pawprints in the blood of herself — eurydice le roux.
Aug 13, 2020 9:43:35 GMT -5
Post by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Aug 13, 2020 9:43:35 GMT -5
A house has a pulse —
it always had, it always will.
If enough people live in a house, then it weaves itself a heart and times its beats in ceaseless rhythm with everyone that lives there. A beat happens when Cathy drags the tips of her crayons across the pink-colored walls. A beat is there the moment Aurora and Tatton, caught in some mischievous dare, careens down the hallways, catches their ankles on a mound of clothes, and lands face first onto the wooden inlay. A beat lives in Silk’s study. A beat flutters when Emerson lets her golden cascade of hair down and dances at night. A beat follows Harper every time he stands in the balcony with a vividly-colored robe.
But, there’s a beat missing for all the times Emmett had quietly sneaked back in through the doors at unholy hours and Eurydice knew because of course, she did. He’s always had a clumsy bone to him, a loud creak in the way he pushes open the door or a misjudged step that draws a squeak from the floorboard or a bottle falling loose from his grasp.
There’s a beat missing for all the times Eurydice’s face beams with a secret smile then, knowing her lion cub is safe and sound and home.
A house has a pulse —
and it can grow feeble.
These days, Eurydice can barely hear its sound.
{ thread title inspired by a piece from richard silken's war of the foxes. }
