πππππ ππππππ ππ πππ ππππ πππππππππππ , like a bad dream, like a foggy greenish haze that wonβt fall off her skin. but itβs four hundred miles to the sea and no amount of closing her eyes, deep breathing, tossing and turning out of a shape thatβs claustrophobic and wrong and only bends her spine into an uncomfortable knot, none of that makes the nausea go away. itβs the air, how it wraps itself around her. itβs saran wrap, itβs a body bag:Β this is a living morgue. she clings to the living ones, still, for memories of life. or maybe theyβre good actors, better than her, and when she closes her eyes she can pretend their moans and laments sound like songs and ancient chants, and they remind her of the life above, the life before ββ persephone in the underworld, calling out for a spring that is now forever gone. the pomegranates have withered, their juice has long been dry. but open them up, see the maggots crawling inside β clinging to life just as they are.
ira would know. he has that spark in his eyes, too ββ the last gleam of a flame refusing to give out, the canary that wonβt stop singing. she looks for him in moments of quiet stillness and tells herself as long as heβs around she can hook her fingers to what good remains in her and tell herself sheβs not gone yet. the rest of her is rotting, it falls off of her like chunks of decomposing skin ββ there is her spirit, lying next to her sympathy, in a pool of her love. the blood red part of it, at least. the rest is left in her to fester like a wound, the rest has turned to fear, the rest has turned to rage: she clings to ira because she thinks he understands that, too. how a beautiful thing can turn venomous. ripe fruit festering into mold.
β you got another one of those ? β, smoking is a good excuse out of the make-believe factory where victor cullenβs leading most of his operations. the air outside doesnβt feel any lighter, and the smell of things rotting persists, but at least she can sit by his side, on the step of a back door, and pretend the rat-infested alley is a shelter of their choosing and not a jail. freddie lets out a sigh ββ her voice is coarse, itβs tired of speaking, and existing in general has become a burdensome endeavor. she slouches as she sits, arms crossed over her knees. β iβve been trying to quitβ¦ β. yeah, but whatβs the point ? itβs just a quicker death at best, and either way, this is already hades.
@kryetarβ, semi-plotted.
