11-15-2021, 11:15 AM
Este
She has always known that life was a fragile thing, because she had walked that fine line between life and death most of her young life. She had felt the thread that was her lifeline as it was pulled taut by the darkness, noticed as it began to fray and unravel, and though she had not understood what death was at that age she had known it must be bad for how hard her mother fought to keep it from taking her.
Naively, she had thought death could not touch her mother.
She had assumed that the archangel that could keep death at bay from her daughter was untouchable, that even if it somehow managed to ensnare her that she could find her way free of it.
To find out that she had been wrong had tilted her world on its axis, and she still had yet to find her balance in this new reality where her mother was dead and did not seem to be coming back.
When she stares out onto the surface of Hyaline’s lake tonight it is with unseeing eyes, clouded with a haze and a mind filled with fog. She knows the stars are probably reflecting off the mirror-like surface of it, and somewhere in her subconscious she is reminded of a man made of a similar night sky and how she had wanted his shadows to swallow her whole.
The sound of his voice drags her from the dazed nightmare she had locked herself inside, pulling at her like the tide drawing her back to shore. “Illum,” she says his name quietly before she has fully realized he is actually there, and it is only when her soft brown eyes turn to find the brightness of his that she truly blinks herself back into reality. “I’m sorry,” her apology is hardly a whisper in the air between them as she angles her dove-gray head to his, searching for his face in the dark and trying to not notice the way he seems unable to look at her. It feels like a finger being pressed to her already bruised heart, but she cannot bring herself to recoil away from him; somewhere in the back of her mind she feels as if she must have made a mistake, and she wants to fix it. “I could never forget about you,” is her response, and the solemn tone of her voice does not match the faint amusement in his.
If he were to look at her he would see the change in her doe-like brown eyes, would see the way they reflect the grief and confusion that colors her bones, and before she can stop herself she finds herself saying, “Did you know my mother is dead?” And now it is her turn to look away, to divert her eyes once again to the lake, because she does not want to see the reaction that she is sure will flash across his face. She does not want to see the sorrow and confusion and the rage, does not want to see him grieve for someone else even if it is her own mother, and the realization of that faint spark of jealousy incites such a turmoil in her chest she is afraid she will drown in it.
Naively, she had thought death could not touch her mother.
She had assumed that the archangel that could keep death at bay from her daughter was untouchable, that even if it somehow managed to ensnare her that she could find her way free of it.
To find out that she had been wrong had tilted her world on its axis, and she still had yet to find her balance in this new reality where her mother was dead and did not seem to be coming back.
When she stares out onto the surface of Hyaline’s lake tonight it is with unseeing eyes, clouded with a haze and a mind filled with fog. She knows the stars are probably reflecting off the mirror-like surface of it, and somewhere in her subconscious she is reminded of a man made of a similar night sky and how she had wanted his shadows to swallow her whole.
The sound of his voice drags her from the dazed nightmare she had locked herself inside, pulling at her like the tide drawing her back to shore. “Illum,” she says his name quietly before she has fully realized he is actually there, and it is only when her soft brown eyes turn to find the brightness of his that she truly blinks herself back into reality. “I’m sorry,” her apology is hardly a whisper in the air between them as she angles her dove-gray head to his, searching for his face in the dark and trying to not notice the way he seems unable to look at her. It feels like a finger being pressed to her already bruised heart, but she cannot bring herself to recoil away from him; somewhere in the back of her mind she feels as if she must have made a mistake, and she wants to fix it. “I could never forget about you,” is her response, and the solemn tone of her voice does not match the faint amusement in his.
If he were to look at her he would see the change in her doe-like brown eyes, would see the way they reflect the grief and confusion that colors her bones, and before she can stop herself she finds herself saying, “Did you know my mother is dead?” And now it is her turn to look away, to divert her eyes once again to the lake, because she does not want to see the reaction that she is sure will flash across his face. She does not want to see the sorrow and confusion and the rage, does not want to see him grieve for someone else even if it is her own mother, and the realization of that faint spark of jealousy incites such a turmoil in her chest she is afraid she will drown in it.
YOU'VE GOT YOUR DEMONS AND DARLING THEY ALL LOOK LIKE ME
@Illum