Bejewlled Roses
Oct. 29th, 2007 06:06 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sickle_storiesHere, have some emo!drama. Some bit of the writting I really like, though the overall "Woe! Oh, woe!" is a bit much. Still, pretty.
And then she said that it had to end.
Abruptly he crumbled to the ground and, crouching, sobbed into his fist, biting and clenching it. She looked on unmoved yet nonplussed, her eyes glazed somewhat and her lips tight as if repelled by the man’s emotional release.
‘That was then,’ she muttered, ‘this is now.’
‘What is this “now”?’ he countered, raising his voice and sweeping his arm before them. ‘Where is it, where remorse has no place and conscience shrivels unused?’
She smiled bitterly, at once both hating his melodramatic flair, his habit for lyricism and loving it because it was his. But it only served to make him a player on a long-distant stage and her the sole audience. And she’d never much cared for theatre. When once he’d won her heart by quoting musty poetry, now it hardened her heart and detracted from the seriousness of his own breaking one.
She turned from him, this crouching, sobbing man at her feet, and walked down the corridor towards the back door. It was still open; he must not have taken the trouble to close it when he came in.
It was raining outside. She could see the flowers bobbing under the bombardment. She walked towards them and held out her hand to them as if offering protection from the rain, a reprieve from the endless, needless nodding. She placed her hand over them and they were still. Lighting struck as she watched and illuminated the rain, calling to mind a poem she’d once read. She’d never believed the writer who had written that, “the rain hung suspended, bathed in light, like diamonds on a woman’s breast”. Now she understood, though she mused that the woman in question must have been wearing a black velvet dress. She removed her hand and the roses trembled and bowed beneath the rain.
She heard him come out into the garden and walk a little towards her. She could hear his footsteps squelching in the mud that had formed, hear the earth gasping and sucking at the soles of his shoes.
‘Look,’ she said, ‘the roses, they’re covered in diamonds.’
He came closer and stood behind her, looking over her shoulder. Silently, they waited for the lighting.
When it finally struck, it was not bright enough to recreate the effect she had seen. As if to compensate, the thunder rolled like a wave, gathering momentum and volume as it drew closer. Over the growls from the pouring sky she could hear his breath coming in the soft gasps of one who has only just stopped weeping.
Unthinking, she leaned back to him, chilling her back against his soaking shirt. Startled, she realized that she too was drenched and cold. She’d rather fancied to be like the nodding roses, that the rain would simply roll off her, leaving her untouched yet cleansed.
He too leaned towards her. Hesitantly, he raised his arms to encircle her. His long fingers met inches before her skin, touched, and fell to his sides again. Instead, he lowered his mouth to her neck. She could feel the heat from his lips and his breath hovering over her skin. Yet again he hesitated and instead leaned his face against her wet hair.
‘You still love me,’ he whispered defiantly.
Still staring at the roses, her head bobbed in imitation.
‘Yes.’
He did not seem surprised at her words. He did, however, mistake them for surrender.
This time he did manage to embrace her, and even to kiss her neck and the rainwater that poured down over it, before letting her go again.
She reached for the roses and covered them with her hand. For the second time that night the flowers were still. Then she broke them off and littered the muddy ground with their petals.
‘I am that flower,’ she whispered enigmatically. “You are that flower.’ She was pointing to the muddied petals on the ground.
Abruptly, he strode before her and held her sternly by the arms. She glanced down at his feet and her lips formed a sad ‘oh’. He’d trampled the petals. He shook her slowly, almost gently. She swayed back and forth, as if in a cradle. She smiled, though her arms hurt, and looked up at him. He scowled back at her, his lips alternating from smile to frown like the light and dark of a thunderstorm.
Then, deliberately, he stopped shaking her and embraced her instead.
The rain poured down over them, drenching them. Their knees sunk into the mud. She clung to him stiffly, her muscles frozen in position. He winced, pulling slightly at her fingers as they dug deeper into his flesh. Overhead, lightning lit the sky and for a split second he could see her face. Her eyes were closed, her lips locked, as her arms were locked, in a tight grimace. Then darkness fell on them again like a cold blanket and the thunder rolled over them in waves.
‘Yes, we are that flower.’
And then she said that it had to end.
Abruptly he crumbled to the ground and, crouching, sobbed into his fist, biting and clenching it. She looked on unmoved yet nonplussed, her eyes glazed somewhat and her lips tight as if repelled by the man’s emotional release.
‘That was then,’ she muttered, ‘this is now.’
‘What is this “now”?’ he countered, raising his voice and sweeping his arm before them. ‘Where is it, where remorse has no place and conscience shrivels unused?’
She smiled bitterly, at once both hating his melodramatic flair, his habit for lyricism and loving it because it was his. But it only served to make him a player on a long-distant stage and her the sole audience. And she’d never much cared for theatre. When once he’d won her heart by quoting musty poetry, now it hardened her heart and detracted from the seriousness of his own breaking one.
She turned from him, this crouching, sobbing man at her feet, and walked down the corridor towards the back door. It was still open; he must not have taken the trouble to close it when he came in.
It was raining outside. She could see the flowers bobbing under the bombardment. She walked towards them and held out her hand to them as if offering protection from the rain, a reprieve from the endless, needless nodding. She placed her hand over them and they were still. Lighting struck as she watched and illuminated the rain, calling to mind a poem she’d once read. She’d never believed the writer who had written that, “the rain hung suspended, bathed in light, like diamonds on a woman’s breast”. Now she understood, though she mused that the woman in question must have been wearing a black velvet dress. She removed her hand and the roses trembled and bowed beneath the rain.
She heard him come out into the garden and walk a little towards her. She could hear his footsteps squelching in the mud that had formed, hear the earth gasping and sucking at the soles of his shoes.
‘Look,’ she said, ‘the roses, they’re covered in diamonds.’
He came closer and stood behind her, looking over her shoulder. Silently, they waited for the lighting.
When it finally struck, it was not bright enough to recreate the effect she had seen. As if to compensate, the thunder rolled like a wave, gathering momentum and volume as it drew closer. Over the growls from the pouring sky she could hear his breath coming in the soft gasps of one who has only just stopped weeping.
Unthinking, she leaned back to him, chilling her back against his soaking shirt. Startled, she realized that she too was drenched and cold. She’d rather fancied to be like the nodding roses, that the rain would simply roll off her, leaving her untouched yet cleansed.
He too leaned towards her. Hesitantly, he raised his arms to encircle her. His long fingers met inches before her skin, touched, and fell to his sides again. Instead, he lowered his mouth to her neck. She could feel the heat from his lips and his breath hovering over her skin. Yet again he hesitated and instead leaned his face against her wet hair.
‘You still love me,’ he whispered defiantly.
Still staring at the roses, her head bobbed in imitation.
‘Yes.’
He did not seem surprised at her words. He did, however, mistake them for surrender.
This time he did manage to embrace her, and even to kiss her neck and the rainwater that poured down over it, before letting her go again.
She reached for the roses and covered them with her hand. For the second time that night the flowers were still. Then she broke them off and littered the muddy ground with their petals.
‘I am that flower,’ she whispered enigmatically. “You are that flower.’ She was pointing to the muddied petals on the ground.
Abruptly, he strode before her and held her sternly by the arms. She glanced down at his feet and her lips formed a sad ‘oh’. He’d trampled the petals. He shook her slowly, almost gently. She swayed back and forth, as if in a cradle. She smiled, though her arms hurt, and looked up at him. He scowled back at her, his lips alternating from smile to frown like the light and dark of a thunderstorm.
Then, deliberately, he stopped shaking her and embraced her instead.
The rain poured down over them, drenching them. Their knees sunk into the mud. She clung to him stiffly, her muscles frozen in position. He winced, pulling slightly at her fingers as they dug deeper into his flesh. Overhead, lightning lit the sky and for a split second he could see her face. Her eyes were closed, her lips locked, as her arms were locked, in a tight grimace. Then darkness fell on them again like a cold blanket and the thunder rolled over them in waves.
‘Yes, we are that flower.’
