the bear and the bat {tom/rook}
Sept 18, 2017 17:44:08 GMT -5
Post by rook on Sept 18, 2017 17:44:08 GMT -5
patricia valfierno
and you won't wait and maybe i won't mind; i work better on my own
and now i'm, well, a bit drunk, and I ask myself
what if it's not meant for me?
love
and now i'm, well, a bit drunk, and I ask myself
what if it's not meant for me?
love
Trish?
The world begins and ends at her lips. A voice so soft, yet with a familiar texture, like a rich velvet. Our fingers are intertwined, grasping each-other tightly - If I let go, she is gone. The digits of my free hand trace invisible lines across her skin, perhaps following where I think her veins lead, up her arm and to her shoulder, and from there towards her neck. It dances under her hair and then across her jawline. She smiles, and I smile back.
I reposition my face so it is milimetres from hers, so our lips are lightly touching. She looks into my eyes and I into hers, and I see no end to her. I want to drown in her.
She is the only thing in this world that understands me. The only person I could ever open up to. I'd give my everything to her, and here we are, led together, two as one, and I am complete. I am not alone, and neither is she. I have something to love, and care for, and protect.
I think I might be happy.
Trish!
I jolt upright, and everything spins. I can't breathe properly, it feels like I'm treading water, drowning in a haze of spirits and stale air - it's not until I reach out and grab the wood of the kitchen table to steady myself that I swallow and force myself to calm down.
It's been eight years, but every time I wake up I still have to give myself assurances that I am safe. I'm not on the streets, I'm not in the arena.
I let out a groan. It feels like someone has hit me around the back of the head with a sledgehammer, the throbbing is sharp and doesn't seem to be letting up. My backache is there, as usual. Sleeping on a wooden kitchen chair might not have been the best idea, though. The vivid pieces of my dream wash over me, dousing me in a sad longing that makes my skin ripple with goosebumps.
The good dreams are worse than the bad ones.
At least with the latter you feel relieved when you wake. Instead, I feel like complete shit. I feel alone, and the absence of her burns me up until I feel nothing and need a cigarette.
"Tish, are you drunk?"
"Huh?" I stagger backwards and attempt to spin around, trying to turn to the small figure in the room that I completely missed in my sorry, hungover state. His small frame and dark hair is distinctly recognisable, even in this light.
"Jeez, Phelix, don't just sneak up on me like that." I point at him, and it's only then that I realise there is a bottle in my hand. Nice one, Patricia, pointing a bottle at a child like an angry drunk from the alleys. Well, I mean, that's not all inaccurate.
I compose myself and walk to the trashcan, tossing the half-empty bottle in - It crashes against others. I don't want him to think I'm an alcoholic now. That's not who I am. I'm just going through some shit. Shit I need to get through whilst heavily sedated.
"Tish, you missed the whole ceremony. You weren't there and Mom was worried and-"
"Woah, slow down junior. What ceremony?" My head throbs with a painful consistency, and my mouth feels like sandpaper. Shit, the 76th Victory Tour is in Five today. Teddy Ursa, the kid from Six, he's supposed to give a speech and meet the other Victors and stuff. Well, guess I slept through all of that. Teddy. I liked him, he seemed a good person. Liked? Like. He's still alive, Ripred, Patricia. How much did I drink?
"Nevermind, look, I doubt they'll care-"
"Well, they're on their way over to Victor's Village now for a few hours before the reception at the Justice Building." Phelix interrupts. Seriously? Already? Well, I don't know, it's probably afternoon. I only have myself to blame for this. I heavily regret drinking whiskey and talking to that damn painting until two in the morning, that was a dumb thing to do.
"Okay, okay. Calm down. I'll figure it out."
I move past Phelix and head to the front door, jerking my head as if to tell him to get out. He waddles over reluctantly, and I ruffle his hair to the point of him having to duck down and move away in annoyance.
"See you later, squirt." I call after him, but he doesn't look back. I wonder if I'm a disappointment to the eight-year old. Probably. Is there anyone I'm not a disappointment to?
Maybe once, but I sent her a letter and told her I could never see her again.
you and me weren't meant to be
in love
in love