damn the eulogy ; dom v. perdita ; catacombs au
Nov 5, 2020 20:49:08 GMT -5
Post by eulalie blake 1a 🍒 tris on Nov 5, 2020 20:49:08 GMT -5
The first thing she does is cry.
When she wakes up wearing white, and the sound rips itself from her throat. And she places her hand there, and she sobs, and her fingers move up to her neck and around her jaw, until they're curled up in her hair and she's forcing herself to remember her final moments.
How she denied death.
How she always would, and how she always will be — how her head left her shoulders, and she ceased to exist. How she didn't have a chance to consider the end, how her thoughts were there and then suddenly they were gone. The night did not wait for her.
And now she's trapped with it, all of these feelings. The rage, the fear, the hopelessness — and she died, her heart stopped, and she's a liar. All she has to show for it is this white dress, the way her skin feels colder and she doesn't smell like blood. She lifts up her arm.
There are no scars, no sign of ever hurting — no sign of living. She feels stronger than she has in days, but there's a fatigue within her. A kind of quiet anger that twists inside of her stomach; the way she realizes she still hasn't pulled herself out of the tomb yet.
She pauses, straining her ears in the silence to listen for the kitten. But there are only echoes of stone, the drumming of her own soul moving through her veins, telling her a story she knows isn't true. She died. She's dead. But she still brings herself to her feet.
There's a knife beside her, and she holds it close. There is nothing here for her. Nothing to whisper to, nothing to betray; nothing at all. But the ghosts are in the walls, like fables and lions and blood staining the floor. This is not a place for the living.
This is a place she helped to create.
"Who else is here?" she asks firmly, voice no longer breaking in the air. It's a cruel irony. That's all this has ever been. But she doesn't laugh, she doesn't break her hands beating on the sealed entrance, clawing at the stone. She looks down at the blade.
Her reflection stares back.
"I know how this works. I'm not down here alone." She thinks about how Niko died in this space, how she left him to drown, how she waited by the door and listened. She thinks about Emmett, and Kahinta, and JJ. She thinks about a lot of things.
"We died. Get over it." Her grip tightens around the dagger until her knuckles are white, until she feels like the bleached out bone of a memory. And it's her own, and she's raw, and there's so much to feel. So much to learn, to know, to regret.
The sun is shining through the cracks.
"Wipe your tears, and face me."
When she wakes up wearing white, and the sound rips itself from her throat. And she places her hand there, and she sobs, and her fingers move up to her neck and around her jaw, until they're curled up in her hair and she's forcing herself to remember her final moments.
How she denied death.
How she was cruel.
How she always would, and how she always will be — how her head left her shoulders, and she ceased to exist. How she didn't have a chance to consider the end, how her thoughts were there and then suddenly they were gone. The night did not wait for her.
And now she's trapped with it, all of these feelings. The rage, the fear, the hopelessness — and she died, her heart stopped, and she's a liar. All she has to show for it is this white dress, the way her skin feels colder and she doesn't smell like blood. She lifts up her arm.
There are no scars, no sign of ever hurting — no sign of living. She feels stronger than she has in days, but there's a fatigue within her. A kind of quiet anger that twists inside of her stomach; the way she realizes she still hasn't pulled herself out of the tomb yet.
She pauses, straining her ears in the silence to listen for the kitten. But there are only echoes of stone, the drumming of her own soul moving through her veins, telling her a story she knows isn't true. She died. She's dead. But she still brings herself to her feet.
There's a knife beside her, and she holds it close. There is nothing here for her. Nothing to whisper to, nothing to betray; nothing at all. But the ghosts are in the walls, like fables and lions and blood staining the floor. This is not a place for the living.
This is a place she helped to create.
"Who else is here?" she asks firmly, voice no longer breaking in the air. It's a cruel irony. That's all this has ever been. But she doesn't laugh, she doesn't break her hands beating on the sealed entrance, clawing at the stone. She looks down at the blade.
Her reflection stares back.
"I know how this works. I'm not down here alone." She thinks about how Niko died in this space, how she left him to drown, how she waited by the door and listened. She thinks about Emmett, and Kahinta, and JJ. She thinks about a lot of things.
"We died. Get over it." Her grip tightens around the dagger until her knuckles are white, until she feels like the bleached out bone of a memory. And it's her own, and she's raw, and there's so much to feel. So much to learn, to know, to regret.
The sun is shining through the cracks.
The night has ended.
"Wipe your tears, and face me."
