Post by slate • d9f • zoë on Dec 5, 2016 2:15:43 GMT -5
L A C E E O N
Cheat life, cheat death, cheat the bitter winter cold. A second skin, I bleed, but still stand tall. They're not going to hurt her. My second self, all I've ever known to be right and good and warm in this world. Hands that held hers, hands that break noses, hands that scatter flower petals across my bedroom floor, intertwined. Little Lace, Little West.
I take her hand and haul her into the pits.
"Remember, look like you're hurting."
A whistle blows, I pounce. Comradery underneath false pretense, she curls up into a ball and screams and I pretend to pummel her senseless. Another whistle, they haul her up, no blood or scratches. Someone yells, pushes West forward, she stumbles and falls, scrapes against her palms. Winces.
I turn to the left and slam my head into the wall 8 times, counting just to be sure.
One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eigh-
The guy on the raised chair groans, hand at his forehead, other waving us away.
I lose contact, her hand wrapped against mine and velvet ropes and the people look nice, those watching my friends and sisters, "look like you're hurting." She's smart -- little West and little Lace -- heaven knows I need her, the words like murky water in my head, too much noise. A man coughs while another group laughs a battle screech and I've never been a leader, the warmth of Lace's palm in mine feels more like home than anything else.
A whistle; I'm not the smartest but I can follow a plan. Fake punches and I curl myself up like a second state of being -- us two have never had a true fight but this house ain't much of a truth to begin with. From dirty street fights to theatre, I have the easiest job in this until that second whistle screams. A real one. My heart is easy, past fake reactions and hurts, the audience screams nothing more than what I can register; one blur as I'm picked up by the arms, my eyes drowsy.
I could actually fall asleep right now.
But there's a gap, between our timelines where I'm a fraud verses against where I'm last place; hasty hands shoving me back onto the ground and tile bites at pale skin, I don't wince. Too much noise, the sound of Lace beating herself up and a few poor moans in the crowd and shit, I fucked it up, ha fuck, shit, not an inch of bruised skin past the thick of my fists.
"Alright alright alright! Blondie wins, fucks sake," and for a second I stay seated, groans in my ear like snake bites.
There's two of us though, but I've never been the smartest. Lace's forehead bleeds as I grab her hands again, hastily and drowsy and I'm not really sure what exactly happened, but I hold onto her again so I can't say much besides "I'm sorry."
"Crazy fuckin kids... who's next?!"
"Which blondie won though-"
Nobody bets on the plant prince, the whistle of a water faucet like a screaming song and I stare at Lace's hands as she washes mine, no thoughts in my head but when are there ever. She apologies for a crime I never really picked up but I'm tiredddd dude, white noise the only process in a train of thought running on nothing but fumes. Her hand feels nice on mine, warm water and skin contact other than cage matches -- it's a tender thing. "Does it hurt?"
Words. Processing alone took every bit of energy in this dandelion bones, what'd she say. Shit, I stare at her red knuckles and my fidgety hands, I'm sorry. The whistle like a siren song, drowning me at my roots.
I could actually fall asleep right now, hmm.
And it's a good thing I've had Lace, between starving and fighting, bleeding and writing -- I'm nothing if not a follower and it's a garden of broken things that I've never known how to care for. She band-aids the blood away and I stare as she does it, because I would've stopped at wiping them on ripped jeans and hoping heaven did the rest -- that's the easiest.
But Lace has never been easy, and I've never been anything but a dandelion soul.