COLT
I wish words were like little toy guns
No sting, no hurting no one
Just a bang, bang rolling off your tongue
No sting, no hurting no one
Just a bang, bang rolling off your tongue
The moment he appears, rounding from shadow and corner with a boyish reluctance, as if the books themselves have berated him into view, everything hangs in place. Not frozen—her breath still comes, slow and tangled as it is in the back of her throat, and her pulse continues to hum with quiet warning just beneath her skin—but suddenly too thick to move as freely as it just had. Dust motes seem poised in shafts of meager light, adrift in nothing and turning over each other instead of falling down, and all sound drops away to just the pattern of his voice. He's framed in lowlight and bookshelves like something that ought not be disturbed, but she's drawn in regardless, such is the tragic gravity given to terribly beautiful things.
An ache that she's tried to bury eases perceptibly, edges of her softening, hackles finally lying flat again. It doesn't last, but it settles first, and that's something. She never thought she'd lose him, because he's like the stars, always there, even when you can't see them. Once, she believed that to be a good thing. Now she feels the cold burn of him out of the blue, when she's riding alone and her mind suddenly spills over the way he'd felt, the way he'd made her feel, and the obvious absence of all of that which she now carries. She's carefully cut out the worst of the reminders, to little avail, and to cope she's resorted to picking up bad habits again, as if he hasn't always been her worst one. Where she wants to hate him, where she wants to move on, is just the quiet void of something altogether there and not there, as catchable as any shadow.
She misses him. Even still, even when she shouldn't after how much she's felt like shit because of him, just like she never should have fallen for him but did. The fall had been hard and fast, just like the crash. She'd held back as best she could because she knows what rushing in is like—married in less than a year, put up with hell like it'd all been her fault, watched joy be stripped away with placation. She made damn sure she'd never do that again, so she'd thought and waited, and only when she really believed that they had something did she reach out in full. That he didn't seem to think they'd been worth anything—not to fight for, not to stay for, barely even to put up some words for—how could she get it so wrong?
That, is what's hit her most. More than losing him, more than ruining this in six seconds, it's her entire perception shifting and splintering. It feels like she's constantly trying to see the world through the reflection of a cracked mirror now, and no matter what angle she takes, she can't see anything but fragments and distortions.
Every prepared speech and carefully articulated argument has fled her as surely as sense. What? is a wonderful question. It's one she's been asking too, peering at the walls of the House of Midnight, wandering back over memories like there are answers buried in the seams that stitch ruined moments together. Weeks, wasted on doubt and wonder, punishment and excuses, grief and wrath. It all comes back to one breaking point for her.
The stiffness of her resolve keeps her spine rigid as she stands, features sharp as an arrow, targeting him cleanly. "Tell me that this meant nothing to you," she requests, low and steady. She takes a step forward, hands smoothing down her jeans, coming away with dust she doesn't see as she slips them into her back pockets. Her elbows jut out from her sides, meager wings for someone who'd been soaring with him before. "Tell me, that it never did." The amber of her gaze flashes with scrutiny as she pins him with it, each sentence consuming distance as her strides punctuate the space with a bravery born of frustration and disbelief.
An ache that she's tried to bury eases perceptibly, edges of her softening, hackles finally lying flat again. It doesn't last, but it settles first, and that's something. She never thought she'd lose him, because he's like the stars, always there, even when you can't see them. Once, she believed that to be a good thing. Now she feels the cold burn of him out of the blue, when she's riding alone and her mind suddenly spills over the way he'd felt, the way he'd made her feel, and the obvious absence of all of that which she now carries. She's carefully cut out the worst of the reminders, to little avail, and to cope she's resorted to picking up bad habits again, as if he hasn't always been her worst one. Where she wants to hate him, where she wants to move on, is just the quiet void of something altogether there and not there, as catchable as any shadow.
She misses him. Even still, even when she shouldn't after how much she's felt like shit because of him, just like she never should have fallen for him but did. The fall had been hard and fast, just like the crash. She'd held back as best she could because she knows what rushing in is like—married in less than a year, put up with hell like it'd all been her fault, watched joy be stripped away with placation. She made damn sure she'd never do that again, so she'd thought and waited, and only when she really believed that they had something did she reach out in full. That he didn't seem to think they'd been worth anything—not to fight for, not to stay for, barely even to put up some words for—how could she get it so wrong?
That, is what's hit her most. More than losing him, more than ruining this in six seconds, it's her entire perception shifting and splintering. It feels like she's constantly trying to see the world through the reflection of a cracked mirror now, and no matter what angle she takes, she can't see anything but fragments and distortions.
Every prepared speech and carefully articulated argument has fled her as surely as sense. What? is a wonderful question. It's one she's been asking too, peering at the walls of the House of Midnight, wandering back over memories like there are answers buried in the seams that stitch ruined moments together. Weeks, wasted on doubt and wonder, punishment and excuses, grief and wrath. It all comes back to one breaking point for her.
The stiffness of her resolve keeps her spine rigid as she stands, features sharp as an arrow, targeting him cleanly. "Tell me that this meant nothing to you," she requests, low and steady. She takes a step forward, hands smoothing down her jeans, coming away with dust she doesn't see as she slips them into her back pockets. Her elbows jut out from her sides, meager wings for someone who'd been soaring with him before. "Tell me, that it never did." The amber of her gaze flashes with scrutiny as she pins him with it, each sentence consuming distance as her strides punctuate the space with a bravery born of frustration and disbelief.
No smoke, no bullets
No kick from the trigger when you pull it
No pain, no damage done
Received a Gilded Market wig from Remi that resembles her usual hair and is enchanted to stay on better than most wigs | has a reverse centaur tattoo on her left hand with the legs going down her pointer and middle fingers that looks like this.
