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25 Unicorn Street, Tuesday morning
Aug. 26th, 2008 10:54 pmHe approached her, holding out one hand. She blushed, her face almost strained with the smile that broke into it. She placed her hand atop his, and followed as he led. His steps took her into a dance, their bodies pressed close, swirling over the green grass.
She woke up from a dream she knew wasn't hers. She'd felt too distant, too detached for it to be hers: Jimmy's, then. Only Jimmy could dream with that much color and verve. Only Jimmy could be so much of a stupid, naive fool. She found it angered her. She found it angered her greatly. With a snarl, Kerrigan pulled herself upright, her feet carrying her into the kitchen with sure, sure steps.
She hit the tap; the water ran over her hands. She watched them dully, and the skintone flickered from green to pink and back again. When had her wish to see the latter in full again faded? A blade flicked out and imbedded itself in the countertop. Foolish Jimmy, with his technicolor dreams; they might've seemed pretty, but they were worth less than a grain of sand. She slammed the tap shut again.
It reminded her of the way they kept looking at her. Harriet and her quiet concern. Roy and his insistent worrying that lasted for the course of a tube of ice cream. Lee and the constant, agonizing repeat of the phrase how are you and its ensuing hemming, hawing denials. The counter split at the blade. She'd already pulled away again.
So what now, Jimmy?
How much pity have you got left for me? Big eyes that last you until you hobble off into the next whatever the hell it is?
She felt like she should be exhausted. She wasn't, but she was: exhausted and disconnected from it, like it had stopped mattering. Don't you get it yet?
Her feet carried her into the bathroom next, and she stared into the mirror at bony tentacles that hung like menacing weapons rather than a frame along her face, her wings jutting proudly behind her, the sharp edges of bone armor edging her shoulders. It'd stopped looking grotesque a long time ago. Or a short one. It didn't mean much either way.
Maybe I'm tired of this, she cast into the direction of that dreamlike link as if it were obscene. Maybe I like what I am now.
Maybe I don't want to take your hand.
Maybe I'm pleased, because that means none of you will ever pull it back again. Time to wake up, Jimmy.
For the first time in three months (had it been three months? It was irrelevant) she was unburdened by static. Her mind was clear, as were her eyes. She pressed a palm against the surface of the mirror, cracking it lightly, and there was no blood. There was just a voice, an amazing, powerful, thrilling voice that tore straight through her soul and it began to Speak.
[ establishy. ]
She woke up from a dream she knew wasn't hers. She'd felt too distant, too detached for it to be hers: Jimmy's, then. Only Jimmy could dream with that much color and verve. Only Jimmy could be so much of a stupid, naive fool. She found it angered her. She found it angered her greatly. With a snarl, Kerrigan pulled herself upright, her feet carrying her into the kitchen with sure, sure steps.
She hit the tap; the water ran over her hands. She watched them dully, and the skintone flickered from green to pink and back again. When had her wish to see the latter in full again faded? A blade flicked out and imbedded itself in the countertop. Foolish Jimmy, with his technicolor dreams; they might've seemed pretty, but they were worth less than a grain of sand. She slammed the tap shut again.
It reminded her of the way they kept looking at her. Harriet and her quiet concern. Roy and his insistent worrying that lasted for the course of a tube of ice cream. Lee and the constant, agonizing repeat of the phrase how are you and its ensuing hemming, hawing denials. The counter split at the blade. She'd already pulled away again.
So what now, Jimmy?
How much pity have you got left for me? Big eyes that last you until you hobble off into the next whatever the hell it is?
She felt like she should be exhausted. She wasn't, but she was: exhausted and disconnected from it, like it had stopped mattering. Don't you get it yet?
Her feet carried her into the bathroom next, and she stared into the mirror at bony tentacles that hung like menacing weapons rather than a frame along her face, her wings jutting proudly behind her, the sharp edges of bone armor edging her shoulders. It'd stopped looking grotesque a long time ago. Or a short one. It didn't mean much either way.
Maybe I'm tired of this, she cast into the direction of that dreamlike link as if it were obscene. Maybe I like what I am now.
Maybe I don't want to take your hand.
Maybe I'm pleased, because that means none of you will ever pull it back again. Time to wake up, Jimmy.
For the first time in three months (had it been three months? It was irrelevant) she was unburdened by static. Her mind was clear, as were her eyes. She pressed a palm against the surface of the mirror, cracking it lightly, and there was no blood. There was just a voice, an amazing, powerful, thrilling voice that tore straight through her soul and it began to Speak.
[ establishy. ]
