06-18-2021, 03:25 PM
she looks like sleep to the freezing
It does not take long for the snow to gather at her feet, an inch deep. And she likes the way the bones look in it, white on white. The blood such a stark contrast, red on white.
He is a peculiar thing, she thinks, and she decides that she likes this about him. She does not know his name but she knows his bones. She knows his blood. It is not wet, not as she knows blood to be, but it flakes off on her lips. Blood on ice. (She would bleed, too, if the skin were not so cold. If it did not freeze as soon as it cracked.)
Does she want to see? Will he hurt her? She wants to see what the bones look like, her bones. Can he show her that? They are each swimming in deep blue oceans, the eyes of each other. She does not look away and he does not either. This is not a joke and it does not appear to be a test. There is no hint of a joke in the way he asks it. (Is there malice? Cruelty? Does it matter? The ice is impenetrable, as far as she can tell. She can call upon the fierceness of winter to protect herself, she knows that. She does not fear him, though he had laughed at the concept of pain.)
She blinks at him, takes a single step backward away from him. Not because she is afraid but because she wants to get a better look at him. At the whole of him. All that bone, all that blood. How it hurts, how so many things hurt. How will he show her?
She nods. “Yes,” she says, so that he will have her answer in no uncertain terms. She does not brace herself. She stands there and she waits, the snow continuing to fall around them. It gathers around her ankles now, her nostrils flaring.
How will he hurt her?
He is a peculiar thing, she thinks, and she decides that she likes this about him. She does not know his name but she knows his bones. She knows his blood. It is not wet, not as she knows blood to be, but it flakes off on her lips. Blood on ice. (She would bleed, too, if the skin were not so cold. If it did not freeze as soon as it cracked.)
Does she want to see? Will he hurt her? She wants to see what the bones look like, her bones. Can he show her that? They are each swimming in deep blue oceans, the eyes of each other. She does not look away and he does not either. This is not a joke and it does not appear to be a test. There is no hint of a joke in the way he asks it. (Is there malice? Cruelty? Does it matter? The ice is impenetrable, as far as she can tell. She can call upon the fierceness of winter to protect herself, she knows that. She does not fear him, though he had laughed at the concept of pain.)
She blinks at him, takes a single step backward away from him. Not because she is afraid but because she wants to get a better look at him. At the whole of him. All that bone, all that blood. How it hurts, how so many things hurt. How will he show her?
She nods. “Yes,” she says, so that he will have her answer in no uncertain terms. She does not brace herself. She stands there and she waits, the snow continuing to fall around them. It gathers around her ankles now, her nostrils flaring.
How will he hurt her?
camellia
@[Reave]