Maybe this is the end.
Maybe she’ll just stay here, with her head resting on her mother’s grave, until the contagion finds her and makes bones out of her flesh. How sweet they would look, mother and daughter, curled together in one final embrace when a thousand years from today some poor, wretched soul stumbles on a femur and unearths them purely by chance. And if she did go, tonight or any other night, would it be home to the stars? Would they get to look down together as constellations, and see their bodies here on earth, hand-in-hand?
“Hello, Darling.”
Eilidh doesn’t lift her head, though there are parts of her that want to. There are parts she has forgotten that beg her to find her feet in these moments, some sick instinct that wants her to survive even if she is happier dead, some sick instinct that decides this voice is a threat even though she had thought she had abandoned her fear long ago. A knot of dread almost tangles in her belly at just the sound of him; he has their father’s voice (a voice that she will remember until the day that she dies), or rather, something in it that had belonged to Him first.
And suddenly, it’s all flooding back to her. She remembers the rain, and how her tears were lost in it. She remembers how the mud sucked at her legs, and how heavy it was to lift the earth when all it wanted was to meld together and congeal. She remembers the weight of her mother’s body, and how it had killed her in more ways than just one to lower it into the hole that she had dug.
“Who are you?”
She asks him, even though she doesn’t want to know.
⤜ nobody's watching, drowning in words so sweet ⤛
@[Decimate]