she notices anything, she doesn’t comment.
vi.
he keeps himself together through attacking things on the outside.
she attacks herself, and when he asks, what’s wrong, she keeps it in, saying, nothing, nothing.
and he never believes her, but he doesn’t know what to do. there is a way to fall apart internally that she understands all too well, and he can’t see it happening.
vii.
when she finds out she’s pregnant, it feels like a slap in the face. her clothes hang off her like dying leaves and no one’s sure she’ll make it through the pregnancy.
he pins her to the floor and forces food down her mouth. she doesn’t struggle, but she chokes, and with the gagging comes hot and bitter tears, and a sobbing that tears through her like ripping fabric.
(I can’t do this anymore I can‘t)
he holds her tightly, every tremor in her body absorbed into his, and she sobs out broken names, stitched back together into some kind of monster. his, and the name of the man she can’t let go, all sewn together like a quilt, and she falls asleep after crying herself hoarse.
(it’s not just for you anymore)
viii.
the baby is born, and she names him jack. the first time she holds him, it feels a bit like moving on.
jack wails, a sound that brings something soft to her face for the first time in years, and it feels like, maybe, eventually, this will be enough.
he presses his lips to her forehead and she touches jack’s cheek, trails her finger over the round curve without a sound. the baby quiets a little, hiccupping, and he can see her shoulders loosen.
someday, this will be enough.
fin.