The graves are decorated with candles, with ropes of orange and yellow flowers, with grinning skulls. The grass is wet underneath his knees. From the village far away the sound of twanging guitars and small drums reverberate. There's a flip-knife in his hand, his old one that Jonesy slipped him one day so he could cut loose snarled knots of rope tangling the tents together. It's open.
The voice is familiar. It echoes in his ears. It sounds dead, dry and crackling, like wind in the leaves
leaves falling around him tumbling from trees grass dry and dead
or fire licking through old bones. It weaves in and out of the music.
Your life for another's. It is the only way.
is that right? that's not the way that he remembers it something is different
The knife is covered in blood and the blood is red. Red like sunsets and red like velvet hangings on tarot card tables and in front of him blood spurts from a pale neck onto the ground. A women lies in front of him, crumpled on the ground. Her eyes are wide and blue like still water. Her hair is cornsilk and stained crimson. The stain widens, pumping from the ragged cut in her neck. He does not know her.
he knows her he does know her he knows that face and that hair and he knows those blue blue eyes
He does not know her. He stretches out his arm and covers her forehead with one work-roughened hand. It's stained blue. Like her eyes. She lies on the ground and her life pumps messily onto the damp grass. He wonders if he did this but his clothes are spattered in turquoise not scarlet and the flip-knife is in her fingers, not his. She's smiling. Just a little. It's a sad smile. The voice wraps around him in the feeling of the breeze at his back, stirring her hair.
You are meant for greater things
the voice says
this is who you are
I'm sorry.
He knows who's lying there it's Kate (Mizz Barlow) and she's dying she's dying for him life flowing into him as fast as blood flows out
he's taking it all
I'm sorry.
And that's not the way it's supposed to go.
Ben kneels in the grass, wet and cold. The tattered scarecrow-coat gapes open over his ripped cotton shirt. Under it the wounds are fresh and raw, aching in slow bursts. of pain. They still bleed. But there's strength in his body. He breathes easy. His heart pumps. In front of him, Kate's last twitches send rivulets of rose-red onto the earth.
Ben leans forward, and puts a hand over her neck, to the wound he recognizes so well because last time it was him twitching there, and his father's hand on him. His fingers play over the wound as he bends forwards, and presses a kiss to her forehead.
His voice is a whisper.
"I'm sorry."
He's in her arms, he thinks, c'n feel her holdin' him close. She's cold'n'wet and she's shakin' like a leaf but she's alive, he thinks, in a spreadin' circle of things dyin'. He opens his eyes, slow-like, and th'world's blurry and misted through in rain but he c'n see her face up above his, all cornsilk hair and blue blue eyes.
Ben Hawkins squeezes his own eyes shut. It hurts, and that's why maybe tears come spillin' out from from under the lids, only 'cause of th'pain and that's why he's holdin' onto her too, tight as can be, and it's only th'pain got him mutterin' apologies soft into her shoulder where he's turned his face so she can't see.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2011-03-25 07:32 am (UTC)The voice is familiar. It echoes in his ears. It sounds dead, dry and crackling, like wind in the leaves
leaves falling around him
tumbling from trees grass dry and dead
Your life for another's. It is the only way.
is that right? that's not the way
that he remembers it
something is
different
he knows her
he does know her
he knows that face and that hair
and he knows
those blue blue eyes
You are meant for greater things
this is who you are
I'm sorry.
it's Kate
(Mizz Barlow)
and she's dying
she's dying for him
life flowing into him
as fast as blood flows out
he's taking it all
I'm sorry.
Ben kneels in the grass, wet and cold. The tattered scarecrow-coat gapes open over his ripped cotton shirt. Under it the wounds are fresh and raw, aching in slow bursts. of pain. They still bleed. But there's strength in his body. He breathes easy. His heart pumps. In front of him, Kate's last twitches send rivulets of rose-red onto the earth.
Ben leans forward, and puts a hand over her neck, to the wound he recognizes so well because last time it was him twitching there, and his father's hand on him. His fingers play over the wound as he bends forwards, and presses a kiss to her forehead.
His voice is a whisper.
"I'm sorry."
He's in her arms, he thinks, c'n feel her holdin' him close. She's cold'n'wet and she's shakin' like a leaf but she's alive, he thinks, in a spreadin' circle of things dyin'. He opens his eyes, slow-like, and th'world's blurry and misted through in rain but he c'n see her face up above his, all cornsilk hair and blue blue eyes.
Ben Hawkins squeezes his own eyes shut. It hurts, and that's why maybe tears come spillin' out from from under the lids, only 'cause of th'pain and that's why he's holdin' onto her too, tight as can be, and it's only th'pain got him mutterin' apologies soft into her shoulder where he's turned his face so she can't see.