#relapsent

                ‘ THE LARYNX ’ FINDS COMFORT IN TIGHTLY-WOUND BANJO strings, letting each finger wander lazily over each fret and pull at the metal ABSENTLY. it isn’t that he doesn’t harbour excitement for the show -- it’s that he’s TOO ready, a ball of tension rattling around his insides, ricocheting off of his ribs with some kind of malice. eyeless sockets watch the vision in yellow dance and pick up his things from where they’ve been HAPHAZARDLY tossed aside / o’, what a scene he’d CREATE if it were anyone else! mouth pulled into that wonky smile, missing front teeth exposed, he waves a finger to COMMAND her attention.     ❛     chickdee, slo’ dahn -- y’ donnwan’ muds ‘earin’ ya from ‘cross th’ ‘all, or ‘e’ll TWAT the bof of uth.     ❜     

          blood,  on her hands,  on her face,  on her spirit.  ellie’s glassy eyes swing,  teeth bared in an accusatory snarl,  one hand resting on the tails of her arrows ( if you touch me,  it will not end well for you ). upon meeting the face of the other woman,  that stranger turned sister so quickly,  she relaxes,  if only just,  those tense shoulders slumping in time to her sigh.       ❛     oh.  tess.  uh,  we all good?     ❜    

          weeks have passed, thinly veiled nights under his fingers, and he still has not talked to her. awkward hellos do not count; mistaking her for a long dead friend does not count. the next time their eyes meet, a hurried look in a crowded room, he smiles ( * he hopes it is enough ).     ❛   hmmm-hi. uh, matt. i’m matt. hi.   ❜

          slow and melodious, he lulls the town to sleep ev’ry night. the sun sets later each day, time ticking slower / slower / slower, without anyone really noticing. lethargy has nothing to do with it.   ❛  and how has the town been treating you, holtzmann? the angels, who do not exist, already speak quite highly of you. ❜