giselle delacroix (_misery) wrote in auguryic, @ 2008-04-23 22:09:00 |
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Current music: | múm - we have a map of the piano |
Who: Giselle Delacroix and OPEN
When: The wee hours of the morning; 2a.m.-ish
Where: The manor
What: Sleepless shuffles.
The city crawled through her veins. She felt it twist up the knots of her spine and rattle off the walls of her skull. Her mouth cracked and somewhere in the caverns of her throat, a hollow cry crawled up and split the silence of her room. "I can feel you." It was a song of the city, a plea to quiet in these late hours. The throb beneath her skin didn't cease, rather dulled and remained to remind her of the connection; the urban labyrinth had been built into her circuitry at birth, she bled with the city. Sinjin, the unusually large German Shepherd, perked from his sprawl across the bottom of the bed in a clack of claws to the floor and quiet inquiry to his constant companion with the brush of his nose to her hand. "The city. I can feel it tonight, it's alive inside of me." Giselle detangled from her wrap of sheets and draped her legs over the side of the bed; beneath her feet was cold, she felt the pattern etched into the grains of the wood. She smelled the orchids settled on the vanity across the room, the oak of the woodwork; the air was thick with age, she swore she could taste the time on her tongue.
Fingers clasped the handle for Sinjin's harness from its prop beside her bed and carefully fastened it to the straps of his body collar with practiced precision. The click of the clip and the slight vibration that rocked through the plastic grip with the snag of the proper place came with a rise to her feet. Her pack of clove cigarettes were plucked from the tabletop and carried along with her as she shuffled toward the door. By now, it was an unspoken agreement between Sinjin, her confidante, her best friend, that he was her eyes. The familiarity of the manor made it easy for her to make it from her room to the kitchen,, though once they were there, the dog was quick to growl in canine tongue as to where everything was placed or hidden behind obstacles. With the aid of Sinjin a tea kettle was settled onto the stovetop and she folded herself up into an empty chair at the table. Still sleep drunk, it took her a moment to fish a cigarette from the pack and strike a match to light it; smoke seeped from between thick lips and wrapped her head like a deviant halo.
Silence.