I don't love her, I need her to keep me in check. I don't need to find solid ground, I can find myself between the violence and I can show you, in turn, what it means to really live.
Bottleneck-green eyes flashed, away, and attempted to focus on something – anything – that did not have a face. The magpie’s nest of an apartment was of no help as nearly every trinket and bauble suddenly decided that this was the very time to reflect that smug, self-satisfied grin. He looked down. The lacquered red tip of the boot had to do.
Contains:
Non-explicit references to murder and dreams of mild violence
Disclaimer: Wilhiem is not dying. But he is rather convinced that he may, soon. Operations are serious business, so he decides to make amends through a set-up series of letters.
Some go out regardless of circumstance. Some, he felt, are probably best left unsaid.
TL;DR, he knows way too many people and he loves them too much.
It's a tiny flat. It's a tiny flat because it is flooded with things, flooded with completely unmatching furniture, flooded with pillows of all shapes and sizes scattered all over the floor. The windows are draped over with silks, and the light that goes through is anything but natural. The fabric dilutes it to soft reds and oranges. They paint Drevover's form like a dancing fire.
You do not look back, you do not throw salt over your shoulder, and you do not touch the trees. For every tree you touch, a piece of your sanity will seep into their roots and the forest - the thing underneath it, moving, gurgling - will gorge on your fear.
And you run.
You run like hell itself is about to wrap about your ankles and drag you into the burrow.
My knuckles keep brushing past, but it's still empty. I chewed my bottom lip to shreds again, I know that because my tongue stings with a sharp pinprick of iron as I roll it across. I know that because the small, frayed pieces ended up in my spit and my throat, and on the ground.
Long streaks of pink.
I claim not to write, really, because I write too much.
The desert is in his mind. The desert is in his mouth, and his mirth, and under the soles of his feet, and the sands are still as a stillborn child. Every syllable from his lips comes off chopped, dry, chapped, slipping through the cracks and turning to yellow dust. Yellow dust turning grey.
Grains.
It drains.
He grinds his teeth and his mouth becomes a firecracker. The smallest stones polish his gums, and his tongue can taste the iron.
