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Author's Note:
Ah fudge. I lied. This isn't really happy at all. And I'm not particularly satisfied with it yet, so this will be heavily edited. I just needed to write today. Like, really bad.
Word of the Day:
soporific \sop-uh-rif-ik\, adjective:
1. Causing or tending to cause sleep
2. pertaining to or characterized by sleep or sleepiness; sleepy; drowsy.
Warnings:
Mentions of death. Again.
Word Count:
558
The soil beneath her fingers are cool, like his skin in the morgue. The earth is deep and brown and, maybe, just a little calming. Here she is, sorting out her thoughts, trying to make sense of exactly what she’s doing here, clustered against his flowers like she was in the funeral between both their family and friends, only the guests this time appear to be much more vibrant, but are probably just as indifferent. The petals tickle her skin subtly, yet she is vividly reminded of his kisses, and she is at once delighted and disgusted.
She lifts her hands from the ground, glaring at her now dirtied fingernails. How funny, she thinks, that the soil itself digs inside her just as she digs inside it. Nothing will grow inside me, she hears herself murmur. I’m dead all over, you know. She licks her lips, just as she feels sweat trickle down the back of her neck, just like the tears she’s shed for days felt like centuries. The dry and rough texture of her lips grates her tongue like his last words against her ears, and she smiles just to feel the pain it evokes when the skin cracks.
She sings a little song, to join the cicadas, then her words fade in the air and turn to distant hums that vibrate against her mouth. She remembers him singing this song to her–and what a horrible voice he had when he did–and she remembers that he sang it here, with his flowers, and she sitting on the porch watching him with amusement. How he loved his flowers.
The soporific afternoon bothers her. A lot. It never bothered him; nothing ever bothered him. She glares at the flowers in distaste, this time, because, once again, she feels that stupid prickling assaulting her eyes and she’s pretty sure another onslaught of tears is approaching and she won’t be able to do anything but match it with her own foolish sobs. Frustration comes unexpectedly, and she finds no use in restraining it.
The vibrancy of his garden is getting to her, and she pulls one, small, insignificant plant from the ground. The soil opens up in protest and the sickening sound of roots pulled nearly causes her to lose her stomach. He worked so hard on these. She does it again, and again, and again, then another and another and another. She makes no noise as she does so, and allows no tears to come. It’s a whole new disaster and she can hear a small ringing in her ears. It continues and continues: all grief and pain and lost hope. Pull pull pull. Time is slow, like the dragging of feet against concrete.
When she’s done, she falls to the ground panting. The sun is blinding her eyes, and a small thought that even the clouds have abandoned her enters her mind, so she looks away and eventually gets up to gather the red yellow blue white pink flowers in her arms. She dumps them in one pile and looks at his garden. It’s a massacre well-done and the sun her only witness.
Tomorrow, she’ll plant new ones, and with a small smile, she thinks that the flowers grow while she dies and there’s absolutely no turning back. How spectacular.
Inside her shoes, she curls her toes.
///
It'll be happy next time, I totally promise.
I also totally need a new layout for this place. Dammit.
Ah fudge. I lied. This isn't really happy at all. And I'm not particularly satisfied with it yet, so this will be heavily edited. I just needed to write today. Like, really bad.
Word of the Day:
soporific \sop-uh-rif-ik\, adjective:
1. Causing or tending to cause sleep
2. pertaining to or characterized by sleep or sleepiness; sleepy; drowsy.
Warnings:
Mentions of death. Again.
Word Count:
558
The soil beneath her fingers are cool, like his skin in the morgue. The earth is deep and brown and, maybe, just a little calming. Here she is, sorting out her thoughts, trying to make sense of exactly what she’s doing here, clustered against his flowers like she was in the funeral between both their family and friends, only the guests this time appear to be much more vibrant, but are probably just as indifferent. The petals tickle her skin subtly, yet she is vividly reminded of his kisses, and she is at once delighted and disgusted.
She lifts her hands from the ground, glaring at her now dirtied fingernails. How funny, she thinks, that the soil itself digs inside her just as she digs inside it. Nothing will grow inside me, she hears herself murmur. I’m dead all over, you know. She licks her lips, just as she feels sweat trickle down the back of her neck, just like the tears she’s shed for days felt like centuries. The dry and rough texture of her lips grates her tongue like his last words against her ears, and she smiles just to feel the pain it evokes when the skin cracks.
She sings a little song, to join the cicadas, then her words fade in the air and turn to distant hums that vibrate against her mouth. She remembers him singing this song to her–and what a horrible voice he had when he did–and she remembers that he sang it here, with his flowers, and she sitting on the porch watching him with amusement. How he loved his flowers.
The soporific afternoon bothers her. A lot. It never bothered him; nothing ever bothered him. She glares at the flowers in distaste, this time, because, once again, she feels that stupid prickling assaulting her eyes and she’s pretty sure another onslaught of tears is approaching and she won’t be able to do anything but match it with her own foolish sobs. Frustration comes unexpectedly, and she finds no use in restraining it.
The vibrancy of his garden is getting to her, and she pulls one, small, insignificant plant from the ground. The soil opens up in protest and the sickening sound of roots pulled nearly causes her to lose her stomach. He worked so hard on these. She does it again, and again, and again, then another and another and another. She makes no noise as she does so, and allows no tears to come. It’s a whole new disaster and she can hear a small ringing in her ears. It continues and continues: all grief and pain and lost hope. Pull pull pull. Time is slow, like the dragging of feet against concrete.
When she’s done, she falls to the ground panting. The sun is blinding her eyes, and a small thought that even the clouds have abandoned her enters her mind, so she looks away and eventually gets up to gather the red yellow blue white pink flowers in her arms. She dumps them in one pile and looks at his garden. It’s a massacre well-done and the sun her only witness.
Tomorrow, she’ll plant new ones, and with a small smile, she thinks that the flowers grow while she dies and there’s absolutely no turning back. How spectacular.
Inside her shoes, she curls her toes.
///
It'll be happy next time, I totally promise.
I also totally need a new layout for this place. Dammit.
Current Mood: whoo boy
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Of Love and Other Demons