|Momoko / Amatsu-Mikaboshi [天津甕星] (obakemono) wrote in paxletalelogs,|
@ 2010-09-06 21:32:00
|Entry tags:||mikaboshi, odin|
Who: Mo & Mr. Gregory.
What: Hearing things, seeing things, are we surprised? Not very!
Where: Pierce's tower.
When: After 11.
The moon oozed onto the ground like miracle glop, blurring the gray-tar speckles of spit-gum stains on the dirty concrete; high-lighted faces and implacable phantoms shuffled and shambled outside behind the wretched glass. An army of skeletal enemies were without word or mold. Every flash of a piece of skin was a suspect. With every movement writhed an instinct to lash out. How she had remained calm, sane, and gathered this entire shift was divine, certainly. Questions, questions about the unfeeling, telling stiffness in her spirit or the band aids. Those bright, fucking pink band aids with unspoiled, grinning cats on her knuckles. Lying was, once again, now embroiled in her nature.
An ever evolving landscape of cuts and bruise,
evil she never seemed to be able to heal long enough to become whole, either emotionally or physically. The curse of the cursed. Vainly attempting to find a wound only to collect another one. She was a universe of tailored esoterica and scarred constellations. The costume hid the stars and black holes. She appeared fine, entirely fine, if a bit lacking in color, or sleep, or emotion, or feeling, or ...
After work she hadn't even stopped home to change, the waitressing garb of the coffin dance society stayed in her funeral pink and jeans, hoody, and by now running make up. There were a few scratches on her face, not the thin distinct lines one would fetch from an animal, but rather appearing the flat, indistinguishable sort of either self-inflicted or from another human being. She'd been seeing things in the mirror, after all. Irremovable things... but they'd thankfully stopped showing.