03 Presentiment
Monday, November 25th, 2013 11:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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evolutionaryWrittern: 10/30/13
Title: Presentiment
Words: 541
A methodology conquers most sense. It consumes as a burns, and there is nothing further than the truth. There are broken bodies on the floor, and this has happened before. There is a girl’s voice unheard, and this is--
He inhales, your focus, your sole priority, and your eyes flick to him, bright and shining. He inhales, form trembling, and your senses search for the irregularity, for what could be causing a disturbance within him. You find nothing. That’s no surprise. You slaughtered everyone here. Anyone who had any part in this-- Any who thought it intelligent to punish a dark-haired supposedly blind man for his part in placing a miscreant (rapist, murderer, petty thief, there’s nothing in you that cares) behind bars.
Who caused the blood trailing from the corner of his mouth.
As if noticing, he wipes it away. Pushes mussed hair back with the same hand. There’s a bruise quickly forming under one eye and you nearly growl. Another inhale from that source, then he bursts out with a laugh. His hand slaps to muffle it. “Sorry,” he breathes. “Sorry. I just--”
There’s that look again, that feel. The one that makes you think there’s still another threat present. Your form maintains its tense posture, and he holds up the hand that’s not caked in blood to placate. “You’re an artist,” he says. “A painter of death and despair, and that’s why I love you sometimes.”
You watch as if waiting. You wait as if there’s something to be wary of.
He notices that, maybe, because he lowers his hand. Looks at it. “…I’m ruining you, I think,” he says. “There’s less and less left each time, and I--”
You have stepped closer without prelude, keeping to the unspoken law of lacking touch when you are covered in blood. For him, you would cradle him near no matter what he wore, but for you….
You have stepped closer, and his head jolts upward, fear present. You recognize it finally as aimed at yourself, but different. Different. Not as a threat, but--
“I’m doing this to you,” he pleads. “Don’t you see? You need to stop trying to rescue me, Ala--”
Touch is needed, almost always, but sometimes the absence is even more. You stare at him and your gaze stops him mid-sentence. You stare at him and your sight begins to clear. To focus further. You note the bodies torn and mangled. You note the wounds he carries, nothing lethal or permanent. The punishment perhaps does not suit the crime in many an eye, but those opinions are not yours.
Yours is something far more simple. “I’m doing this before I want to,” you say, in the clearest of ways. “There’s nothing I’m losing. In this, there was never anything there.” An absence present that you’ve always recognized. There’s that laugh again, this time sounding like a sob, and you lift up your hand, stained and caked with another’s life, and hold it out. “There’s nothing lost.”
His broken hand comes up to rest in your palm, and perhaps there is something in that, an echo of yet another time. You don’t know. You can’t say. He inhales, and his form slumps, gives up its tension. “Yeah,” he says, fingers curling against your skin.
There’s nothing lost.
“Yeah.”
[03. “You’re an artist,” he says.]
Title: Presentiment
Words: 541
A methodology conquers most sense. It consumes as a burns, and there is nothing further than the truth. There are broken bodies on the floor, and this has happened before. There is a girl’s voice unheard, and this is--
He inhales, your focus, your sole priority, and your eyes flick to him, bright and shining. He inhales, form trembling, and your senses search for the irregularity, for what could be causing a disturbance within him. You find nothing. That’s no surprise. You slaughtered everyone here. Anyone who had any part in this-- Any who thought it intelligent to punish a dark-haired supposedly blind man for his part in placing a miscreant (rapist, murderer, petty thief, there’s nothing in you that cares) behind bars.
Who caused the blood trailing from the corner of his mouth.
As if noticing, he wipes it away. Pushes mussed hair back with the same hand. There’s a bruise quickly forming under one eye and you nearly growl. Another inhale from that source, then he bursts out with a laugh. His hand slaps to muffle it. “Sorry,” he breathes. “Sorry. I just--”
There’s that look again, that feel. The one that makes you think there’s still another threat present. Your form maintains its tense posture, and he holds up the hand that’s not caked in blood to placate. “You’re an artist,” he says. “A painter of death and despair, and that’s why I love you sometimes.”
You watch as if waiting. You wait as if there’s something to be wary of.
He notices that, maybe, because he lowers his hand. Looks at it. “…I’m ruining you, I think,” he says. “There’s less and less left each time, and I--”
You have stepped closer without prelude, keeping to the unspoken law of lacking touch when you are covered in blood. For him, you would cradle him near no matter what he wore, but for you….
You have stepped closer, and his head jolts upward, fear present. You recognize it finally as aimed at yourself, but different. Different. Not as a threat, but--
“I’m doing this to you,” he pleads. “Don’t you see? You need to stop trying to rescue me, Ala--”
Touch is needed, almost always, but sometimes the absence is even more. You stare at him and your gaze stops him mid-sentence. You stare at him and your sight begins to clear. To focus further. You note the bodies torn and mangled. You note the wounds he carries, nothing lethal or permanent. The punishment perhaps does not suit the crime in many an eye, but those opinions are not yours.
Yours is something far more simple. “I’m doing this before I want to,” you say, in the clearest of ways. “There’s nothing I’m losing. In this, there was never anything there.” An absence present that you’ve always recognized. There’s that laugh again, this time sounding like a sob, and you lift up your hand, stained and caked with another’s life, and hold it out. “There’s nothing lost.”
His broken hand comes up to rest in your palm, and perhaps there is something in that, an echo of yet another time. You don’t know. You can’t say. He inhales, and his form slumps, gives up its tension. “Yeah,” he says, fingers curling against your skin.
There’s nothing lost.
“Yeah.”
[03. “You’re an artist,” he says.]
