anti-lullaby — arcadia & vin
Oct 18, 2023 20:25:29 GMT -5
Post by fox on Oct 18, 2023 20:25:29 GMT -5
☾
when i was little, i dreamed of sanguineous memories that were never my own. incomprehensible agonies of creation and death. in stray, loose hours, the darkness woke me again and again. my mother called it a gift of the bloodline. my father found me deranged. whatever it was to be named, i couldn't sleep for a long time.
over the years, i grew with it. if i woke to darkness, i'd reach for Sindri, touch him between the triangles of his ears, and calm from the softness of it. some children are afraid of the dark, but they lose that fear. i never learned how to sleep without a light.
blue-tinged ache, i feel buried by night.
i am tired.
the shadow sits in the corner. near animal, beating like a flame. i play the game of daisy links. it is midnight. the lamp is on. the chair makes a funny shape on the wall. yes, it is just its silhouette. the room is quiet because it is late. something knocks. i rise and touch the glass, cold on fingertips. they called it a hologram when i asked. not real, like the simulation with Roe. over me, the branches break, fractured woods of Seven made from only light. my chest hitches on a breath.
the knocking continues, loud in the stillness. i turn to the door sharply. one might never be seen again. i grip my hand until there is the pure warmth of pain. it settles. red half-moons on my palm.
oh, but she hath need of fire, who now is come. a chance to listen and be listened to.
the door handle is cold. i open it.
light floods into the dimness. she stands there, half-hazy and golden-haired, and i reach for her hand.
someone solid. i let her go, softening.
"yes?"
