Mornings...
Nov. 29th, 2011 11:03 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
annwfyn.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
writing_shadows5 am, and all is dark.
Ruth has never seen the sun rise over the waves.
She wasn’t fond of mornings when she was alive, you see, and she spent most of her life away from the sea.
She lives by the sea now, in a house which smells of cedar and pine, and now smells of ink and motor oil because Dre came home the night before last, reeking of blood and grinning like death. She lives by the sea, and each night, before she sleeps, she looks out across the black and white surface of the churning Scottish sea.
Some nights she walks on the sand. Tonight she is perched in the windowseat instead, wrapped up in a blanket, wind cold across her skin. She sniffs at the air, draws in the beautiful clean scent of seaspray and then breathes in more deeply to catch that odd warmth that marks the very beginning of the impending dawn.
It burns, it hurts, it catches at the throat, and yet Ruth doesn’t move. She doesn’t let go, holding onto that almost-dawn as long as she can, before pulling the shutter closed and sliding away into the dark.
6 am and the clock keeps ticking towards dawn.
Carrie Chance is half asleep, wrapped around a man she barely knows, which is almost always the way. He’ll leave tomorrow, she thinks, and forget about her in time.
She dreamt last night of old lovers and buried hurt, and woke up feeling half sick to the stomach. She’s never been good, she thinks sometimes, with those she cares for. There’s too much poison in her, built up over a lifetime of screw ups.
Why do these thoughts always come now?
Her companion passes a hand across her hair. He’s rough to touch. David Chance is as well, which is odd, because he should be smooth as silk. She hasn’t seen David in what feels like too long. He’s been busy, he says, and she suspects he’s up to no good from the way the dimples play in his cheeks when he says it.
And why did she dream of old lovers?
Is lover even the right word?
No more so than she ever loved the syringe, she thinks as she sinks inexorably down into the dark.
7 am, and the air begins to fade very slightly into the chill grey dawn of the day.
Rowan Cant hates mornings. She hates them with a passion that she cannot even articulate, and she insists cannot be overcome with magic. Her boyfriend has offered, and, in fact, offers this morning, along with offering her coffee, and then laughs, entirely unsympathetically, when she throws a pillow at him and says she’s leaving him for someone who isn’t a morning person.
Her boyfriend – call him David or call him Kael – appears to be recovering remarkably quickly from his latest escapade. Rowan wonders if it would be very wrong to send a note to the Beast of London.
Dear Beast
Thank you for not killing my boyfriend, but next time could you maybe sap his energy for a little longer?
Love
Rowan Cant
At this time in the morning that sounds like a remarkably reasonable idea.
8 am and the very first rays of light begin to slide through the curtains in Verity’s spare room. Solace Cecil is still dozing, lightly and fitfully. Right now, she’s in that odd place, half asleep, and half awake. She’s aware of the light, aware of the warmth of the duvet, and now slowly realizing how soft it feels. For a moment there’s a brief stab of panic. Has she put cotton on the bed by mistake? How could she have done that? She knows that the Laws say that no plant fibres can be worn against the skin. They sleep between layers of thick wool blankets, with stuffed wool rolls for pillows.
Fear runs through her like a sickness. Jesus, what will he do when he wakes up? Why has she even been allowed to sleep?
It’s only when she opens her eyes that the two weeks come back to her, trickling into her mind like blood down a wall. The faces of the people she’s met - Eliza, Verity, Michéle – begin to fade back in, then the memory of the feeling of Korsten’s skin against hers.
She doesn’t move at first, and lies there instead. Today, she knows, the pain will come in waves. She’ll have moments when she almost forgets; when the boy makes her laugh, when Verity feeds her chocolate krispie, when she gets to help Verity’s girls cut out pictures from Horse Mart and discuss which horse they would get if they just had the money.
Then there will be the sudden rush of sickness, the realisation of everything she’s done, everything she’s lost, everything she is. It can come at odd times, be triggered by strange things; a look, a tone of voice. How can someone offering a hug make you feel sick with self loathing? That’s not sensible.
From somewhere downstairs, Solace can hear people talking. One of Verity’s daughters yell “Muuuum! I can’t find my shoes.”
Solace pulls a pillow towards her and hugs it tight.
Today will be a good day. She’ll meet Korsten and his pack for Chinese, brave Tyr’s disapproval and Michéle’s far more alarming flirting. She’ll see Korsten and talk about their daughter and somehow they would find a way to bring her home.
Ruth has never seen the sun rise over the waves.
She wasn’t fond of mornings when she was alive, you see, and she spent most of her life away from the sea.
She lives by the sea now, in a house which smells of cedar and pine, and now smells of ink and motor oil because Dre came home the night before last, reeking of blood and grinning like death. She lives by the sea, and each night, before she sleeps, she looks out across the black and white surface of the churning Scottish sea.
Some nights she walks on the sand. Tonight she is perched in the windowseat instead, wrapped up in a blanket, wind cold across her skin. She sniffs at the air, draws in the beautiful clean scent of seaspray and then breathes in more deeply to catch that odd warmth that marks the very beginning of the impending dawn.
It burns, it hurts, it catches at the throat, and yet Ruth doesn’t move. She doesn’t let go, holding onto that almost-dawn as long as she can, before pulling the shutter closed and sliding away into the dark.
6 am and the clock keeps ticking towards dawn.
Carrie Chance is half asleep, wrapped around a man she barely knows, which is almost always the way. He’ll leave tomorrow, she thinks, and forget about her in time.
She dreamt last night of old lovers and buried hurt, and woke up feeling half sick to the stomach. She’s never been good, she thinks sometimes, with those she cares for. There’s too much poison in her, built up over a lifetime of screw ups.
Why do these thoughts always come now?
Her companion passes a hand across her hair. He’s rough to touch. David Chance is as well, which is odd, because he should be smooth as silk. She hasn’t seen David in what feels like too long. He’s been busy, he says, and she suspects he’s up to no good from the way the dimples play in his cheeks when he says it.
And why did she dream of old lovers?
Is lover even the right word?
No more so than she ever loved the syringe, she thinks as she sinks inexorably down into the dark.
7 am, and the air begins to fade very slightly into the chill grey dawn of the day.
Rowan Cant hates mornings. She hates them with a passion that she cannot even articulate, and she insists cannot be overcome with magic. Her boyfriend has offered, and, in fact, offers this morning, along with offering her coffee, and then laughs, entirely unsympathetically, when she throws a pillow at him and says she’s leaving him for someone who isn’t a morning person.
Her boyfriend – call him David or call him Kael – appears to be recovering remarkably quickly from his latest escapade. Rowan wonders if it would be very wrong to send a note to the Beast of London.
Dear Beast
Thank you for not killing my boyfriend, but next time could you maybe sap his energy for a little longer?
Love
Rowan Cant
At this time in the morning that sounds like a remarkably reasonable idea.
8 am and the very first rays of light begin to slide through the curtains in Verity’s spare room. Solace Cecil is still dozing, lightly and fitfully. Right now, she’s in that odd place, half asleep, and half awake. She’s aware of the light, aware of the warmth of the duvet, and now slowly realizing how soft it feels. For a moment there’s a brief stab of panic. Has she put cotton on the bed by mistake? How could she have done that? She knows that the Laws say that no plant fibres can be worn against the skin. They sleep between layers of thick wool blankets, with stuffed wool rolls for pillows.
Fear runs through her like a sickness. Jesus, what will he do when he wakes up? Why has she even been allowed to sleep?
It’s only when she opens her eyes that the two weeks come back to her, trickling into her mind like blood down a wall. The faces of the people she’s met - Eliza, Verity, Michéle – begin to fade back in, then the memory of the feeling of Korsten’s skin against hers.
She doesn’t move at first, and lies there instead. Today, she knows, the pain will come in waves. She’ll have moments when she almost forgets; when the boy makes her laugh, when Verity feeds her chocolate krispie, when she gets to help Verity’s girls cut out pictures from Horse Mart and discuss which horse they would get if they just had the money.
Then there will be the sudden rush of sickness, the realisation of everything she’s done, everything she’s lost, everything she is. It can come at odd times, be triggered by strange things; a look, a tone of voice. How can someone offering a hug make you feel sick with self loathing? That’s not sensible.
From somewhere downstairs, Solace can hear people talking. One of Verity’s daughters yell “Muuuum! I can’t find my shoes.”
Solace pulls a pillow towards her and hugs it tight.
Today will be a good day. She’ll meet Korsten and his pack for Chinese, brave Tyr’s disapproval and Michéle’s far more alarming flirting. She’ll see Korsten and talk about their daughter and somehow they would find a way to bring her home.
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Date: 2011-11-29 12:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-11-29 04:50 pm (UTC)