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05-06-2015, 08:18 AM
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So, she was a Falls mare. Er, ex-Falls mare, cuz that shit was stolen from her, wasn’t it? Did that explain the haunt in the sharp edges of her face—the brink of insanity in the sharp edges of her voice? The fear you had felt when she first burst on us started shrinking, though; like, you kept clinging to me like your life depended on it (and maybe it did), but I could feel your attention, powerful and insistent, surging onto the pale, bony mare. You were studying this shit like it was a guide for a test or whatever. I saw it etching into your brain—permanent, a marker for you, a theme of this time of your life. More than anything, I think I hated that. I surged forward a step as I saw the alive-dead mare wobble somewhat on her feet; she looked like a gust of wind could knock her flat on her ass, smooth as hell. But then she pulled some freaky Twilight-Zone shit on me and both her voice and her neck twisted as she hissed some stuff about knowing things, the words coming out so oily and suggestive it made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. This bitch was bent--like her can had hit the pavement and no one could fix the dent in the metal. She wasn’t in no position to answer any questions; she probably wouldn’t remember those two little babies’ faces if I pressed her. (What would she remember? Blood, battle, screaming--) “Uh, no, c’mon,” I said roughly, watching her little bird companion flop down off of her, coming towards me in a look of pleading. I think that was the straw that broke my back (or my heart, can’t really tell which one--). “No, nu-uh, you’re seven shades of fucked up lady,” I said, coming towards her, ignoring every surge and scream of my nerves to stay the hell away from decay. I made to go to her side—to jab my shoulder into hers, to steer her out of the shade of the tree, because it even though she was blocked from the sun just standing there wasn’t doing her any good. But what would, though? How could I fix what was wrong with her? Was it even possible? I already made it clear there wasn’t no way I could win back someone’s home from the clutches of a many-fingered hand. And it hurt in the most rage-inducing way to acknowledge that—but that didn’t make the fact less of a fact. I had seen the way her lips had moved in that eerie, troubled way she had—all cracked and parched and thin, pulled taught by things and a crazy that rested in her eyes. I mean, that was one place to start. “C’mon,” I said again, this time more urgent—but not unkindly, at least. I wasn’t trying to boss her around; I was just wanting to move her ass over yonder that way, because there was a place over which-way where the runoff from the mountain flowed, almost as convincing as a real creek. It was the dry season—hopefully it would still be there. Even if the bitch needed sleep, she needed something in her stomach that didn’t turn to innocence to acid. @[Elsa] |
