#ottomanjester

Watching the other from a rooftop, the jester simply observed and went over his choices. Should he surprise her with a prank or perhaps something nice and pretty? Choices, choices. Not moving from where he crouched, Dulca did the one thing he could at the moment. He started to throw pieces of sponge cake at her.

This wasn't supposed to happen. Oh god. Frozen at the entrance of their home, Dulcamara gripped the door frame, afraid to enter. Afraid to hear nothing. The silence. Oh god. He hated the silence. It reminded him of his memories. Null and present.  Olive green eyes can't seem to move away from the sight it was fixated on. Darkened red stained the walls, the carpet, her hair, her face, her everything. The jester wanted to scream but he couldn't. Because screaming meant this was real. That meant Mags was laying there in her cooling pool of blood. that meant he lost the dearest person to him. It meant no more laughter in this home- no, not home. How can this be a home if the very person who made it so is gone? How can it be a home to him anymore?  Legs no longer able to hold him up, Dulcamara dropped to his knees. Gloved hands still clutching at the frame like it was his life line. And letting go meant he would drown. Tears slid down his cheeks as he kept staring, unable to tear his eyes away from her broken corpse. Laughter bubbled up in his throat, spilling out as it overflowed. It was maniacal, sharp, like the sound of a broken windup doll.  And this was how the guards had found him. Laughing and laughing as he began to lose himself all over again. He would forget, yes, he always did. And he wonder why the color of burnt orange always made him cry. 

ottomanjester replied your post Here’s an older one.  I haven’t been in a position to take new pics…yet. 

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◊ -Dulca //Regret indeed 8D

+ ottomanjester